“Frost came again on Thursday morning, dusting each blade of grass with glitter. The day before, there was the annual scramble to bring in the tender things that could be gathered and stored. The cellar of the farmhouse is home to two bins of eggplant now. The cooler is full of apples. In the field, the zinnias have wilted, the tomato vines have withered, but the last of the raspberries are on the canes, still red-ripe and fresh.
The Amishmen from Heuvelton – Samuel, Moses, Dennis and Emmanuel – came to visit again this week. They are looking for land, because their young couples are having difficulty founding homesteads within buggy range of the community. This is their third visit with us and each time they come it is a surprise, as though they have been dropped onto our driveway from a time travel device.
This time their vessel took the form of a small taxi driven by a Pakistani-American from Keeseville. “He’s Muslim! He’s been in this country thirty years!” Samuel said. I wish I could have heard the questions and answers that passed between them on that ride.
At dinner, our lively conversation turns toward family, farming and draft horses. These men are always incredibly cheerful and jokey, despite enduring what must be a difficult and stressful journey. The table rings with belly laughs and guffaws. The Amish may be known for their baked goods and cheese, but really ought to be famous for their collective sense of humor, which is dry as toast.
They spent the night in my writing cabin, and the next morning…” Continue reading this Essex Farm Note.
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