Visiting Lancaster County, Part 3
Saturday, December 04, 2021
As the farm-bell rang, the eyes were fixed out the window into the fields where the corn was tall. Ready to be harvested those fields were. In fact, some of that harvesting would take place later this very day. That would be observed. But currently, the body stood there in the kitchen, surrounded by the retro appliances. Like something out of an old television show from 50 or 60 years ago. (Well, maybe.) Awaiting breakfast. Oh, and let’s not forget the classic wood burning stove on the other side of the room. A black, stand alone unit, with a black metal pipe that made its way up the ceiling. Classic for a farmhouse.
The sound of the bell had been foretold as the cue to expect when it was time for the meal to be served. Next to the cabinets there was a door. That door opened, and the Mennonite woman from the adjoining house then entered into the kitchen. Interestingly enough, it was noticed that her head covering had changed to resemble the Beachy Amish style. Yesterday, when we first had met, the head covering was the flappy veil kind. The appearance quite different versus what had been accustomed to at this point. But today, the covering was more along the lines of the Beachy. That is, the Beachy type are a bit more ‘see-through’ or a lighter mesh, it might be said.
How was the meeting with the youth last night “with your people” was the question. A little bit of a backstory is deserved here. The day before, upon arriving on the farm, the worn attire had been the white dress shirt, black pants, with black shiny shoes that had been adorned at church service that morning. The common Sunday morning Beachy garb. Nonetheless, it had been stated when explaining the attire and why it was being worn that a current exploration was underway. The person who stood before her wasn’t Beachy, it was assured, but was rather just exploring the whole topic altogether. Somehow, that fact seemed to have been dismissed by this point in time.
It would have been nice if the body were still that young—young enough to be able to run around with the Beachy youth. Howbeit, it was about, seemingly so, ten years removed from that, being latter 30s. Though, perhaps, at times, the appearance seemed younger to others. At least, that has been said by a few. Yet, the woman thought the person who stood before her belonged to the group. It seemed pointless to refute the notion yet again, so that comment was just ignored. The time spent at the picnic was nice, it was stated, and good conversation was had.
A plate upon which rested a couple eggs, some bacon bites, hash browns, and a couple pieces of toast was kindly set on the table. It’s not everyday that one is served a breakfast fresh off the farm like this. Eggs walked probably a hundred feet from the source. Quite something when considered. And after she departed, and the breakfast was consumed, it was found to be fairly tasty. Though, no coffee was to be had. The hands were simply just too lazy to prepare it in the old fashioned coffee maker that sat on the counter to the rear. Indeed, k-cup machines had begat a sure laziness.
A short time later the jacket was thrown on the back and steps were made out the screen door in the front of the farmhouse, across the wooden porch, and over to a storage barn. It was at this time that a meeting was to occur with the man who owned the farm—the farmer himself. A tour was to be embarked upon. There the man stood. Probably around six feet tall. Graying hair. Typical farm jacket like you would have seen Superman’s father wear. Blue jeans of course. A sure, steady smile.
The Farm Tour
First the cows. Yes, we walked the short distance over to the cattle barn. (Why isn’t ‘cows’ the plural?) A large herd of them there behind the fence next to the big white structure. Very large animals they were. Their purpose? They were being raised for meat. Forty to fifty of them there must have been. It was explained that the cattle ate a silage. That consisted of grounded of corn stalks with a couple more additional added in (that is, the stalks it seems?). All this made right there on the farm. Interesting. Made sense the cattle would eat the corn. Really the mind had never thought much about what cattle eat. Yet, it’s not like one walks in their local pet store to get the food, and certainly there couldn’t have been enough grass growing to feed them.
Next came the economics of the whole thing. Well, it was learned there are two different ways the big black and white animals are sold. For a fixed price was one way. The price would stay the same throughout the year. Didn’t matter what the market was doing or whatever. But then, yes, then were was the second way. One could sell their cattle at the mercy of the auctions. That could be risky, the mind thought. Don’t know what the market is going to do. Yet, the farmer explained one just has to choose one route and go that way the entire time. As long as one route was chosen and stayed with, there wouldn’t be a problem. Money would be made.
