Simple Pleasures: Stories from My Life as an Amish Mother

PART I

Little House Beside

the Big House

1

The Dawdy Haus

HOME TO US is somewhere in the middle of the only original Old Order Amish settlement in Canada. The cozy little Dawdy Haus here at Allan’s parents’ place has suited our needs fine since our marriage in 2006. It only got cozier in January of 2008 when we squeezed in some baby furniture and little Alyssa arrived. As a toddler, she was tinier than most her age and kept us busy with the chattering, walking, running, and exploring end of things. My uncle declared then that she stole her mother’s voice, but so far no one has commended me for losing mine.

My Allan is a lunch-bucket guy working in construction, like so many others around here. So far, so good with new jobs coming in. A couple of years ago we chose the most dilapidated of the numerous outbuildings here on Doddy’s little four-acre lot and put up a tall new black-and-white shop. Then, lest his schoolteacher wife should miss her challenges too much, Allan framed part of it in for a boot and shoe store. Now I could face the test of starting my own business and keep figuring and working with students by helping them find quality footwear at fair prices. Of course, all easier said than done, but we do have a thriving business with huge potential for growth.

Maybe shoes aren’t the best business for me. Back when I started teaching, my grade-one girls watched with wide eyes as I laced up my midcalf hiking shoes. Finally, one ventured bravely, Miss Albrecht, are those yours?

Sure, I replied with a smile.

Well, Miss Albrecht, she gasped, they do not look like a mama’s shoes!

I wasn’t even a mama at the time. Hopefully my tastes have changed?

The rest of that shop space isn’t sitting idle. That’s where we do our evening, weekend, and rainy day work. My dad’s metal shop and time was filled, so he moved three punch presses in so we could make hangers for eaves troughs. Now, this job never has gotten exciting or challenging, but it’s an easy, sit-down, no-brain job, plus good quality time with your better half. Of course the paycheck at the end gives ample motivation. For the mechanically minded, we run these presses without electricity using a diesel motor and hydraulics. Or does the diesel run the hydraulics? I just keep my nose and fingers out of that stuff.

So now you have a little taste of who we are. Let’s look at the big picture—our community. How did we actually end up here in Canada being called Milverton Amish instead of in Lancaster, Pennsylvania; Holmes County, Ohio; or in Indiana somewhere? And why is it that this settlement only has eight districts and isn’t even close to rivaling the originals in the United States?

It started in the 1700s with poor, penniless Christian Naffziger of Germany, who decided peasant farming was not getting him and his descendants anywhere. With the help of friends he moved safely to the community in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. But his poverty followed him, and already the land was out of his price range. However, he was encouraged to hear of free land in Canada. He felt confident that the Amish would be up to the challenge of clearing a two-rod strip of land along the front of a two-hundred-acre plot, building a cabin, and paying a small surveyor’s fee, all for fifty free acres. According to often-told Amish stories, he dropped in to see the king in London, England just to be sure the offer was legitimate. King George or an associate assured him the deed was real and pressed a few gold coins into Christian’s hand during the farewell handshake!

Christian’s friends from Europe and Pennsylvania were encouraged by his reports, and many made the long, difficult trip to Canada. Here they received help from the nearby Waterloo Mennonite congregation. During the 1800s this church grew rapidly. There were numerous church splits, with one of the main reasons being the building of church houses. In our area, one deacon, two ministers, and some members refused church houses and continued to meet in one another’s homes. From these few faithful members grew what is called the Old Order church today.

The other congregations are still around and are called Beachy Amish, New Order Amish, or Amish Mennonite, as well as other more-specific names. So here my family and community is today, probably because a poor man wanted better for his descendants.

2

A Queen Dethroned

"NOW YOU HAVE a million-dollar family," the kind old doctor announced to my husband. These words had nothing to do with winning a lottery but came after the birth of our son, Eric David. He arrived safe and sound on December 8, 2009, weighing six pounds eight ounces and measuring eighteen and a half inches long.

Big sister Alyssa was pleased or disgruntled, depending on the occasion, mood, or time of day. Our little man was born light haired and fair skinned, a trait he shares with his mom, whereas his older sister shares a dark complexion, hair, and eyes with her dad. Both are tiny and fine featured to match both parents, I guess.

