them, there’s no shame in having a handicap.”
“So why did Tyler leave?”
Becky sighed, signaled a turn, and pulled off the highway onto a smaller road. We passed a green sign so small it would have been easy to miss. Miller—2 miles. “Tyler was special, too. You heard her sing. She had incredible talent. But that kind of special is not encouraged among the Old Order Amish. In fact, it’s discouraged. Teamwork is the most important thing to them. Everyone has the same amount of education and is expected to live their lives exactly like the generations before. Any personal recognition for a special skill or talent is considered prideful. I guess Tyler just didn’t feel that she could deny her talent.”
I considered her words for a moment before answering. “Think about it, though—to pursue that talent she had to give up her whole family, her whole life . Seems like a pretty steep price.”
Becky nervously tapped the steering wheel again. “It really is so sad. When Tyler left about a year and a half ago—oh, and I forgot to mention, Hannah will call her Ruth, which was her original name before she changed it legally—anyway, after Tyler left, it was understood that the community would shun her. You see, she left the church after she joined it, which is one of the worst things you can do. It was very shameful for her family. But Hannah loved Tyler too much to never hear of her again, so that’s where I came in.”
“You?”
“Well, we don’t know if it’s quite legal according to Amish law, but it appeased Hannah’s conscience, and also relieved her worry.”
“What?”
“Right after I met Tyler, she told me about her sister’s quilting. I went to Hannah’s farm and introduced myself. In the conversation I let her know that a woman named Tyler who’d once been a plain person herself named Ruth, told me about her. Since then I’ve been a go-between for Hannah and her quilts. Some of them are consigned at Janet’s store, Sunflower Quilts and Crafts in Derby, and I have them placed at three other stores in Kansas. It brings in a good side income for Hannah. If on my visits to Hannah my friend Tyler’s life just happens to come up in the conversation, then . . .” Becky let her voice trail off.
“That’s pretty amazing,” I said, impressed with their clever skirting of the rules. “This must be devastating for Hannah. Have you talked with her since it happened?”
“No, that’s why Rob called Fannie at the fabric store. The Amish don’t have phones in their homes, though they will use public phones or the phones of their non-Amish neighbors if it’s absolutely necessary. If Hannah had to hear news like that, Fannie would be the best person to hear it from. At least Rob wasn’t the one to break it to her. I would have driven out and told her myself before I’d let that happen.” Becky shook her head in disgust.
The difference between Miller and the other small towns in Kansas was apparent the minute you drove down Main Street. The first street sign we saw was a black and yellow “Caution—Slow Vehicle” sign depicting a silhouette of an Amish buggy pulled by a high-stepping horse. For such a small town, it had a surprising number of businesses, many with old-fashioned buggies parked outside. Becky slowed the Cherokee down to a crawl as we passed Johnson’s Hardware, Fannie’s Fabrics and Notions, Miller’s Market, Hershberger Blacksmith, The Plain People Antiques, Miller Feed and Grain, The Old Prairie Buggy Shop. Hulking silver grain elevators—a staple in most small Kansas towns, I was rapidly discovering—towered over the town.
Becky parked in front of the Millstone Bakery, a slope-roofed building with brown shingles and a bright blue door.
“Miller seems to be a popular name,” I commented, looking at the owner’s name, Joshua Miller, under the bakery’s hand-carved sign.
“They’re one of the original settling families,” Becky said. “It’s Tyler’s
“So why did Tyler leave?”
Becky sighed, signaled a turn, and pulled off the highway onto a smaller road. We passed a green sign so small it would have been easy to miss. Miller—2 miles. “Tyler was special, too. You heard her sing. She had incredible talent. But that kind of special is not encouraged among the Old Order Amish. In fact, it’s discouraged. Teamwork is the most important thing to them. Everyone has the same amount of education and is expected to live their lives exactly like the generations before. Any personal recognition for a special skill or talent is considered prideful. I guess Tyler just didn’t feel that she could deny her talent.”
I considered her words for a moment before answering. “Think about it, though—to pursue that talent she had to give up her whole family, her whole life . Seems like a pretty steep price.”
Becky nervously tapped the steering wheel again. “It really is so sad. When Tyler left about a year and a half ago—oh, and I forgot to mention, Hannah will call her Ruth, which was her original name before she changed it legally—anyway, after Tyler left, it was understood that the community would shun her. You see, she left the church after she joined it, which is one of the worst things you can do. It was very shameful for her family. But Hannah loved Tyler too much to never hear of her again, so that’s where I came in.”
“You?”
“Well, we don’t know if it’s quite legal according to Amish law, but it appeased Hannah’s conscience, and also relieved her worry.”
“What?”
“Right after I met Tyler, she told me about her sister’s quilting. I went to Hannah’s farm and introduced myself. In the conversation I let her know that a woman named Tyler who’d once been a plain person herself named Ruth, told me about her. Since then I’ve been a go-between for Hannah and her quilts. Some of them are consigned at Janet’s store, Sunflower Quilts and Crafts in Derby, and I have them placed at three other stores in Kansas. It brings in a good side income for Hannah. If on my visits to Hannah my friend Tyler’s life just happens to come up in the conversation, then . . .” Becky let her voice trail off.
“That’s pretty amazing,” I said, impressed with their clever skirting of the rules. “This must be devastating for Hannah. Have you talked with her since it happened?”
“No, that’s why Rob called Fannie at the fabric store. The Amish don’t have phones in their homes, though they will use public phones or the phones of their non-Amish neighbors if it’s absolutely necessary. If Hannah had to hear news like that, Fannie would be the best person to hear it from. At least Rob wasn’t the one to break it to her. I would have driven out and told her myself before I’d let that happen.” Becky shook her head in disgust.
The difference between Miller and the other small towns in Kansas was apparent the minute you drove down Main Street. The first street sign we saw was a black and yellow “Caution—Slow Vehicle” sign depicting a silhouette of an Amish buggy pulled by a high-stepping horse. For such a small town, it had a surprising number of businesses, many with old-fashioned buggies parked outside. Becky slowed the Cherokee down to a crawl as we passed Johnson’s Hardware, Fannie’s Fabrics and Notions, Miller’s Market, Hershberger Blacksmith, The Plain People Antiques, Miller Feed and Grain, The Old Prairie Buggy Shop. Hulking silver grain elevators—a staple in most small Kansas towns, I was rapidly discovering—towered over the town.
Becky parked in front of the Millstone Bakery, a slope-roofed building with brown shingles and a bright blue door.
“Miller seems to be a popular name,” I commented, looking at the owner’s name, Joshua Miller, under the bakery’s hand-carved sign.
“They’re one of the original settling families,” Becky said. “It’s Tyler’s
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