My sisters and their families are in town. And we thought we'd go for a ramble through Amish country for old times sake. And as we are driving through the vast acreage of crops and cattle, I was again reminded of just how unique my corner (yes, I'm calling it mine) of this country really is. While the buggies and the tourists who crawl along watching the buggies drive me crazy, I love my home and love that my children get to daily witness Old World mingling with New.
So I thought I'd share a few shots of our Lancaster County adventure with you all.
Yes, that's an Amish buggy at the drive-thru window at the ice cream shop.
This lovely pic was taken by my other sis Sarah.
Today, as it happens, I am also leaving for Ireland, and I am at this minute trying to contain my squeals of excitement. So, as I continue in my rambles in a countryside even more green and lush than Lancaster, I will periodically be checking in here on the Isle (barring any internet snafu) with pictures and an update. See you soon from the other side of the pond!
gazing at some colorful hermit crabs (that will never cross the threshold of the Urquhart household, much to my children's consternation),
and standing on the sandy fringes of the Atlantic one final time,
we have returned home. And if we weren't quite sure we had neared our destination, we ran into this fella and were instantly convinced that we were, in fact, once again in Lancaster County.
It was on our journey home that I was informed of some somber news. Bev, at the Black Ink Paperie blog (a blog I adore and religiously follow), has recently received the news that everyone fears. Her husband has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. You can read the details on her most recent post. And I would admonish you all to visit her blog and give her a word of encouragement in this scary time for their family. But I was also amazed at, and greatly admire, how she ended her post--with a call to kindness. What wisdom to share even when facing the dark of the unknown. And, by way of a final announcement, we will have a guest writer on Monday that I am ecstatic to have because he is quite the elusive/reclusive figure and difficult to lure into the open. But he will be with us on Monday! Both his pen and his wit are razor sharp, so you will not want to miss it. Hope you all have a fabulous Father's Day Weekend!
Each day, while driving to school, my children and I pass through acres and acres of farmland. Land currently being plowed and planted, the tractors jouncing and (in Amish fields) mules toiling, getting an early start to a long day. Soon those fields will be thick and green with new vegetation. Corn, mostly, is what will be grown in this area.
In addition to the quiet beauty of watching the farmer prepare his fields for the summer sun and August harvest, there are the smells. Of earth and spring air and moisture from last night's storm. But, above all, is the smell of manure A pervasive smell. Distasteful for those unused to its pungency. It is, after all, poo. But having lived here most of my life, it is simply a smell of spring. As I drive, I cross a small bridge spanning a creek (and, no, I don't pronounce it "crick"), and my focus shifts from the ground, to the giant poles jutting into the air. Telephone poles with electrical wires strung between them. It's an everyday sight with which we, who live in this nation, are familiar. But it all of a sudden struck me: telephone poles are silly. There is nothing to protect them. The wires, thin and flimsy, hang exposed between impermanent structures. And yet we depend daily on the precise functioning of these poles and wires. When a storm comes (as it always does) and the power goes out, everyone scuttles--like little sand crabs racing to catch the ebbing tide--in an effort to reverse the plunge of society into third-world status. While the sand crabs scuttle, those of us "suffering" in the dark scurry out to our cars to recharge our phones. (Am I the only one who does this?) Heaven forbid we disconnect for more than a few minutes. These telephone poles defy the earth-boundedness of all that surrounds them. Their only companions are the birds and insects that alight on the outstretched wires. And these structures are relatively successful at accomplishing their purpose. So, while staring at these poles (for little snapshots of time since I'm driving and also have to watch the road) it strikes me, not only as silly, but also brave. Brave mostly because at some point, someone heaved up the first pole, convinced that this narrow structure would facilitate communication and connection among the populous. So why am I fixating on these poles? They're just poles, you ninny! (is what I'm sure you're thinking by now.) Well, these poles, butted up against the Amish man with his mules and rustic plow tilling his field, create a strange and anomalous juxtaposition: where we've come from mingles with where we are going. And the smell of manure reminds me that, despite all our supposed progress, poo is still the best ingredient for making things grow. Top image from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/zerohdog/331108791/
I am in the midst of writing a story that involves the Amish. So, with a need for accurate information, I went with a dear friend of mine to her in-law’s
sheep farm. Growing up in Lancaster County, farms and sheep have always
interested me—"interested me" meaning I love to visit and explore and learn new things,
then leave at the end of the day because farming is not my calling. It takes a special kind of person to be a farmer.