Alyssa made sure that I held her baby. Thus the aunts, so kindly lending a hand with the work, and her daddy were baby deprived. At times Alyssa would decide it was her turn for a cuddle from me, and then the others got their chance with the baby.

And we truly were a million-dollar family. I thanked God for two healthy children, loving and helpful extended family and friends, food, clothes, shelter, church, work, and the health and strength to enjoy these blessings.

When Alyssa was a baby I kept a white plastic basket stocked with soft clothes, a baby brush for her dark hair, good-smelling baby bath soap, shampoo, and lotion. When bath time came, I’d retrieve my basket and the fun would begin. The procedure always ended with a good rubdown with smooth, pink Johnson’s baby lotion. Then I’d wrap her all cozy and warm in a fuzzy pink blanket and inhale her sweet baby scent.

When Eric arrived, I happily resumed the bath-time ritual, but no amount of bathing and lotion helped the raw, red rash under his neck and in his fat creases. Nor did it help his dry, scaly head, which was quickly losing its wispy brown hair. Finally, at the urging of Mom and Aunt Sarah we made a long- overdue trip to the doctor. I was surprised to find out that I was dealing with eczema.

The contents of the white plastic basket soon changed, and the bath-time ritual did too. Creamy white lotion, smelling like a sterile hospital room, was rubbed on the dry patches. Thick pasty diaper rash cream dried up the gooey spots. The baby brush disappeared just like Eric’s hair.

Then I wrapped my baby all warm and cozy in a cotton blanket and breathed in the sterile hospital smell. It sure beat the foul smell of oozing eczema. There are ways to treat eczema symptoms, but no quick cure.

3

Frigid Days

WINTER IS OFTEN LOVELY HERE, though cold. Some days the winds are no more than stiff breezes and the sun shines often. A perfect still cold turns into an opportunity for smooth ice rinks at most of our eight private Amish schools. Two community rinks are also prepared. It reminds me of when the river froze over and the daddy here couldn’t resist taking Alyssa, then two years old, to try her tiny skates.

Like this, Mom! she would demonstrate. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, she said, gliding gracefully across the hardwood floor in her stocking feet. Daddy would raise his brows and give a look that said there would still be a few years until there was whoosh, whoosh gliding.

But most northern winters don’t pass without a storm. One day in January, that is just what happened. The snow began to fall, the wind picked up and whipped around the snow that was already here, and the temperature dipped. We were all at home, cozy in our little house or working in our warm shop, when the news arrived. My friend Marianna, from Michigan, was on her way! I ran around in little circles and jabbered excitedly, wondering if she’d make it in the storm and what should I cook for her? Would I have time to bake something or what time did Allan suppose she’d be here?

I soon came to my senses and knew what I must do. Quickly, I washed the dishes and set them in the drain tray. Next I took the broom and tackled the floor. Then there she was—the same Marianna, running through the storm with their little boy, who had grown so much. Whew, she made it! She said she would never have started out if she had known about the whiteouts they would drive through. You couldn’t see ahead of you, but we kept going, not knowing what was coming behind. It was just terrible. I never drove in anything like it, she explained. I enjoyed her visit immensely, and thankfully she had a much better ride home the next day.

In the middle of the winter we still ride in an open buggy. We just huddle behind our big black umbrellas! But don’t let this account of bad weather drive you away. By April the soft spring breezes are blowing with the promise of spring.

I read a detailed account of the Haitian earthquake back in 2010 written by a missionary mother. She vividly described the horrors of cries for help from under the rubble, work at the makeshift clinics, dump truck loads of bodies, the awful smell . . . and then she added her woes. She complained that she was growing weary of her bawling children. How dare she! Right there in the midst of mothers with hurt children, mothers who lost their children, and children who lost their mothers, she was complaining that her children were bawling! Oops, I’ll stop short there. Wasn’t it just last week that my house was too small, that it was such a long time since I last got groceries and my children were . . . and to think that there are mothers in Haiti . . . Lord, help me to stop this complaining and nitpicking.

