Morrisons Cove Herald - Putting cows on the front page since 1885.

By Roseann Zimmerman

Old Order Mennonite Memoirs


The wind is a natural movement of air around the earth on which we live. It varies in velocity, that is, speed or quickness of motion. Although it's invisible, we see what it does. We feel it. We hear it.

Last Monday, May 20, I resisted its strong western movement to pedal with my bike to an outdoor tea party. When we mothers and our daughters gathered around the table on the deck, the tall trees protected us from the tempest. We heard the rustling leaves but only teasing little whiffs were able to reach us.

The next day the wind swung from the north. There was no question if my laundry would dry outdoors or if my husband could harvest his alfalfa without rain. The winds were dry and cold, almost like sinister tentacles around my neck as I worked doggedly in my gardens even when my joints and muscles ached.

They still seemed the same, the next day as I succumbed to the use of weed killer where I couldn't keep up with elbow grease. With caution I sprayed, lest the ever-present winds waft the ruinous moisture onto green that I wanted to stay.

On Thursday, it warmed up and the wind actually calmed in the morning, as if waiting with bated breath till the names of wedding guests were called to be seated in a bride's home at Cove Lane Road. As the ceremony progressed, so did the wind. Its motion flung some raindrops out of the morning clouds then pushed them onward. Along Cove Mountain Road, I helped my daughter hoe and mulch in her garden. Although the strong western current cooled us as we labored in the sun, Baby Bella needed a patch of shade to stay cool. When her collection of items ceased to entertain her, I sat on the swing with her in my arms. Inhibited by trees, the wind turned into a breath coming gently over phlox fragrance as I sang of my Blessed Redeemer.

The baby falling to sleep in my arms could not know that "one dreadful morn, Christ, weary and worn, walked up Calvary's mountain, facing for sinners, death on the cross." How He prayed, "Father, forgive them," even as His lifeblood flowed fast away. That no one but Jesus ever loved so."

The words written by A. B. Christiansen in 1921, now coming from my lips, were whiffed away on the breezes: "O how I love Him, Saviour and Friend, How can my praises ever find end! Thru years unnumbered on heaven's shore, My tongue shall praise Him forever more."

The sweet baby in my arms was innocent but I was thankful that I could sing to her of my blessed Redeemer. I was thankful for her, for the swing, for the breeze, and for all the other things that I do not deserve. Seemingly secluded from the world, time seemed to stand still.

But time is relentless. It rules our days. It races on. It makes the grass grow. Lest nature take back its own, I had to mow it. As I walked in this weekly duty, the trucks and other vehicles on Piney Creek Road seemed to portray this relentless pushing of time. Urgently and constantly they hurried loudly past my lawn, like the wind, going somewhere. I knew not where.

On Saturday the winds brought another thundershower, refreshing some newly-planted vegetation, soaking some gardeners. On the breezes came the intoxicating smell of locust trees in bloom; mostly on fence rows, some in my kitchen bouquet.

On the way to Piney Creek church, a rumble of thunder threatened but waited till the noon hour to lash its horizontal fury onto our northern window panes. Some of the water torrents hurried for Piney Creek, some of it pooled in low spots, all of it refreshed the vibrant world that May brought.

The hot sun came back to shine on a dripping world after dishes were washed. At a table set for seven, lunch included meatloaf and lemon pie.

The wind found me again that evening after chores. From the western mountains the gusts came galloping over Hickory Bottom cornfields to a family ball game. The players weren't conscious of the "natural movement of air" but mamas reached for blankets to shield the babies from the cool breezes brought on by the setting sun.


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