Behind the large white cattle barn were erected four silos. That was the next stop on the tour. Steps were made around to the silos. Tall and towering they drove into the sky. It was explained that three of them were there to store the grinded-up corn for the cattle. The fourth one was sealed. Why this was the case, the mind doesn’t currently recall. But it was noted that some silos can even be used to store water. Definitely an interesting concept, and one that was unknown to the listener. Anyhow, the corn was shot up into the tops of the silos with a vacuum like device. And, of course, the corn had been stored to feed the animals, and not for human consumption.
After standing there observing those massive pillars, we then moved over to the equipment barn. Here, it was informed, the machines were stored which were responsible to pull up the corn stalks and even grind them up. As a matter of fact, the farmer explained that he worked on theses semi-massive pieces of farm equipment. Quite impressive. It seemed that working on a standard tractor would be hard enough, but these machines, no these were in another category all together. Oh, and there was a machine used for planting purposes as well. Wheat can be planted in the fall because it goes dormant. That too was new to the mind.
As we stood there, the ground was covered in a mulch like substance. This mulch was actually grinded-up corn husks from the fields. In fact, this same composition was used in the area of the cattle. The memory then flashed to mind seeing that a short time before. Yes, the cattle had to have some kind of bedding. And it was cleared out once a year.
Behind the big-tool shed sat a long, white building. Ah, the chicken house. And this just wasn’t any chicken coop, this thing was massive. At least, it seemed that way, especially to someone who was unfamiliar with the whole thing. One thousand or so chickens it was learned. Yeah, they could be heard throughout the farm, but the ears had tuned them out shortly after arriving the day before. They would only get quiet for an hour or two at night, around eight o’clock in the evening. Anyhow, from all these chickens the man and his son gathered the eggs. Daily. Appeared it’d be a large task. After that, they were stored in a room set between 65 and 67 degrees. (How does the mind remember all this?) Double yoked or cracked ones are counted out.
The fate of the chickens. Their futures? Ah, they would be shipped to the live meat markets someday. Sad but true. Sold somewhere up in New York State. It would be there that they would meet their fate. From there they would make it to plates to be eaten. Chicken is truly probably the second favorite meat behind the beasts that were nestled probably a hundred feet to the back at this point. Well, hamburger anyway. Steaks aren’t much cared for.
Back to the eggs. The farmer cracked one open. He showed that the air pocket told the age of the egg. The bigger the air pocket, well, the older the egg. And, they were all covered in this brownish wax. In fact, they technically didn’t need to be refrigerated. The story was then told of a French couple who had visited the man. The woman was outraged that the eggs were refrigerated because in France, and elsewhere in Europe, apparently they are not. It isn’t necessary it was told. It is only needed when the wax is removed, like is done in the United States. To clean the eggs. And, it gives them that bright white look.
At that point, the mouth inquired in regard to government regulations. Were the regulations burdensome as often seems to be the common consensus that they are? Actually, it was explained, no. Not really. The farmer said he really didn’t have to deal with them all that much. Sure, he could only have a certain amount of animals. Perhaps around 1,000 for him it seems. All and all, the regulations weren’t too bad. It was the people who bought his stuff that had to deal them on a grander level, and for that he was grateful.
A two hour tour. The man was meek and mild. And, then, after all that, he inquired about the current occupation. Gathering information. News. Totally different, from his world, and he said he wouldn’t have a clue how the handle any of that.
The Buggy Ride
The following day it had been decided that a buggy ride would be uniform. Many places had been seen along one of the main drags to accomplish this task—maybe five or six it seems. Notwithstanding, one was chosen in the heart of town, nearby all the shops and whatnot. A smiling young lady sold the ticket, and informed when to be back for the ride. It seemed best to fill the waiting time with some perusing the shops and whatnot. And then why not some ice cream? Cookies and cream sold from an Amish girl. Interestingly, the cookies embedded in the ice cream were not the typical Oreo style, but were a softer, chocolate cookie. More like a cake almost. Definitely made for the tasty treat.
