Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

My father was one to

stand at night

And look up at the sky

At springtime moons and blue starlight

And clouds that drifted by.

He seemed to drink the

fragrant air

In natural, keen delight.

One with the breeze that stirred his hair,

He'd murmur, "Some nice night!"

My father was one to

love the heat

Of any summer day;

The clover field to

him was sweet;

He mowed it all away.

With shirt stuck to his

back and wet,

Upon the hay he'd climb

And pause to mop his

face and say,

"Ah, good old summertime."

My father was one who liked to live,

Who savored simple things.

He reached out, not to take, but give

And lent us strength for wings

To reach beyond our home and know

That his heart with us would always go

And that in the greens of trees and songs of birds

We could see and hear his gentle words.

I was pleased to find the poem Esther Kem Thomas wrote about her father. He sounds like a person of kindred spirit. "Loving the heat of any summer day," however, wasn't quite fitting my own description while the drought continued. But suddenly the rains came. The gardens that were barely surviving with my watering attempts switched into the thriving mode. I hung up my garden hose and left.

Like a sparkling, dark curtain drawn over the summer day, starlight studded the sky, but mostly our eyes were drawn to the campfire. Like one link in the chain of feminine family, my feet were two of 18 that surrounded the flickering flames. Like one fiber in the cord of love, my memories blended with theirs as we shared life's experiences. Like one strand in the cable of faith, my views mingled with theirs as the night wore on. Like one thread in the fabric of life, my laughter was woven with theirs in our time together.

Family ties shackle us together, like the velvet chains that bind us to our gardens in July. Beans hide under green leaves, waiting for my searching fingers. Curly kale leaves offer nutrition and gladiolus spears burst into color to cheer a city dweller.

But we left it all to bike a tow path together. All 26 of us, were not bikers, however. The kiddy carts provided rides for the little ones who couldn't bike and for the two 4-year-old boys who tuckered out before we came to the end of our 8-mile trek for a picnic. Through a deserted train tunnel, over the Potomac River and past miles of deserted canal waters, our path also wound through awesome locks and shady woods. I loved every minute and would have loved more time together but the fetters we farmer/gardeners wear, bid us come home.

Back to the cows that need us and the sweet corn that ripened after the rain. Back to a summer buggy ride to Piney Creek church and back to share lunch with precious loves. Back to a dewy evening that beckoned me for a bike ride on lanes between fields of tasseled corn. Back to drink the air that is heavy with its fragrance mingling with drying alfalfa. Back to the farm where I saw and heard a doe yank off and eat an ear of corn while her fawn nibbled alfalfa.

Back to where I want to be.