The Big Valley

 

New England, Day Two

We left Penn Valley Retreat around 8:00 this morning.  The crew at the retreat fed us a hearty breakfast before we left, sausage and egg casserole, sausage links, fruit, muffins, juice, and most importantly, strong black coffee.  Not being an early morning eater, myself, I nonetheless rose to the challenge and downed a sizeable portion whilst wondering what size pants I would need by the time this trip is over.

With lightening flashing and rain coming down we followed the winding road back to where we had entered this beautiful oasis last evening.  I noticed that there was no thunder, even after the sharpest flashes, which I found curious.

A tour guide joined us from a nearby church and he told us a number of interesting stories. He started with Indian John Glick who got his name when he hid in a hollow log during an attack that killed every other member of his family, back in the 1700s.  Only five years old, he was found by a local Amish family wandering lost and alone after the slaughter.  They took him home and raised him as their own and his nickname stuck, still used to this day.

Another tale involved a young Amish man who left the community to join the fight against Hitler.  He was a rear gunner who went down with his plane behind enemy lines.  He made it home safely before returning for a second tour and was once again shot down in German territory.  This time he was not so fortunate as before and ended up in brutal prison camp.  During a prisoner transport the train he was on, because it was not marked with the customary cross to signify passengers on board, was bombed by the Allies. 

The young man’s father wanted his son buried in the local cemetery but one of the church leaders  would  not allow it.  The Amish are pacifists and fighting in any war is strictly forbidden.  After pleading for his son, the grieving father was given permission to bury him outside the cemetery fence.  In a great stroke of irony, the man adamantly refusing admittance to the war hero, a young man who died defending his right to do so, was forced to bury his own son outside the same fence.  Beside the solder now lay another man for whom there was no room inside an overcrowded burial ground.

We spent half an hour at Meadow View Amish School.  Forbidden any cameras, this photographer’s dream remains un-captured.  I was headed to the outhouse (never pass a bathroom is one of my cardinal rules on a bus trip) when I caught sight of about a dozen little girls watching me.  When they saw that I saw they scattered like a flock of sparrows.  Their white caps covered all hair; their dresses and aprons were dark and fell to their bare ankles.  The boys wore straw hats during recess.  Their shirts were buttoned to throats and wrists; their trousers held up by one suspender fastened front to back, diagonally. Most of them were barefoot.

The outhouse had never been treated to deodorizing solution other than the little urinal cake hanging on the wall, totally ineffective.  Two holes with battered and worn toilet seats were above a dark chasm that I could not, nor did I want to, see into.  Very little light nor ventilation seeped through the ancient boards that provided some privacy.  There was no lock but I’m here to tell you it is possible to make use of the facilities without touching anything except the door one is firmly holding shut.

We were allowed into the schoolroom to observe some learning and it was a step back in time.  Way back.  Windows spanning both side walls provided the only light and with today’s clouds and rain, it was dim at best.  A large blackboard stretched across the front of the single room. Each antique desk held one scholar while providing workspace for another behind them.  Several shelves across the back held vintage school book, still in regular use by the look of them.  There were no shiny textbooks with pictures, no flashy school supplies, no computers, no signs of modern civilization anywhere.  Each student had a tablet (the kind with paper) with which to do their ciphers and compositions.  A neat row of warm pastel scarves hung on hooks along one wall; another row held straw hats from the boys.

After recess all students gathered up front, and with the teacher, sang several songs. They belted out the words at the top of their lungs but without emotion. It sounded unusual, not the melodic lyrics usually associated with music.  Rather more like a chant than a song with unvaried tempo and volume.

The teacher was a young woman who looked to be about mid twenties or early thirties.  She was all no-nonsense and said she had been at this school for nine years. Her voice when talking was eerily the same as when singing: even tempo, expressionless, and loud.  It was clear she brooked no frivolity and I was a bit nervous that someone on the bus would end up at the desk up front in the corner. We did hush David a time or two and managed to escape without anyone getting their knuckles rapped.

I mulled things over as the lessons continued, wondering if we were seeing an idyllic replay of history in real time. Was it a lifestyle to be envied, simple and reduced to the essentials?  Or was that a romantic notion that covered a reality filled with hardship and self-denial?

After visiting the school we stopped at Peight’s, a country store very similar to our own stores back home.  I left with a bag full of chocolates, beef jerky, and maple cookies. Feeling ready for the apocalypse, I boarded the bus and took a nap.

Having read the book Rosanna of the Amish as a young girl, I found our stop at an old graveyard rather interesting.  Rosanna’s grave is there among hundreds of others, the writing on her original gravestone mostly worn away.  I saw a gravestone with the name Byler and wondered if this belonged to some long-forgotten relative of mine.  Another smaller marker bore the names of three children, the mystery of their tragic story hidden under a weatherbeaten chunk of limestone. Would my passing be forgotten by future generations too someday?  I moved on before melencholia completely overtook me. 

As the bus meandered through Pennsylvania’s Big Valley our tour guide relayed one interesting bit of history after another.  We learned about the “white-top” Amish with their houses blue doors and white buggies. Other Amish groups have yellow buggies, some allow screens in their windows, others do not.  The hundreds of minute differences between the varying districts are enough to blow the minds of any and all “Englishers.”  One thing is constant though.  The Big Valley is one of the most picturesque places in the state.  Perfect lawns, houses, and barns nestled between two long ridges of wooded hillsides, with verdant fields producing crops that would be the envy of farmers everywhere.

Woven through our tour guide’s many tales was the true story of the seven barns destroyed by an eighteen-year-old arsonist in the early 1990s. The son of an Amish bishop, his motives remain unclear, at least to me, but the hardship he created for many hard-working families was plain to see.

We ate lunch at a local homestead where we were met on our arrival by a young barefoot Amish woman who invited us in and made us feel welcome.  Wood burning ovens were baking homemade pizzas dripping with deliciousness.  Followed by pie and homemade ice-cream, food comas all around were inevitable.

Several hours later we stopped at a state park to enjoy the “Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania.”  The rain had disappeared and the temperature was a beautiful 55 degrees.  Walkways and balconies overlooked beautiful vistas which we duly admired.  I couldn’t help but thank God for his amazing creation and that I could be here to enjoy it.

Our hotel in Mansfield, PA was minutes from a few fast food places; the bus dropped us off so we could walk to whichever one suited our fancy.  Paul was determined to have some KFC so off to visit the Colonial we went.  Unfortunately he wasn’t there.  Contrary to online information the dining room was not open and the two people running the show refused to serve any walk-up customers via the drive through.  They were not busy and the six or seven of us would have added a few dollars to their coffers but it was not to be.  Paul declared a boycott on all KFCs and I mulled over once again the death of common sense across the globe. I refer not to Paul but to the KFC employees who did not dare to think outside the box by handing us food in the parking lot.  I had a brief mental image of plowing through the drive-through with the bus, damage to vehicle and building notwithstanding.  Fortunately for all, I am not permitted near the steering wheel.

Thanks to a nearby Arbys we did not go hungry.  Truth be told, we could probably go without food for the whole of our trip and not die of starvation.  The signs posted at Arby’s warning us we may not be able to order what we want because of “interruptions to the supply chain” were yet another reminder that our lives have been changed in ways we never imagined two years ago.  These things have given me new gratitude for all that we can still enjoy.  Even with the unexpected ways we find ourselves inconvenienced it is all trivial when compared to the plight of so many.  And for today – I am grateful.