The Amish Spinster's Courtship. Emma Miller
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got it,” Sam said. He wasn’t a talker. But he was a hard worker. He was the first one up in the morning, the last to go to bed, and that was only when Marshall or their grossmammi sent him up to his room—with the warning there would be no reading. Otherwise, Sam would be up half the night scouring books and magazines on Plain ways to make work go easier on their farm.
Marshall watched Sam ease the wagon toward the drive-through shed his little brother had designed himself. It was a clever lean-to attached to the main barn, just wide enough for a horse and buggy to pull in to get out of the rain or sun. There, the vehicle, the horse and the man could stay out of the elements while hitching or unhitching. And when it was time to go somewhere, the horse could be hitched to the front of the buggy or wagon and then walk right out without having to back up. Their bishop had liked the design so much he’d built one himself at his own property, saying it would come in handy because a man with his responsibilities had to travel day or night, snow or rain.
The chickens continued to kick up a ruckus and Marshall strode across the barnyard, wondering if a fox had gotten in the henhouse. It had happened the previous year and they had lost half their layers in one night. But it was midday, nearly dinner, and not the time of day a fox was usually up and about.
As he crossed the barnyard, Marshall took in the big barn and multiple outbuildings. Every structure looked neat and tidy, all painted a traditional red with white trim: the old dairy barn, the henhouse, the smokehouse and carriage shed, the granary and other assorted structures. The dirt driveway was raked, the grass mowed and the beds of flowers weeded. And off behind the neat, white clapboard farmhouse, his garden of raised beds, rather than the rows his father had always planted, were neatly weeded. The raised beds were new this year. It had taken Sam two planting seasons to convince Marshall to make the change, but Marshall had to admit it was a good one. They were yielding more crops in a smaller space with less effort.
The sight of his little Eden made Marshall smile. He and Sam had grown up here, Marshall with both his parents, Sam with only their dat, after their mam died giving birth to him. Then four years ago, their dat died of cancer, and at the age of twenty-six Marshall had become the head of the family, responsible for his grandmother and his little brother. The transition from being the eldest son to the man of the house had been difficult at first for Marshall, especially with the transition from big brother to parent to Sam. It had put an end to his rumspringa days and nights of courting the prettiest girls in the county. But the three of them, Marshall, Sam and Grossmammi, had worked through their sorrow and come out the other side, seeing the good in the life God had given them.
The volume of the disturbance in the henhouse became louder and Marshall ran the last couple steps and flung open the door, half expecting to meet a fox with one of his chickens it its mouth. Instead, he came face-to-face with his petite grandmother, holding a basket of eggs in one hand and a flapping chicken by the feet in the other.
“Got her,” Grossmammi exclaimed, holding the chicken high in the air.
The chicken squawked and beat its wings, trying desperately to escape her grip. “Thought she’d get away with it, she did.”
She thrust the chicken upward and Marshall took a step back, raising his hands to keep the chicken from flapping its wings in his face.
He laughed. “Grossmammi, what are you doing?”
She lowered the chicken to her side, letting its head brush the dirt floor of the henhouse, but still held tightly to it. “Collecting eggs.”
He grinned at his grandmother, who stood five feet tall only when she wore her heavy-soled black shoes. Despite her short stature, she was a hearty-sized woman, round with chubby cheeks and a smile that was infectious. Several wisps of gray hair had come free from her elder’s black prayer kapp, evidence of the struggle that had apparently taken place between her and the black-and-white-potted Dominique chicken.
“I mean, what are you doing with the chicken?” He pointed.
She held it up as if she was surprised to find it in her hand. “I warned Emily, if she pecked me again, into the stew pot she went. I should have known not to buy any more Dominicker chicks. Small brains.” She lowered the chicken and looked at him. “She’ll make us a nice supper tomorrow night.”
He removed his hat and wiped his brow before returning it to his head. “And how does Emily feel about that?”
“She should have thought of that before she pecked my hand again.” She held up the hand that held the basket of eggs. “Look, she drew blood.”
He glanced at her hand, which was, indeed, bloody. “She peck you before or after you hung her upside down by her feet?” He suppressed a smile. It made his grandmother angry when she thought he was making fun of her. And an angry Lynita Byler he did not want to deal with today. He was in too good a mood.
“She drew blood, sohn,” she said, shaking the chicken. It began to flap its wings again, but with less effort. “I can’t have my own chickens pecking me!”
He smiled. Even though he was her kins-kind, her grandchild, and not her son, it had been her habit for several years now to call him her own and that somehow eased his pain of being an orphan. Even being a grown man of thirty, he found it hard sometimes to be without parents. “I see your point.” He studied the chicken for a moment. “But I’m afraid she’s going to be awfully tough. How old is Emily? Three years old? Four?”
“Old enough to know not to peck the hand that feeds her grain,” Grossmammi said indignantly.
He reached out and took the basket of eggs from her. “The other thing to take into consideration is that tomorrow is the softball game. Will says there’s talk of cooking hamburgers and hot dogs. In that case, we won’t be having supper at home. I know you don’t want to miss a softball game and potluck to eat a tough old chicken.”
She harrumphed, raised the bird high again and said, “Last time, Emily. I promise you that.” Then she lowered the old hen to the ground and Emily had the good sense to hit the ground running.
Marshall stepped aside to let his grandmother pass and closed the henhouse door behind her.
“You go to Troyer’s and get your britchen strap repaired?” she asked, watching him latch the door securely.
They crossed the sunny barnyard side by side, Marshall shortening his stride so his grandmother could keep up. She was wearing a rose-colored dress today, her bare feet dirty from work in the garden that morning.
“I went to Miller’s,” he told her. “Will’s stepfather’s harness shop. Thought it would be neighborly to go there rather than Troyer’s. Give them the business. Which is a good thing because I met the woman I’m going to marry,” he told her.
She stopped and cocked her head. She wore tiny, wire-frame glasses with lenses that darkened in the sunlight. Marshall couldn’t see her eyes now, but her tone of voice was enough of a reprimand.
“Your wife!” she exclaimed. “You’ve already courted and become betrothed? Banns going to be read on Sunday?” She started walking again and he was the one who had to keep up.
“Not moving quite that quickly, Mammi,” he said, using her nickname. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be pleased.”
“That you’re ready to bring a wife into this house.” She nodded. “I am. A man going to be thirty-one come Christmas Eve, you should have a wife and a house full of children. God willing,” she added quickly. “Who are you talking about? One of Rosemary’s girls, I suppose? That Ginger is a flirt. You’ve always been drawn to a pretty face.”
“Not Ginger. Lovage. Rosemary’s oldest. She’s just come to Hickory Grove this week.” They cut across the grass toward the back porch. “She’s been in New York settling her mother’s affairs this last year.”
Lynita made a clicking sound between her teeth. “Lovage? What kind of a name is that?”
“Lovage