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Authors: Beverly Lewis
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prior to that first summer, Philip had had no knowledge of vacation spots of this sort. Especially summer places where lofty trees swept the expanse of sky instead of finger-thin structures— ninety or more stories high—and vegetable gardens were planted firmly in rich mahogany soil instead of imported box gardens on top of drafty penthouse roofs.
And there were llamas. Grandpa had a penchant for the long-necked, hairy creatures, and though they were gentle enough, Philip never quite got over the feeling, even as a teenager, that he ought to give the animals a wide berth. He’d read that llamas sometimes spit if they were aggravated or apprehensive. Young Philip could hardly begin to imagine the slime of a llama’s spittle on his face. Such an experience, he’d decided early on, was to be avoided at all costs.
The oversized cottage was a replica of surrounding farmhouses, though less opulent and more quaint, in keeping with the unpretentious charm of the red Chiselville Bridge, the covered bridge not more than a mile away. Philip particularly enjoyed the miles of hiking trails and wilderness crosscountry skiing near his grandparents’ home. In summer, he pretended to be an explorer in those woods; in winter, just the opposite—he launched search-and-rescue missions for imaginary folk.
His grandmother’s African violets were always on hand to cozy up the southern exposure of the large breakfast nook. From everything he’d read about Amish houses, his grandmother’s kitchen set back in the hills of Vermont might have easily rivaled any Old Order kitchen, complete with buck stove and long wooden table and benches. He was yet to find out, of course, because the modern and convenient room where Susanna Zook prepared supper was, no doubt, a far cry from the turn-of-the-century-style kitchens he hoped to discover.
After he showered and dressed, he wandered downstairs for afternoon tea. Passing the parlor area, he caught sight of a young woman dressed in a long gray dress and black apron, dreary as any mourning clothes he’d ever seen. Yet it was the color and appearance of her hair that caught his attention— subtle flaxen strands mingled with light brown tones, parted down the middle and pulled back in a low bun, partially hidden by a white see-through head covering. She sat motionless, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. He thought at first that she might be asleep but saw that her head was erect, eyes open.
A small girl, wearing a long dress of pale green, her honey brown hair wrapped in braids around her head, came running past him and into the room. She was as cute as she was petite, and he was compelled to stand still just to see what she would do next.
Sweetly, the young woman turned and reached up to touch the child’s pixielike face. “Ach, Annie, it’s you.”
“Jah, it’s me, Mamma. Do you want somethin’ to drink?”
“A glass of water will do,” the woman answered, her hand still resting on the child’s cheek. “Thank you, little one.”
The encounter was like none Philip had ever seen. Yes, he’d felt the hand of his own mother on his brow, but to stand back and observe such a tender gesture from afar was pure poetry.
Moments of compassion were worth watching—savoring, too—even if one felt entirely removed from those involved. He had experienced a similar emotion the first time he’d seen a boy and girl holding hands as they ran down the steps of the Eighty-sixth Street subway station, laughing as they tried to squeeze through the turnstiles together. Moments like that, he’d decided, were priceless in the overall scheme of things.
Even if it were only his innate journalistic curiosity, he found himself drawn to the scene, especially to the woman, though her child intrigued him as well. Not one to gawk, however, he turned and made his way to the common area, featuring a bonnet-top highboy with slipper feet, as well as two sofas and several wingback chairs. A primitive butter
And there were llamas. Grandpa had a penchant for the long-necked, hairy creatures, and though they were gentle enough, Philip never quite got over the feeling, even as a teenager, that he ought to give the animals a wide berth. He’d read that llamas sometimes spit if they were aggravated or apprehensive. Young Philip could hardly begin to imagine the slime of a llama’s spittle on his face. Such an experience, he’d decided early on, was to be avoided at all costs.
The oversized cottage was a replica of surrounding farmhouses, though less opulent and more quaint, in keeping with the unpretentious charm of the red Chiselville Bridge, the covered bridge not more than a mile away. Philip particularly enjoyed the miles of hiking trails and wilderness crosscountry skiing near his grandparents’ home. In summer, he pretended to be an explorer in those woods; in winter, just the opposite—he launched search-and-rescue missions for imaginary folk.
His grandmother’s African violets were always on hand to cozy up the southern exposure of the large breakfast nook. From everything he’d read about Amish houses, his grandmother’s kitchen set back in the hills of Vermont might have easily rivaled any Old Order kitchen, complete with buck stove and long wooden table and benches. He was yet to find out, of course, because the modern and convenient room where Susanna Zook prepared supper was, no doubt, a far cry from the turn-of-the-century-style kitchens he hoped to discover.
After he showered and dressed, he wandered downstairs for afternoon tea. Passing the parlor area, he caught sight of a young woman dressed in a long gray dress and black apron, dreary as any mourning clothes he’d ever seen. Yet it was the color and appearance of her hair that caught his attention— subtle flaxen strands mingled with light brown tones, parted down the middle and pulled back in a low bun, partially hidden by a white see-through head covering. She sat motionless, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. He thought at first that she might be asleep but saw that her head was erect, eyes open.
A small girl, wearing a long dress of pale green, her honey brown hair wrapped in braids around her head, came running past him and into the room. She was as cute as she was petite, and he was compelled to stand still just to see what she would do next.
Sweetly, the young woman turned and reached up to touch the child’s pixielike face. “Ach, Annie, it’s you.”
“Jah, it’s me, Mamma. Do you want somethin’ to drink?”
“A glass of water will do,” the woman answered, her hand still resting on the child’s cheek. “Thank you, little one.”
The encounter was like none Philip had ever seen. Yes, he’d felt the hand of his own mother on his brow, but to stand back and observe such a tender gesture from afar was pure poetry.
Moments of compassion were worth watching—savoring, too—even if one felt entirely removed from those involved. He had experienced a similar emotion the first time he’d seen a boy and girl holding hands as they ran down the steps of the Eighty-sixth Street subway station, laughing as they tried to squeeze through the turnstiles together. Moments like that, he’d decided, were priceless in the overall scheme of things.
Even if it were only his innate journalistic curiosity, he found himself drawn to the scene, especially to the woman, though her child intrigued him as well. Not one to gawk, however, he turned and made his way to the common area, featuring a bonnet-top highboy with slipper feet, as well as two sofas and several wingback chairs. A primitive butter
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