Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

"Mom, I can't get the 'lapper' off," said Lyla about the husks on the ear of corn she held in her hands. At age 2, pronouncing the word 'wrapper' may yet be too difficult; it might not even be the proper word, but I was impressed with her efforts to help us husk sweet corn. Her voice sounded so cute and besides, since last year's corn day at our house, when walking by herself was a newly-acquired skill, she has come a long way.

She soon lost interest and went to play with dolls and bags, but the boys helped husk until we were done. I was pleased to show them that I pulled all the weeds in the sandbox. In it, with all the trucks and scoopers, they were preoccupied all the time their mother and I did corn. There was even some time for stories before they left for home again.

No jackets were needed. No cold breezes hurt their ears. In this perfect drying weather, my husband's baler knotted and kicked hay bales onto wagons. Stepping into sunshine from shadowy woods, a coyote watched him gather summer's bounty and turkey poults scurried for safety, too big for the protection of their mama's wings. Meanwhile, the intoxicating smell of the quality forage made us fall deeper in love with summer.

Besides beans to pick, there were red beets to pull for my friend and flowers to share. When she closed her trunk, one little, black-eyed susan refused to stay inside. From its pinched vantage, cheery yellow petals shone like a beacon of friendship through the years of Piney Creek neighbors.

Back when Betty was my neighbor, my children were around me, depending on me, helping me and sometimes her, but the little ones in my life are now the responsibility of our grown children.

One afternoon, I biked the short distance to help my daughter defrost her freezers. Although I always did enjoy that job, its satisfaction paled in comparison to meeting Bella at her home. At 9 months, she recognized me and let me take her along on a garden tour, but most of all, she loved when I took her pudgy hands so she could take little steps of her own.

The little things in life are sometimes sounds. When we bowed our heads in silent thanks to God for the feast before us on Sunday noon after church, the sound from the innocent lips of Baby Bella was little and sweet. When I walked under the mimosa tree on my way to the sweet corn patch, squeaky, little hummingbird sounds penetrated my sleepy mind. As dusky evening shadows fell on the men's croquet game in our daughter's backyard, little cricket sounds indicated the height of summer's glory and daylight hours ending sooner.

The little things in life are sometimes soundless. Like a summer secret, butterflies flitted around the phlox for a sweet nectar drink, their bright, weightless beauty visible to observant eyes. Like an empty house, void of chatter and the comings and goings of its occupants, our purple martin house is soundless now. Little birds, instilled by their Creator, with an awesome instinct, have flown over the ocean for a winter abode. They call it migration.

The little things in life are sometimes both sound and silence. I've often wondered about the exchange of speech between two people, the complexities of the thing called conversation. I have come to the conclusion that a healthy dialogue is like a ball bouncing back and forth. Sharing our lives in both listening and talking, like the other little things in our lives, are actually some of God's most precious gifts for us, like Debbie, our driver to take us to and from our daughter's house on Sunday evening.

When I learned that Sunday supper for the youth was served on the home farm in Muley Lane, memories stirred. In them I was a teenager trying my hand at bathing my friend's little baby boy.

Today the little boys in my life are grandsons with little squirt guns, chased from the wet kitchen floor to the dusky backyard, where hidden little katydids began their summer nocturne. Little things aren't actually little, now that we think on it.