Back at the buggies (for there were actually two of them), the horses tarried there waiting to work again. Work it was for them. Four total. Three of them were nice, however, one of them pounced his foot on the ground. Several times actually. This behavior had been noticed in the past from other horses. Seemed as if he was saying to keep a distance—to not come too close. Though, perhaps there is another explanation. It’s interesting to wonder about what actually goes through animals heads sometimes. Hard to say, really.
Some petting of the horses was done. It was known that they liked to be petted on the face, for this had been observed in times past. As this was being done, an older gray-haired fellow gave them some water. Then, a young man approached and stated it was time to board the carriage. As a matter of fact, in following him we made it to the front of the thing, and he motioned with the hand to take a seat on the bench. In the front. Excitement filled the mind. Getting more than was bargained for. The seat was taken and the wait ensued. A group of approximately eight to ten sat in the area behind the front. Moment by moment, the anticipation mounted.
Then, all the sudden, a young blonde-haired girl got in the front and took her seat. On the left side. The opposite of a car. In thinking for a moment, it was realized it was the same girl who had sold the ticket. Mid-twenties it was guessed. Surprised, the mind was. It had figured the old gray-haired fellow who had been preparing the horses beforehand would be the one driving. But this assumption had proven not to be the case. She backed up the buggy full of people, and led the horses on their way. The first thought that came to mind was how loud the clipping and clapping of the horses feet were. Sure, they are loud coming down a roadway, but it’s a whole other experience when one is actually inside the thing.
Intimidation built up in the thoughts. And these thoughts of intimidation, at the same time, confounded the mind. This kind of feeling is not usually present in these types of circumstances. Howbeit, here was a girl who could do something that the intellect had no idea how to do. And not only that, she was doing it well. Had total command of the horses. And she didn’t have to yell at them. A soft spoken tone of voice commanded what they would do. In fact, the voice was so subdued that it was pondered how the horses could even be able to hear what she was saying to them. Sitting next to her, the ears could only scarcely hear her.
The driver explained to us all as we rode our way into the countryside that she was in fact born Amish. Yes, for sure. Her family had left the Amish when she was young, and now she was full-blown English. No head covering. Dressed English. No sign of any Amish-ness in her except maybe for a slight accent with careful listening, and only after knowing the fact. Nevertheless, the mouth followed this up with a question. When did she learn to drive? At about five years old it was stated. The body almost fell off the bench onto the gray pavement. But that was normal, it was assured, for someone with her background to learn so young.
As we drove along the roadway, the mouth asked another question. It was inquired about how close this current buggy ride was in feeling to a one-horse, smaller buggy, as is generally the standard for an Amish carriage. Interestingly enough, she said, it was quite similar. Pretty authentic it was stated. She said that though this particular buggy had a bit higher-quality suspension, that the ride was only marginally smoother. A regular buggy ride would be quite similar. That made the mind to feel better, knowing that the experience being had was pretty similar to what it would be like in a common one.
Of course, a follow up question poised itself as to how fast the buggy could go. Right? Of course. That question had to be asked. Nonchalantly, she replied it could get up to 25 or 30 mph. That really impressed the mind. It had been guessed it would be half that, but actually in thinking about it, that does make sense. A buggy at normal speed, when following behind one on the countryside, seems to be around 10 to 12 mph. So, that added up. This was followed by an explanation regarding the braking mechanism. A small petal on the floor. Had to be used at times so the buggy wouldn’t crash into the back of the horses.
At this point, we got out onto a particularly quiet country roadway. High corn on the right side, and short, stubby alfalfa on the left. A stillness permeated through the air. Things got real quiet indeed. The chaos of all the traffic was gone. The blue skies seemed to get bluer, and the fluffy white clouds seemed to shine forth as the sun struck them. Just the sound of the horses hooves. Then was understood what had been described by several Amish books in that a buggy ride in the countryside is incredibly peaceful, and in fact the best way to ride. Understanding settled in—knowing now how one can take in the sites from this standpoint, and how much better of an experience it was versus a motorized carriage.
