up the muddy dirt driveway. With no windshield or storm front—forbidden by the Swartzentrubers because they resemble cars—his chest and bearded face had been soaked by the downpour. A tarp wrapped around his waist, however, kept his legs dry from the spray of the trotting horse.
Englischers
and those who left the Amish ridiculed the inconsistencies of the religion that allowed a plastic tarp as protection but not a plastic storm front.
Stutzman dropped the reins and excitedly called the hired boy to come to the barn. “Lightning hit the barn. I saw it hit from up the hill,” he told the boy in Deutsch.
The boy hurried into the barn where Stutzman had motioned him. The barn, which abutted the road, was dark and cool. The boy watched as the man searched the roof line for the strike. Neither spoke. Finally Stutzman pointed to a timber high above them. “It hit there. See it?” he asked.
The boy focused his sharp eyes but saw nothing. He looked harder.
“It is there!” Stutzman commanded. A small chip on the peak of the inside of the barn caught the boy’s attention, but if it had been there days before or even years before, he would never be able to say.
He nodded to his boss as he watched Stutzman climb a ladder up the granary. Stutzman called down that he had found where the lightning had traveled. He needed water, and the hired boy retrieved some from the well. From the floor, fifteen feet below, the boy watched Stutzman pour the water high on the corn-laden wooden granary. He still couldn’t see what had alarmed Stutzman.
Amos and Lizzie Gingerich spent most of the day away from their Fredericksburg home visiting in Holmes County. The day had been uneventful, although there had been a good soaking and a thunder shower in the late afternoon.
Amos read from the newspaper and remarked on another member of the community who had passed away. Lizzie shook her head sadly and made a quick count of the number who had died in the recent months, more than a dozen. The last one from their district had been Anna Hershberger. Lizzie was saddened by all the deaths, yet thankful that her household had been spared.
“Where in the world is the next one going to be?” she asked.
There is no blackness like night in Wayne County. The lack of cities and the mist in the air create an impossible darkness that seizes everything. Ancient oak trees are shrouded in black. At night, there is nothing for anyone to see.
July 11 was a night some would later try to forget, and others would struggle with all they possessed to recall anything they could.
Tim Blosser, an attorney from Dalton who had metStutzman at the little sawmill across Moser Road in April, stopped by a little after 6:00 P.M . to help the Amish family prepare a will. When Blosser arrived, Stutzman told him of the lightning and, along with Ida, showed him a spot on the floor of the upper level of the barn that had been doused. Blosser saw where a window had been blown out and Stutzman told him that the lightning had done it that afternoon. Oddly, Blosser didn’t see any shards of glass, but he did see some water-soaked embers among the hay on the floor—proof that a fire had smoldered there.
The hired boy hadn’t seen any embers when Stutzman commanded him to get a bucket of water earlier in the evening
.
“His wife seemed very happy that Eli had been able to extinguish the fire before it burned down their barn,” Blosser later said.
If the attorney ever doubted Stutzman’s honesty, it was only briefly when the Amishman said he had seen the lightning strike. The attorney thought such timing was remarkable.
Inside, while Ida rocked the baby in her arms, the men discussed the terms of the will Stutzman said he wanted. If Ida died, everything would go to her husband; in the event of his death, the estate was hers. If they should die simultaneously, Danny would get the estate. Amos Gingerich was named executor. The will would need to be typed and witnessed
Englischers
and those who left the Amish ridiculed the inconsistencies of the religion that allowed a plastic tarp as protection but not a plastic storm front.
Stutzman dropped the reins and excitedly called the hired boy to come to the barn. “Lightning hit the barn. I saw it hit from up the hill,” he told the boy in Deutsch.
The boy hurried into the barn where Stutzman had motioned him. The barn, which abutted the road, was dark and cool. The boy watched as the man searched the roof line for the strike. Neither spoke. Finally Stutzman pointed to a timber high above them. “It hit there. See it?” he asked.
The boy focused his sharp eyes but saw nothing. He looked harder.
“It is there!” Stutzman commanded. A small chip on the peak of the inside of the barn caught the boy’s attention, but if it had been there days before or even years before, he would never be able to say.
He nodded to his boss as he watched Stutzman climb a ladder up the granary. Stutzman called down that he had found where the lightning had traveled. He needed water, and the hired boy retrieved some from the well. From the floor, fifteen feet below, the boy watched Stutzman pour the water high on the corn-laden wooden granary. He still couldn’t see what had alarmed Stutzman.
Amos and Lizzie Gingerich spent most of the day away from their Fredericksburg home visiting in Holmes County. The day had been uneventful, although there had been a good soaking and a thunder shower in the late afternoon.
Amos read from the newspaper and remarked on another member of the community who had passed away. Lizzie shook her head sadly and made a quick count of the number who had died in the recent months, more than a dozen. The last one from their district had been Anna Hershberger. Lizzie was saddened by all the deaths, yet thankful that her household had been spared.
“Where in the world is the next one going to be?” she asked.
There is no blackness like night in Wayne County. The lack of cities and the mist in the air create an impossible darkness that seizes everything. Ancient oak trees are shrouded in black. At night, there is nothing for anyone to see.
July 11 was a night some would later try to forget, and others would struggle with all they possessed to recall anything they could.
Tim Blosser, an attorney from Dalton who had metStutzman at the little sawmill across Moser Road in April, stopped by a little after 6:00 P.M . to help the Amish family prepare a will. When Blosser arrived, Stutzman told him of the lightning and, along with Ida, showed him a spot on the floor of the upper level of the barn that had been doused. Blosser saw where a window had been blown out and Stutzman told him that the lightning had done it that afternoon. Oddly, Blosser didn’t see any shards of glass, but he did see some water-soaked embers among the hay on the floor—proof that a fire had smoldered there.
The hired boy hadn’t seen any embers when Stutzman commanded him to get a bucket of water earlier in the evening
.
“His wife seemed very happy that Eli had been able to extinguish the fire before it burned down their barn,” Blosser later said.
If the attorney ever doubted Stutzman’s honesty, it was only briefly when the Amishman said he had seen the lightning strike. The attorney thought such timing was remarkable.
Inside, while Ida rocked the baby in her arms, the men discussed the terms of the will Stutzman said he wanted. If Ida died, everything would go to her husband; in the event of his death, the estate was hers. If they should die simultaneously, Danny would get the estate. Amos Gingerich was named executor. The will would need to be typed and witnessed
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