Okay, I’m sure you’ve already seen this, but I had to insert
it here anyway. Good stuff.
What was unique about last night’s experience was that it
was an Amish sheep farm. Nicki, my darling friend, married a man who was
raised Amish. He, however, did not join the Amish church—thus was free to marry
Nicki, an “English” girl as the Amish call non-Amish people. So while farming
is a hard life, Amish farming is even more difficult because of the limitations
their beliefs and the church put on the daily running of things. As a very basic example,
the only time we were able to make our way to the farm was in the evening after
dinner, and, being winter, that means it is dark. I didn’t consider this a
problem until we arrive and I remember: Oh, duh, no electricity. Nicki and I pull out our cell phones with our nifty flashlight apps and start waving them
around, terrorizing 2 poor pregnant ewes who were trying to sleep. Bless the
farmer’s heart, he arrives with 2 enormous flashlights (battery-powered, of
course, which are allowed) and takes us back to visit the preggie ewes and
their horse Snazz who is their main mode of transportation.
We then go down to the pasture to a different barn where the
younger sheep of the herd (basically the teenagers of the bunch) reside. We
wade through sucking mud and sheep sh*t—and I’m not cussing, this is the “official”
Lancaster County word for animal poo—and as the barn door creaks open and the
flashlights cut into the gloom, there are 10 pairs of glowing eyes peering back
at us. It was hilarious and eerie all at once.
See what I mean?! Its like Shaun the Sheep alien attack!
The most hilarious part was to watch the behavior of these “teenage” sheep.
One sheep would stick its head out the opening of the barn that leads to the
pasture. Then two more come up so all three have their heads poking
through the opening. Then the rest push up, jostling the front sheep grudgingly
forward through the opening. Since the front sheep have moved forward, the rest
assume it is safe to proceed, so the whole herd ambles ahead until all ten of them
are outside. If you wait, literally, within 2 to 3 minutes, one sheep head will appear back inside the opening, followed by two more. Then, with some ornery bleating, they all
start piling back inside the barn to assume the same position they were just in
only minutes ago. (My goodness, the biblical comparison of people to sheep is apt.)
But my favorite part was the lambs—there were two lambs that
were only four days old and they jostled and bumped around their pen next to
their mama. And I could hardly hold in my squeals of delight at their adorableness.
This picture SO does not do these cuties justice.
The entire evening was so fascinating and informative. The
farmer (who I’ll keep nameless because these are a private people) answered my bazillion
questions frankly and openly and I could tell that he loved to talk about his
work. I finally asked him, “Do you enjoy what you do?”
“Oh, yah,” he says with a strong Germanic drawl. “I do.”
And he wears the look of a man doing what he is meant to be doing.
It reminded me of that moment in Chariots of Fire when Eric Liddell is talking to his sister and he
says, “When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.” I think those of us who have
experienced that moment of knowing we are doing exactly what we are supposed to
be doing would nod in agreement with Eric and with my friend, the Amish farmer.
His work may not be seen by the world as “important”—he raises a family, tends to sheep, goes to church, lives quietly—but his work is important because it is
the work he has been given. And he finds contentment in it. May we all be so
blessed.
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Here are some other things I learned last night:
1. The sheep this farmer raises are Dorper sheep
and they shed their wool—they don’t need sheared! (And once they shed their
wool it lays like sloughed snake skin on the ground til the farmer picks it up
and throws it away.)
2. Sheep need their hooves clipped, just like we need
our toe nails clipped. (Dorpers need theirs clipped about 3 times a year; some other
breeds need it done only once a year.)
3. Sheep, unlike goats, will eat something that
doesn’t agree with them (i.e. thistles, etc) only once and learn never to eat
it again. (Not quite so dumb as I thought.)
4. You have to lead sheep, you can’t drive them or
chase them or shoo them productively anywhere. This farmer, when moving them from pasture to
pasture, gets out some grain and holds the food in front of them and, because
they move only in herds, once you hook one, they all will follow wherever the
farmer leads. (I don’t think this tactic is specific to sheep J)
5. The Amish Mafia is one big, fat farce. Nicki and
her family know several of those involved in the show, and it’s all
manufactured. There’s maybe 5% truth to any of it—but it’s just enough truth to
manipulate into “reality TV”—which is a shame because 1) those producing the
show know better, having come from an Amish background & 2) it serves only
to further distort a culture that is already greatly misunderstood.
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