New York City. He had tried to get his sister and brother-in-law to see the light and allow him to assist them financially to get Kari into one of the posh private schools, but to no avail. They had joined a rather evangelical church and gotten religion, or the equivalent thereof, thus their desire to protect and groom Kari in the ways of God. Which wasn’t so bad, he’d decided at the outset. After all, it hadn’t been very long ago that he himself had knelt at the altar of repentance and given his boyish heart to the Lord, though too many dismal miles and even more skirmishes with life had since altered his spiritual course.
Before hanging up the phone, he’d promised his niece another trip instead. “Some other time, maybe when I go to London, I’ll take you and your mother with me . . . when I’m not so tired.”
“Tired of living and scared of dying?” She was a spunky one. “Okay, Uncle Phil, I’ll take whatever I can get . . . if that’s a promise. About London, I mean.”
In no way did he wish to think ahead to the overseas assignments. Not then and not now.
He knew if he gave in to the abrasive feeling behind his eyes and the overall lassitude of the moment, he might not awaken in time to conduct any research or write a single sentence. Which now, as he considered the idea, seemed an exceptionally grand way to dispose of three days.
It was the notion, however, that he might miss out on the candlelight supper included in the night’s lodging that caused him to rouse himself and forego the possibility of a snooze. Mrs. Zook, the hospitable owner’s wife, had promised pork chops fried in real butter. Bad for the arteries but tasty on the tongue. The woman, who’d insisted that he call her Susanna, had welcomed him with such enthusiasm that he wondered at first if he were the only guest staying the night.
He discovered, soon enough, that the historic dwelling was solidly booked through October. “Most of the smaller rooms, that is,” Susanna Zook had told him. Such was the Zooks’ Orchard Guest House. A popular B&B indeed.
In dire need of a shower, he pushed himself off the comfortable bed, noting the handmade Amish quilt. He carried his laptop across the room to the handsome desk. The rolltop portion had already been pulled back, as though a welcome sign were attached. He was glad for the desk’s spacious accommodations and would use every inch of space it could afford.
After setting up the computer, he turned his attention to unpacking. He would stay three days, depending on how solid his research connections were, though he’d called ahead to the Lancaster Mennonite Historical Society, setting up a specific appointment with Stephen Flory, a research aid, who, in turn, had promised a private interview with a “talkative Amish farmer.” In addition to that, the owners of the B&B certainly seemed like a good possibility. They appeared to be retired farmers, though he couldn’t be positive. There was something intriguing about their gracious manner, their kindly servant mentality. Only hardworking farmers displayed such character traits, or so his grandpap had told him years before. Grandfather Bradley had informed him about farm folk back when Philip was a boy, visiting his daddy’s parents in southern Vermont. What a spread they had just outside Arlington, not far from Norman Rockwell’s former home.
On first sight of Grandpap’s place, his seven-year-old heart had actually skipped a beat or two. He immediately envied anyone who lived under a sky that blue and wide. And what enormous trees! Not a single towering building to block the sunlight, no blustery canyons created by skyscrapers that swayed in the wind. His heart felt free on Grandpap Bradley’s land.
Philip’s grandfather had built the hideaway in New England as a summer cottage, on the steep bluffs overlooking the Battenkill River. The five-room house possessed all the knotty-pine appeal a city boy might imagine, though
Before hanging up the phone, he’d promised his niece another trip instead. “Some other time, maybe when I go to London, I’ll take you and your mother with me . . . when I’m not so tired.”
“Tired of living and scared of dying?” She was a spunky one. “Okay, Uncle Phil, I’ll take whatever I can get . . . if that’s a promise. About London, I mean.”
In no way did he wish to think ahead to the overseas assignments. Not then and not now.
He knew if he gave in to the abrasive feeling behind his eyes and the overall lassitude of the moment, he might not awaken in time to conduct any research or write a single sentence. Which now, as he considered the idea, seemed an exceptionally grand way to dispose of three days.
It was the notion, however, that he might miss out on the candlelight supper included in the night’s lodging that caused him to rouse himself and forego the possibility of a snooze. Mrs. Zook, the hospitable owner’s wife, had promised pork chops fried in real butter. Bad for the arteries but tasty on the tongue. The woman, who’d insisted that he call her Susanna, had welcomed him with such enthusiasm that he wondered at first if he were the only guest staying the night.
He discovered, soon enough, that the historic dwelling was solidly booked through October. “Most of the smaller rooms, that is,” Susanna Zook had told him. Such was the Zooks’ Orchard Guest House. A popular B&B indeed.
In dire need of a shower, he pushed himself off the comfortable bed, noting the handmade Amish quilt. He carried his laptop across the room to the handsome desk. The rolltop portion had already been pulled back, as though a welcome sign were attached. He was glad for the desk’s spacious accommodations and would use every inch of space it could afford.
After setting up the computer, he turned his attention to unpacking. He would stay three days, depending on how solid his research connections were, though he’d called ahead to the Lancaster Mennonite Historical Society, setting up a specific appointment with Stephen Flory, a research aid, who, in turn, had promised a private interview with a “talkative Amish farmer.” In addition to that, the owners of the B&B certainly seemed like a good possibility. They appeared to be retired farmers, though he couldn’t be positive. There was something intriguing about their gracious manner, their kindly servant mentality. Only hardworking farmers displayed such character traits, or so his grandpap had told him years before. Grandfather Bradley had informed him about farm folk back when Philip was a boy, visiting his daddy’s parents in southern Vermont. What a spread they had just outside Arlington, not far from Norman Rockwell’s former home.
On first sight of Grandpap’s place, his seven-year-old heart had actually skipped a beat or two. He immediately envied anyone who lived under a sky that blue and wide. And what enormous trees! Not a single towering building to block the sunlight, no blustery canyons created by skyscrapers that swayed in the wind. His heart felt free on Grandpap Bradley’s land.
Philip’s grandfather had built the hideaway in New England as a summer cottage, on the steep bluffs overlooking the Battenkill River. The five-room house possessed all the knotty-pine appeal a city boy might imagine, though
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