Douglas was a simple man (an understatement of monumental proportions) with a grand plan to simply live "simply." He had a lovely wife, Susan, and a daughter, Rachel, as well as a beagle named Molly and a cat called Crackers. His three grown sons lived nearby all raising families of their own. Douglas knew that there had to be a better, more uncomplicated way to live and made numerous attempts to find just the right path, many of which seemed like a good idea in the beginning but quickly became more complicated than the busy lifestyle he was trying to escape. Ultimately the day came that the lives of "the Amish farm family" came across his radar and from that time on Douglas could no longer let the thought of that idyllic existence go. He found a small farm to rent, took a leave from his nine-to-five job, packed his family into their BMW and off they went. (The sound of Susan’s kicking and screaming could be heard for miles.)
Soon after arriving at the farmstead, it became obvious that the bucolic farm life was going to be a bit more bucolic than he previously thought. Douglas immediately had to put his engineering background to work endeavoring to harness a team of draft horses to his Beemer without scratching the car’s expensive finish. Inside the house, he had Susan and Rachel quickly hanging the boxes of extra heavy, window-darkening curtains before the nearest neighbors (2 miles to the north) could peek in the windows. All the while the family dog ran laps on a self-propelled doggy treadmill collecting enough electrical current to run Douglas’ short-wave radio.
Susan cooked and baked on the wood-burning stove; did the wash with water heated on the stove and carried to large steel tubs, then hanged the laundry on outdoor lines to dry. She kept house, planted a garden and tended the recently adopted chickens and cows. Douglas sat on the porch and enjoyed the simple Amish life.
Susan did dishes after cooking three farm-style meals a day, swept the entire house with a small straw broom and washed more clothes. Douglas sat under a tree and enjoyed the Amish life.
Susan cursed the day Douglas was born……..and Douglas enjoyed the Amish life style.
Soon Sunday came and Douglas and family searched for the nearest Amish church service. They arrived at the farm of their nearest neighbor just as the bishop was hitching his buggy to a large oak tree. The honking of Douglas’ car horn as he pulled into the yard startled the bishop's horses. It seems that his large black buggy had driven a bit slower than Douglas liked, making the driver of the horse-drawn BMW a little testy. The issue was quickly diffused as their host called the gathering worshipers into his home. Douglas led his wife and daughter onto the porch but was told that the women would need to be seated without him as women worshipped together at the back of the room. This brought a broad smile to his face. Finally he was in the company of men who understood!
Following the morning’s very long service, Douglas headed for the barn where dinner was to be served – first to the men (and again that stupid smile). It was at that time that the church elders along with the still perturbed bishop came along side him and asked to speak with him. The "community" had some uncertainties about some of the things they had heard about their new "English" neighbors. This is when the idylic, bucolic, blissfully simple Amish lifestyle began to unravel for Douglas. It seemed that these plain folk didn’t agree with his need for window coverings. He tried to explain about modesty but they explained their beliefs about worldly goods. They mentioned their disagreement with the large trucks delivering electric cables and poles. Douglas explained the need for electricity to run the NuWave and his tablesaw. They argued that their ways had been everyone’s ways for many years; Douglas countered that they were just wrong.
It was at this point that it became obvious that these Amish folk might not be as unassuming as Douglas had thought. These seemingly quiet men, professing to be non-violent, were very convincing. They said a blessing over him and asked him to be on his way.
So, Douglas, Susan and Rachel gathered Molly and Crackers into the Beemer and headed back to the restless lifestyle they had left behind. But poor Douglas would always question what "Nehmen Sie wissen, dass es alle Möglichkeiten, Englisch und weggehen, NOW!"* meant. He wasn’t sure that it was really an Amish blessing, seeing as how he didn’t think it was normal for Amish men to yell a blessing while waving their fists and stomping their hats into the dirt.
*("Take your know-it-all English ways and go away, NOW!")
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Lifestyles of the Poor and Tasteless
In "the good old days" summer vacation began at the Memorial Day holiday and ran until the day after Labor Day. It was a glorious time of playing outdoors, swimming at the local pool, and sleepovers with friends. However, I didn’t have to look at the calendar to know when the summer was ready to come to an end. It all came to a crashing halt on that fateful day when Mom announced it was time for her annual ritual of "torture and agony". No, she didn’t beat me, lock me in a closet or stick bamboo under my fingernails. (Those would have actually been less painful.) No, the suffering that was to take place would be quite public and completely legal. Much to my dismay, it was time to shop for school clothes!
This was a time in the distant past when girls wore only dresses to school. No jeans and a cute tee shirt for us. No, we had to dress like "young ladies." Young ladies who would spend recess with our ruffled panties showing because we were playing kickball in a dress. Young ladies who had frostbite all winter from walking to school in the bitter cold with our bare legs exposed. The only thing that made this "dresses only" policy worse was that my mother’s fashion taste tended towards Peter-Pan collars, white anklets and saddle shoes while my personality was more predisposed toward sequins, silk and stiletto heels. OK, I was just in elementary school, but I had great taste.
