My Scandalous Mennonite Diary #2

Humid air wafts through the open window in the kitchen.

Through the dusty glass, I can see a sky of angry blue.

Zingshtun, or singing hour in English, is tonight. I hope that I won’t have to drive through a storm. I hate driving in the rain.

“I see that the dishes are clean.” The voice of my Mother smashes into my thoughts. “What about the chores?”

“I did them. I even cleaned out the chicken pen.”

“Good. But where is supper?” Mother looks over the empty stove as her face grows stern. “Why is nothing being done about that?”

“I thought you were going to cook…”

“Me? When would I have time to cook today? I left a note that you were supposed to start the potatoes at four o’clock!”

“Where? I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t read the note? It’s right here.” Mother brushes the newspaper on the kitchen table aside. “Do you see it now?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The slip of paper is obvious now that the newspaper covering it has been removed.

“Go down to the pantry and get some potatoes, please.”

A flash of light explodes throughout the room followed by a boom of thunder.

“Can I use the truck to go to Zingshtun?” I ask, afraid of what the response will be.

“It doesn’t look promising so far. But, we’ll see how fast you get those potatoes up here, won’t we?”

“I’ll get them right away.”

“Honestly, I don’t know if you should be going to Zingshtun anyway. I’ve seen the way that Alvin dresses. If you ask me, a man who wears a bow tie isn’t fit to lead a young people’s group.”

“Yes, Mother,” I say, hurrying toward the basement before my mother decides to expound further on the worldliness of Alvin.

Alvin is a bit strange but he tries his best.

In my hurry to escape, I brush past my Father who has just stumbled inside. I hang back a little, hoping for a playful remark, a teasing joke, anything to prove that his ordination today had changed him for the better.

“When is supper?” That is all he has to say to me.

My Father’s face is lined with barely restrained tension. I can smell that his clothes have been saturated with the bitter scent of cigarette smoke. He must have been puffing all the way home from church.

“I don’t know. As soon as Mary brings me some potatoes, I’ll start cooking them.”

“I thought she would have supper ready right after the service.”

“It’s that Alvin Bueckert, he’s been a bad influence.”

“You may be right. I’ve been told that last week, he allowed a song to be sung that wasn’t in the hymnbook.”

“My goodness, what is happening to our young people?”

The conversation between my mother and father follows me down the stairs.

A dank, earthy, smell greets me as I enter the pantry.

Wooden shelves filled with colorful jars line the walls. The potatoes lie in the plain brown sacks beneath the shelves.

A plain white ice cream pail waits beside the sacks.

My thoughts swirl as I pluck potatoes from the bags and place them into an empty pail.

Zingshtun consisted of a group of young people singing for an hour, followed by a short talk in low German by our leader. It wasn’t very interesting but it was an opportunity to get out and socialize a bit. Was I to be deprived of something I looked forward to all week?

Like the unfeeling dirt that fell to the floor as I brushed the golden potatoes clean, so was our faith. Our tradition, our ways, and every rule was like a pair of hands casually brushing us to the floor. Manipulating us to do things that we didn’t understand.

God our preachers called it, God my father would call it.

If there is a God who created the entire universe, why would He be threatened by a young man who decided to wear a bowtie?

I dare not ask these sorts of questions out loud.

I work quickly, afraid of what my mother will say if I take too long.

Soon the plastic ice cream pail is overfilled with golden lumps stained with dirt. It is time to get them on the stove.

I tramp upstairs and into a kitchen that is beginning to smell like fried farmer sausage.

“It’s about time. Your Father and I have been discussing Zingshtun.”

“Can I use the truck?”

“No.” My mother stirs a fork through the pan full of sizzling sausages. “We feel that it’d be better if you didn’t go tonight.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve heard that Alvin has some unusual ideas. So, the ministers would like to have a visit with him. Until they do, your Father feels that it would be better if you stayed at home.”

“Where is Father? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Your Father is studying for next Sunday’s sermon, I don’t think he would appreciate being interrupted. ”

“But I always used to talk to Father…”

“Right now you have a whole pail of potatoes to peel. Why don’t you do that instead?”

I obeyed. What choice did I have? The command was clear.

“Don’t look so glum. This is for your own good. Who knows what a man like Alvin is up to? One day he decides to leave the hymnbook behind, and the next day he might start teaching that you can know salvation.”

“He hasn’t said that,” I protest.

“That’s a small mercy, but until the Ministers can visit him, I’d rather you stayed away from that man.”

“I’d still like to talk to father about it.”

“Well, he’ll be here soon. You can talk to him then.”

My thoughts turn to the little white pill bottle in the bathroom. There could be an end to emptiness, couldn’t there? An end to searching for meaning, for love, for peace, or whatever we were placed in this world for.

A blast of thunder shakes the room.

Pain slices through me.

I curse to myself.

A sin. I have sinned and God will be angry. That’s what I hear every Sunday in church. Not only have I sinned, I have sliced my finger on the peeler.

“Mary, what have you done?”

Blood. A stream of blood erupts from my finger.

“Don’t just stand there girl! Go and get a band-aid!”

I run to the bathroom, pull a band-aid out of a box beside the sink, and then apply it. It isn’t long before I am ready to return to work, so I do.

“It’s bandaged? Good. Tell you what. We’ve been talking about Alvin for too long. Why don’t we think of happier things?”

“Like what?”

“It’s your friend Susan’s big night tonight, isn’t it?”

I look up from my work, narrowly avoiding another cut to my finger. Mother is staring at me as a knowing smile graces her fully-formed lips.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely, she told you that she is going for supper this evening with Gerald.”

Susan hadn’t told me. Why not? She used to tell me everything. I carry on with my back-and-forth hand movements. The last potato needs to be peeled. Supper is late.

“Everyone expects that they will start courting tonight.”

I say nothing. What can I say? My best friend is moving on with her life while I am stuck here at home. Peeling potatoes.

Mother stares at me for a long moment then turns back to mixing a small pan of cream gravy.

“Mary, what is it with you? Please don’t say it’s nothing, I can see trouble on your face. Did you and Susan have a disagreement?” Mother opens the door of the fridge.

“It’s nothing.” I wash off the peeled potatoes and then plop them one at a time into a boiling pot of water resting on the stove.

Mother, finding the jar of cream, closes the fridge door.

“If it’s about that letter of yours, don’t worry about it. Gerald needed to hear what you had to say. I’m sure Susan understands that. Don’t worry about Alvin either. What you should worry about is moving on with your life.”

Mother’s black dress rustles as she pours the cream into a pan on the stove.

Thankfully my Father exits the lair of his study so I don’t need to reply.

“Is supper ready yet?”

“It’ll be ready shortly.” My mother assures him.

“Good. I’ll be outside. Call me when you are ready.” With that, the exit door slams behind him.

I can smell tobacco smoke in the air.

There is another drum roll of thunder.

Mother lifts the jug of cream and pours another good dose of it into a small pan on the stove.

“What do you think Mary, are you ready to get baptized and join the Church?”

“I don’t know, I have a lot of questions. I need to talk to Father.”

“Don’t wait too long. Before you know it your friend Susan will be married with a family and where will you be?”

Mist-like rain began to fall ever more steadily from the menacing blue.

I sigh.

The storm is almost ready to begin.

It is five-thirty.