The horses became sidetracked for a moment. Something amidst the protruding stalks on the right side. They saw something, it was expressed. Didn’t know what. But, with the reins in hand, the girl kept those horses on a straight path and the serenity seemed as if it would last forever.
- Daniel Litton
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The sound of the bell had been foretold as the cue to expect when it was time for the meal to be served. Next to the cabinets there was a door. That door opened, and the Mennonite woman from the adjoining house then entered into the kitchen. Interestingly enough, it was noticed that her head covering had changed to resemble the Beachy Amish style. Yesterday, when we first had met, the head covering was the flappy veil kind. The appearance quite different versus what had been accustomed to at this point. But today, the covering was more along the lines of the Beachy. That is, the Beachy type are a bit more ‘see-through’ or a lighter mesh, it might be said.
How was the meeting with the youth last night “with your people” was the question. A little bit of a backstory is deserved here. The day before, upon arriving on the farm, the worn attire had been the white dress shirt, black pants, with black shiny shoes that had been adorned at church service that morning. The common Sunday morning Beachy garb. Nonetheless, it had been stated when explaining the attire and why it was being worn that a current exploration was underway. The person who stood before her wasn’t Beachy, it was assured, but was rather just exploring the whole topic altogether. Somehow, that fact seemed to have been dismissed by this point in time.
It would have been nice if the body were still that young—young enough to be able to run around with the Beachy youth. Howbeit, it was about, seemingly so, ten years removed from that, being latter 30s. Though, perhaps, at times, the appearance seemed younger to others. At least, that has been said by a few. Yet, the woman thought the person who stood before her belonged to the group. It seemed pointless to refute the notion yet again, so that comment was just ignored. The time spent at the picnic was nice, it was stated, and good conversation was had.
A plate upon which rested a couple eggs, some bacon bites, hash browns, and a couple pieces of toast was kindly set on the table. It’s not everyday that one is served a breakfast fresh off the farm like this. Eggs walked probably a hundred feet from the source. Quite something when considered. And after she departed, and the breakfast was consumed, it was found to be fairly tasty. Though, no coffee was to be had. The hands were simply just too lazy to prepare it in the old fashioned coffee maker that sat on the counter to the rear. Indeed, k-cup machines had begat a sure laziness.
A short time later the jacket was thrown on the back and steps were made out the screen door in the front of the farmhouse, across the wooden porch, and over to a storage barn. It was at this time that a meeting was to occur with the man who owned the farm—the farmer himself. A tour was to be embarked upon. There the man stood. Probably around six feet tall. Graying hair. Typical farm jacket like you would have seen Superman’s father wear. Blue jeans of course. A sure, steady smile.
The Farm Tour
First the cows. Yes, we walked the short distance over to the cattle barn. (Why isn’t ‘cows’ the plural?) A large herd of them there behind the fence next to the big white structure. Very large animals they were. Their purpose? They were being raised for meat. Forty to fifty of them there must have been. It was explained that the cattle ate a silage. That consisted of grounded of corn stalks with a couple more additional added in (that is, the stalks it seems?). All this made right there on the farm. Interesting. Made sense the cattle would eat the corn. Really the mind had never thought much about what cattle eat. Yet, it’s not like one walks in their local pet store to get the food, and certainly there couldn’t have been enough grass growing to feed them.
Next came the economics of the whole thing. Well, it was learned there are two different ways the big black and white animals are sold. For a fixed price was one way. The price would stay the same throughout the year. Didn’t matter what the market was doing or whatever. But then, yes, then were was the second way. One could sell their cattle at the mercy of the auctions. That could be risky, the mind thought. Don’t know what the market is going to do. Yet, the farmer explained one just has to choose one route and go that way the entire time. As long as one route was chosen and stayed with, there wouldn’t be a problem. Money would be made.