And so each August, after a terrific summer, Mom would spoil the mood by dragging me uptown to Sears and Roebuck. Again, this was the "distant" past—the early 60’s where there were no malls, no "Gap", no "Macys" or for that matter, not even a Wal-Mart! For those of us on an average budget it was just Sears, JC Penney or Woolworth. Each year the ritual began in the exact same way. We would enter the store, walk to the appropriate department and she would march directly to the first rack she came to. She then would pick up a dress; any dress, and say, "Isn’t this one nice?" I would instinctively look at her like she was holding a bag of poisonous snakes, sigh, roll my eyes and march off to another rack, often without even looking at what she was offering. Hour after hour, rack after rack, we would look at dresses and disagree on their worthiness. Why it took so long I don’t know because they all looked just alike. They were blue or red, plaid or solid, cotton or corduroy. Period. Not one lick of imagination here. There wasn’t one bugle bead, no lace, and not even a touch of fur. Just schoolgirl, "little missy" patterns. My mom, being Mom, never once took my individuality into consideration as we trekked through the Young Miss department. No, she just continued to be irrational and left me feeling like the poster child for the Wardrobe Challenged pre-teen.
This would go on until she was ready to send me to an orphanage and I was more than ready to go. I would have rather been sent to Girls School than go through this year after year. Our tastes were never going to converge so why go through this excruciating process? Why not just order my clothes from a local convent and leave me out of the whole thing? (I always wondered just who elected her the Chief of the Fashion Police anyway?)
I know I wasn’t alone in my predicament because every other girl in school was dressed just like me. There was no chance anyone would be able to make a fashion statement with these duds. We could have exchanged our clothing and sent them home to be washed and not one mom would have known the difference. Little Suzie’s wardrobe looked exactly like Little Mary’s, and Little Mary’s looked like mine, and so on. It was depressing.
To this day I remain convinced that Mother Sears and Mother Roebuck stocked those stores in order to inflict the same torture on their female offspring. And I’m convinced that those poor girls had to bear the same anguish as the rest of us. I mean, if just one of their mothers had cared, I know that there would have been at least one dress with a feather boa flowing from beneath the sequined collar of that plain little blue plaid dress!
This was a time in the distant past when girls wore only dresses to school. No jeans and a cute tee shirt for us. No, we had to dress like "young ladies." Young ladies who would spend recess with our ruffled panties showing because we were playing kickball in a dress. Young ladies who had frostbite all winter from walking to school in the bitter cold with our bare legs exposed. The only thing that made this "dresses only" policy worse was that my mother’s fashion taste tended towards Peter-Pan collars, white anklets and saddle shoes while my personality was more predisposed toward sequins, silk and stiletto heels. OK, I was just in elementary school, but I had great taste.
And so each August, after a terrific summer, Mom would spoil the mood by dragging me uptown to Sears and Roebuck. Again, this was the "distant" past—the early 60’s where there were no malls, no "Gap", no "Macys" or for that matter, not even a Wal-Mart! For those of us on an average budget it was just Sears, JC Penney or Woolworth. Each year the ritual began in the exact same way. We would enter the store, walk to the appropriate department and she would march directly to the first rack she came to. She then would pick up a dress; any dress, and say, "Isn’t this one nice?" I would instinctively look at her like she was holding a bag of poisonous snakes, sigh, roll my eyes and march off to another rack, often without even looking at what she was offering. Hour after hour, rack after rack, we would look at dresses and disagree on their worthiness. Why it took so long I don’t know because they all looked just alike. They were blue or red, plaid or solid, cotton or corduroy. Period. Not one lick of imagination here. There wasn’t one bugle bead, no lace, and not even a touch of fur. Just schoolgirl, "little missy" patterns. My mom, being Mom, never once took my individuality into consideration as we trekked through the Young Miss department. No, she just continued to be irrational and left me feeling like the poster child for the Wardrobe Challenged pre-teen.
This would go on until she was ready to send me to an orphanage and I was more than ready to go. I would have rather been sent to Girls School than go through this year after year. Our tastes were never going to converge so why go through this excruciating process? Why not just order my clothes from a local convent and leave me out of the whole thing? (I always wondered just who elected her the Chief of the Fashion Police anyway?)
I know I wasn’t alone in my predicament because every other girl in school was dressed just like me. There was no chance anyone would be able to make a fashion statement with these duds. We could have exchanged our clothing and sent them home to be washed and not one mom would have known the difference. Little Suzie’s wardrobe looked exactly like Little Mary’s, and Little Mary’s looked like mine, and so on. It was depressing.
To this day I remain convinced that Mother Sears and Mother Roebuck stocked those stores in order to inflict the same torture on their female offspring. And I’m convinced that those poor girls had to bear the same anguish as the rest of us. I mean, if just one of their mothers had cared, I know that there would have been at least one dress with a feather boa flowing from beneath the sequined collar of that plain little blue plaid dress!
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