the giggles all over again. And they sat up and faced each other, best friends, listening to the peaceful night sounds of talk and laughter carrying across the water, coming from the Lapps' farmhouse nearly a half mile away.
"Wish someday we could marry each other's brothers so we'd be sisters," Katie said softly.
"It don't matter really. We're already closer than that, jah?"
"Sisters in our hearts," Katie whispered, her eyes shining back at Mary.
"Right ya be," she agreed.
Mary closed her eyes, thinking of her dear sister-friend, and when she did, tears squeezed through her eyelids onto
the old feather pillow.
Right ya be ....
Quickly, she thought of another way to fall asleep. She would say her Amish rote prayers over and over--several times in German, three times in English. If that didn't make her tired enough, she'd think of everything that had happened to her from the day she could actually remember things, which, she supposed, was around age four or so till the present time.
Try as she might, it seemed the years got all jumbled up in the routine of Amish life ... over and again the same
108
things. Getting up, making breakfast, choring inside and out, putting up quarts of food, helping other women can their harvested produce, sewing, mending, cleaning, baking, cooking, going to church every other Sunday, visiting, and going to bed. Not till Katie ditched Bishop John and got herself shunned had Mary ever noticed any departure from the rituals of her life. Not that there needed to be anything much more interesting than daily living, not really. But it was a noticeable thing--Katie leaving the bishop behind on their wedding day like she did. If nothing else, the sad yet surprising tale gave the women something to wag their tongues about. But it gave Mary much more than that. In her grief for Katie, she'd found hope.
$o right then and there, in the darkness of her silent room, she decided she must not tell the bishop or anyone else about the letter from Rosie Taylor, who lived somewhere up in New York.
Sometimes Samuel Lapp would read out loud to Rebecca on a Sunday evening when the house was quiet and they'd all had their share of seconds at dessert. She especially liked hearing him read from the many columns in Die Botschafi, a weekly newspaper for Old Order Amish and Mennonite communities.
"Listen here to this," her husband said with a chortle. "This 'un comes from Kutztown ... seems there was an awful big commotion over at Luke Hoover's pigsty the other night. Sounded like one of his pigs was in serious trouble, a-howlin' and complainin' over in the hog house. And then if Clarence Leid's fussy old rooster didn't start a- crowin' and offerin' his sympathy to the noisy pig. 'Course the duet didn't last too much longer as the rooster seemed to out-howl the sow. And that was that."
109
Rebecca sat quietly rocking while her husband had to put down the paper and remove his glasses. He was laughing so hard his eyes were moist, but she tried not to gawk. Part of her had listened, taking in his words as he read the true anecdote. And she'd heard enough to offer a slight smile at the amusing story, nodding occasionally when he glanced over at her as he read.
Yet her heart seemed like a big chunk of ice, hard and cold. And the more she wished it would melt and leave her soft the way she used to be, the harder it felt.
When he'd composed himself, Samuel glanced over in her direction. "Now, what do ya think of that?"
"Well..." She pushed a little smile onto her face. "If you're tryin' to get me to laugh, ach, there's just not much that strikes me funny these days." She could've gone on to say what the reason was, but she figured he ought to know by now.
Samuel nodded, picked up the paper, and read to himself all the rest of the evening. She didn't blame him for it, not one little bit. The man had had his own share of sorrow over their daughter's rebellion and ultimate shunning. When she'd upped and left town,
"Wish someday we could marry each other's brothers so we'd be sisters," Katie said softly.
"It don't matter really. We're already closer than that, jah?"
"Sisters in our hearts," Katie whispered, her eyes shining back at Mary.
"Right ya be," she agreed.
Mary closed her eyes, thinking of her dear sister-friend, and when she did, tears squeezed through her eyelids onto
the old feather pillow.
Right ya be ....
Quickly, she thought of another way to fall asleep. She would say her Amish rote prayers over and over--several times in German, three times in English. If that didn't make her tired enough, she'd think of everything that had happened to her from the day she could actually remember things, which, she supposed, was around age four or so till the present time.
Try as she might, it seemed the years got all jumbled up in the routine of Amish life ... over and again the same
108
things. Getting up, making breakfast, choring inside and out, putting up quarts of food, helping other women can their harvested produce, sewing, mending, cleaning, baking, cooking, going to church every other Sunday, visiting, and going to bed. Not till Katie ditched Bishop John and got herself shunned had Mary ever noticed any departure from the rituals of her life. Not that there needed to be anything much more interesting than daily living, not really. But it was a noticeable thing--Katie leaving the bishop behind on their wedding day like she did. If nothing else, the sad yet surprising tale gave the women something to wag their tongues about. But it gave Mary much more than that. In her grief for Katie, she'd found hope.
$o right then and there, in the darkness of her silent room, she decided she must not tell the bishop or anyone else about the letter from Rosie Taylor, who lived somewhere up in New York.
Sometimes Samuel Lapp would read out loud to Rebecca on a Sunday evening when the house was quiet and they'd all had their share of seconds at dessert. She especially liked hearing him read from the many columns in Die Botschafi, a weekly newspaper for Old Order Amish and Mennonite communities.
"Listen here to this," her husband said with a chortle. "This 'un comes from Kutztown ... seems there was an awful big commotion over at Luke Hoover's pigsty the other night. Sounded like one of his pigs was in serious trouble, a-howlin' and complainin' over in the hog house. And then if Clarence Leid's fussy old rooster didn't start a- crowin' and offerin' his sympathy to the noisy pig. 'Course the duet didn't last too much longer as the rooster seemed to out-howl the sow. And that was that."
109
Rebecca sat quietly rocking while her husband had to put down the paper and remove his glasses. He was laughing so hard his eyes were moist, but she tried not to gawk. Part of her had listened, taking in his words as he read the true anecdote. And she'd heard enough to offer a slight smile at the amusing story, nodding occasionally when he glanced over at her as he read.
Yet her heart seemed like a big chunk of ice, hard and cold. And the more she wished it would melt and leave her soft the way she used to be, the harder it felt.
When he'd composed himself, Samuel glanced over in her direction. "Now, what do ya think of that?"
"Well..." She pushed a little smile onto her face. "If you're tryin' to get me to laugh, ach, there's just not much that strikes me funny these days." She could've gone on to say what the reason was, but she figured he ought to know by now.
Samuel nodded, picked up the paper, and read to himself all the rest of the evening. She didn't blame him for it, not one little bit. The man had had his own share of sorrow over their daughter's rebellion and ultimate shunning. When she'd upped and left town,
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