Behind the large white cattle barn were erected four silos. That was the next stop on the tour. Steps were made around to the silos. Tall and towering they drove into the sky. It was explained that three of them were there to store the grinded-up corn for the cattle. The fourth one was sealed. Why this was the case, the mind doesn’t currently recall. But it was noted that some silos can even be used to store water. Definitely an interesting concept, and one that was unknown to the listener. Anyhow, the corn was shot up into the tops of the silos with a vacuum like device. And, of course, the corn had been stored to feed the animals, and not for human consumption.
After standing there observing those massive pillars, we then moved over to the equipment barn. Here, it was informed, the machines were stored which were responsible to pull up the corn stalks and even grind them up. As a matter of fact, the farmer explained that he worked on theses semi-massive pieces of farm equipment. Quite impressive. It seemed that working on a standard tractor would be hard enough, but these machines, no these were in another category all together. Oh, and there was a machine used for planting purposes as well. Wheat can be planted in the fall because it goes dormant. That too was new to the mind.
As we stood there, the ground was covered in a mulch like substance. This mulch was actually grinded-up corn husks from the fields. In fact, this same composition was used in the area of the cattle. The memory then flashed to mind seeing that a short time before. Yes, the cattle had to have some kind of bedding. And it was cleared out once a year.
Behind the big-tool shed sat a long, white building. Ah, the chicken house. And this just wasn’t any chicken coop, this thing was massive. At least, it seemed that way, especially to someone who was unfamiliar with the whole thing. One thousand or so chickens it was learned. Yeah, they could be heard throughout the farm, but the ears had tuned them out shortly after arriving the day before. They would only get quiet for an hour or two at night, around eight o’clock in the evening. Anyhow, from all these chickens the man and his son gathered the eggs. Daily. Appeared it’d be a large task. After that, they were stored in a room set between 65 and 67 degrees. (How does the mind remember all this?) Double yoked or cracked ones are counted out.
The fate of the chickens. Their futures? Ah, they would be shipped to the live meat markets someday. Sad but true. Sold somewhere up in New York State. It would be there that they would meet their fate. From there they would make it to plates to be eaten. Chicken is truly probably the second favorite meat behind the beasts that were nestled probably a hundred feet to the back at this point. Well, hamburger anyway. Steaks aren’t much cared for.
Back to the eggs. The farmer cracked one open. He showed that the air pocket told the age of the egg. The bigger the air pocket, well, the older the egg. And, they were all covered in this brownish wax. In fact, they technically didn’t need to be refrigerated. The story was then told of a French couple who had visited the man. The woman was outraged that the eggs were refrigerated because in France, and elsewhere in Europe, apparently they are not. It isn’t necessary it was told. It is only needed when the wax is removed, like is done in the United States. To clean the eggs. And, it gives them that bright white look.
At that point, the mouth inquired in regard to government regulations. Were the regulations burdensome as often seems to be the common consensus that they are? Actually, it was explained, no. Not really. The farmer said he really didn’t have to deal with them all that much. Sure, he could only have a certain amount of animals. Perhaps around 1,000 for him it seems. All and all, the regulations weren’t too bad. It was the people who bought his stuff that had to deal them on a grander level, and for that he was grateful.
A two hour tour. The man was meek and mild. And, then, after all that, he inquired about the current occupation. Gathering information. News. Totally different, from his world, and he said he wouldn’t have a clue how the handle any of that.
The Buggy Ride
The following day it had been decided that a buggy ride would be uniform. Many places had been seen along one of the main drags to accomplish this task—maybe five or six it seems. Notwithstanding, one was chosen in the heart of town, nearby all the shops and whatnot. A smiling young lady sold the ticket, and informed when to be back for the ride. It seemed best to fill the waiting time with some perusing the shops and whatnot. And then why not some ice cream? Cookies and cream sold from an Amish girl. Interestingly, the cookies embedded in the ice cream were not the typical Oreo style, but were a softer, chocolate cookie. More like a cake almost. Definitely made for the tasty treat.
Back at the buggies (for there were actually two of them), the horses tarried there waiting to work again. Work it was for them. Four total. Three of them were nice, however, one of them pounced his foot on the ground. Several times actually. This behavior had been noticed in the past from other horses. Seemed as if he was saying to keep a distance—to not come too close. Though, perhaps there is another explanation. It’s interesting to wonder about what actually goes through animals heads sometimes. Hard to say, really.
