Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

Like a see-saw ride, April gave us heart-sinking thumps and breath-taking heights last week. In the first exhilarating days we planted potatoes as the purple martins cheered us on. Mrs. Killdeer kept an eye on me, when I declared war on weeds close to her nest. Mulching flowerbeds and even planting some flowers was part of the 'high' ride. As my husband worked to cross the last of manure hauling off the list, I planted more lettuce and kale and patted mulch around their new beginning.

But then Old Mother West Wind heralded a cruel reversal into the Cove, whipping heartlessly to bring us down from the heights. The spring-green maple seed blossoms no longer hung daintily like chandeliers from their branches but swung around in an undignified fashion in the gales. To harvest the first asparagus shoots, I hurried. The calm demeanor of the day before was gone. The row covers rippled and waved in their efforts to resist the wind. At my youngest daughter's house, Kari, age 19 months, pulled at her sister's dress, begging to go outdoors like she did the day before, but the friendliness out there was gone. Even with coats and hats, a short trip to see the baby goats was all they managed before their cheeks were red and their fingers cold.

The next morning when the see-saw ride stayed low and chills plagued me, I am ashamed to admit that I grumbled about the cold to feed the calves and to bike next door to feed the animals in our son's barn. (He and his wife had traveled to Kentucky for a wedding.) Here in the Cove, the wedding was along Henrietta Road that morning for the oldest daughter of our nephew. Immense snowflakes swooped down off Lock Mountain and whitened our green grass and red tulips. The best way to celebrate the beauty, however, was by turning the recliner to the wood stove to warm my feet and take a nap. In consciousness again, I sought refuge with my cutter to make lovely fabric scraps into squares. For a long time I thought I was hearing the song sparrow trying to sing but his song seemed to be getting caught in his throat. Finally I became aware of a tiny squeak when I pressed the handle to engage the blade of my cutter.

That afternoon when Conner, age 5, and Lyla, age 3, came to stay at our house, the sun was shining. In Lancaster County, the next day, April 23, their great-grandfather Eli Weaver was buried at Groffdale church. Rather than traveling the miles with their parents to attend that funeral, I think they were happier with me in the backyard with the swings and sandbox or maybe even in the attic looking for treasures. There were lots of stories, too, and little naps.

The see-saw ride from the depths to the heights happened slowly. Good things take time. For our nephew Kenton Martin and his friend Rosanna Martin, Sunday was their turn to be published to be married. My husband and I are invited as guests to the wedding which will be on May 25, Lord willing, at the home of the bride in Roaring Spring. She is the daughter of Seranus and Mary Ellen Martin and granddaughter of Eli and Esther Stauffer. Her paternal grandparents are Mervin and Laura Martin. Kenton is the son of Jerry and Lorraine Martin of Martinsburg. He has one grandparent, Erwin W. Zimmerman.

When we came home from church the three red tulips in my little bouquet were open as wide as they could go and Bella, age 2, and I lost no time in getting lunch on the table for our usual seven. She was surprised and delighted to be the recipient of the little bag of candy from the Kentucky wedding, saved especially for her by her uncle.

The westerly gusts had not yet abated when I began my first bluebird trail trek that evening after chores but the sun was shining in my eyes. Chloe and I surprised some rabbits and one ground hog hurried to hide when we came around the corner of the woods but the best news for the trip were 19 bluebird eggs in four boxes. In the purple martin house, we annihilated the starling nest as the swallows hovered gratefully overhead. The killdeers screamed at us and I'm beginning to wonder at the length of time it takes hatch out little killdeer birds. Oh, well, good things take time.