Sometimes I even forget to be thankful for the door. I vowed I would never, ever forget to be thankful for our door, and here’s why: For a long time there was only one way to properly enter our little home, through a very ancient door. It was so ancient that there were two doors. The first was a screen door with a glass you put in for winter. Next you entered the storm door, with its banana shape and wobbly knob. During the winter, every time someone would exit that door, I would wipe my hands on my apron and take a good hold of the knob while pressing firmly at the bottom with my foot. With a bit of luck the door would latch with the first try. Of course, the wind still blew through its many cracks. If everyone was leaving home for a long period, we’d first check the door, then exit through Doddys’ house to avoid the difficult closure. When the nice weather came we didn’t worry about the storm door. It just hung open, waiting for rainy days to be put to use. As for the screen door, there was a hole in the screen for the flies and it had the most annoying screech every time you passed through! I’d be working in the garden when I heard that screech and I’d know Allan was home from work or one of my sisters had come or there was an intruder around.

The new door does not have its own special alarm system, but it is solid with a tight latch, and the winter gusts are kept at bay. It has a wonderful, clear window with dividing frames between the panes that make it a breeze to wash. Sometimes I forget to be thankful for it, but not as often as I would if I hadn’t put up with the ancient one. I guess there’s a reason we don’t always get what we want right now.

It’s cold and snowy and blowy and I’m piling wood into the Pioneer Maid (our woodstove) and the shop furnace. Sewing, cleaning, cooking, and baking. I’m one of those homemakers who sends her man off to work each morning, then spends one day after the next cooped up inside with the little ones. Before you know it, you feel dull and listless and oversugared from eating and eating the cookies you made for the lunch box. So I invented my own little day brightener: every day the children and I go outside.

That was easy to say. Now we just have to do it.

First, I always think about how much time it’s going to take and then look at my sewing, the dirty dishes, and the empty cookie jar. Then I take a deep breath and bundle children in thick coats, caps, scarves, boots, and mittens. Here we go in our trusty black ice-fishing sled that never did go ice fishing. We walk and play in the fresh, exhilarating air. Last winter, if we lasted fifteen minutes we were doing well. But the effects are long lasting. We all feel bright and refreshed and go at our work and play with more vigor. Maybe it even cuts down on our colds and cranky spells. At least it gives us something to talk about when Daddy comes home.

Back in my teaching days, the senior teachers used to drill and drill us to send our students outside to play. If they couldn’t go outside, we were to give them exercise indoors. Get their hearts pumping and their blood flowing! Refresh those brains! And the teacher needs the refresher just as much as—or more than—the students do. I think this advice works well for mothers and preschoolers too.

I resolved to have a go-outside schedule to further ensure that I don’t skip the dreary, rainy, or too-cold days. The secret is motivation and proper clothing. During the winters that we have had a new baby, I even take the baby outside on nice days, bundled into an infant car seat. (We use the car seat primarily when hiring a driver for car trips.)

I read an article by a fitness instructor that said we live in an age where we search for that miracle pill to cure our ills. He said we have to try harder to do this instead: (1) get enough sleep; (2) eat healthy and properly; (3) drink enough water; (4) get thirty minutes of exercise daily; (5) spend time alone to pray and meditate every day. These steps should eliminate some doctor visits and pills.

Of course there are always the challenges. The year Alyssa was born, it was cold and stormy. She joined us on January 18. That year I contentedly sat on the couch and watched the snow blow while I cared for my little pink bundle. We had a good winter even without the thirty minutes of outside exercise. When Eric joined us, I had to work around his asthma. He doesn’t tolerate cold winds.

We loved the way he’d kick his little legs. Once he did his little performance when the schoolgirls were here. Look, exclaimed one. He’s riding his bicycle! He’s even hanging onto the handlebars! And that explained it exactly. That is, if there’s such a thing as riding a bike while sitting flat on the floor. I just never saw the like!

One hunting season we all had a break in our routine. We joined Allan’s sister Edith and her family on their dairy farm for four days. Even though we didn’t come back with any big buck stories to share, it was a delight to join in their everyday activities and see what others call normal. I wouldn’t need to worry about my going outside once a day plan if I had Edith’s lifestyle, but we each work with the circumstances we have.

I learned that when the babies sleep, even though the house is in need of dust cloth, broom, and scrub rags, those things wait while I write. A good day is when there are good things baking,