Some petting of the horses was done. It was known that they liked to be petted on the face, for this had been observed in times past. As this was being done, an older gray-haired fellow gave them some water. Then, a young man approached and stated it was time to board the carriage. As a matter of fact, in following him we made it to the front of the thing, and he motioned with the hand to take a seat on the bench. In the front. Excitement filled the mind. Getting more than was bargained for. The seat was taken and the wait ensued. A group of approximately eight to ten sat in the area behind the front. Moment by moment, the anticipation mounted.
Then, all the sudden, a young blonde-haired girl got in the front and took her seat. On the left side. The opposite of a car. In thinking for a moment, it was realized it was the same girl who had sold the ticket. Mid-twenties it was guessed. Surprised, the mind was. It had figured the old gray-haired fellow who had been preparing the horses beforehand would be the one driving. But this assumption had proven not to be the case. She backed up the buggy full of people, and led the horses on their way. The first thought that came to mind was how loud the clipping and clapping of the horses feet were. Sure, they are loud coming down a roadway, but it’s a whole other experience when one is actually inside the thing.
Intimidation built up in the thoughts. And these thoughts of intimidation, at the same time, confounded the mind. This kind of feeling is not usually present in these types of circumstances. Howbeit, here was a girl who could do something that the intellect had no idea how to do. And not only that, she was doing it well. Had total command of the horses. And she didn’t have to yell at them. A soft spoken tone of voice commanded what they would do. In fact, the voice was so subdued that it was pondered how the horses could even be able to hear what she was saying to them. Sitting next to her, the ears could only scarcely hear her.
The driver explained to us all as we rode our way into the countryside that she was in fact born Amish. Yes, for sure. Her family had left the Amish when she was young, and now she was full-blown English. No head covering. Dressed English. No sign of any Amish-ness in her except maybe for a slight accent with careful listening, and only after knowing the fact. Nevertheless, the mouth followed this up with a question. When did she learn to drive? At about five years old it was stated. The body almost fell off the bench onto the gray pavement. But that was normal, it was assured, for someone with her background to learn so young.
As we drove along the roadway, the mouth asked another question. It was inquired about how close this current buggy ride was in feeling to a one-horse, smaller buggy, as is generally the standard for an Amish carriage. Interestingly enough, she said, it was quite similar. Pretty authentic it was stated. She said that though this particular buggy had a bit higher-quality suspension, that the ride was only marginally smoother. A regular buggy ride would be quite similar. That made the mind to feel better, knowing that the experience being had was pretty similar to what it would be like in a common one.
Of course, a follow up question poised itself as to how fast the buggy could go. Right? Of course. That question had to be asked. Nonchalantly, she replied it could get up to 25 or 30 mph. That really impressed the mind. It had been guessed it would be half that, but actually in thinking about it, that does make sense. A buggy at normal speed, when following behind one on the countryside, seems to be around 10 to 12 mph. So, that added up. This was followed by an explanation regarding the braking mechanism. A small petal on the floor. Had to be used at times so the buggy wouldn’t crash into the back of the horses.
At this point, we got out onto a particularly quiet country roadway. High corn on the right side, and short, stubby alfalfa on the left. A stillness permeated through the air. Things got real quiet indeed. The chaos of all the traffic was gone. The blue skies seemed to get bluer, and the fluffy white clouds seemed to shine forth as the sun struck them. Just the sound of the horses hooves. Then was understood what had been described by several Amish books in that a buggy ride in the countryside is incredibly peaceful, and in fact the best way to ride. Understanding settled in—knowing now how one can take in the sites from this standpoint, and how much better of an experience it was versus a motorized carriage.
The horses became sidetracked for a moment. Something amidst the protruding stalks on the right side. They saw something, it was expressed. Didn’t know what. But, with the reins in hand, the girl kept those horses on a straight path and the serenity seemed as if it would last forever.
- Daniel Litton
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