Rebekah
Dry cornstalks against dark blue clouds of late October made a somber setting. The only sound was the crisp rasp
when a dry blast of cold air rustled the leaves. Birds had already headed south. Frost stilled the crickets
and locusts.
She was a tall, thin girl and looked even taller standing on the hilltop, wind snapping the strings of her bonnet,
stinging her cheeks. A couple tresses of breeze-freed hair, yellow like fresh-shucked corn, peeked out and touched
her shoulders. She wasn't worried; she never got colds anyway.
As the wind played mischievously she leaned forward holding her dress against her thighs. It had been a good year,
she thought, gazing across rows on rows of full ears. Today should have been the start of harvest. Early
morning rain put a stop to that. Now another storm was brewing. What would be done? She
wondered, wrinkling her brow. Obstacles seemed insurmountable as they had in the spring, as they had last year.
God would provide, she assured herself. I'm never alone.
Dropping her worries like so many bean pods from an apron, she felt the landscape taking a different hue. Yes.
This is the richest time of year. She glanced at the weathered barn, at the corncrib soon to be filled with
summer's bounty. Nearby she could see the roof of the farmhouse, smell the smoke issuing in a thin column from the
stone chimney. Hickory. From the big tree in the pasture. She'd looked on startled when
lightning brought its high branches crashing against the chicken coop, recalled the Saturday her cousins came to cut it
up with two-man saws. She'd helped with the splitting. That day their labor made them hot. Now it
warmed the house. Knowing this warmth made the chill around her pleasurable. She almost wished she could
spend the rest of the afternoon here, listening to the corn leaves rustle,watching the dark kaleidoscope of clouds swirl
across the skies. What more could anyone ask for?
"What was it?" she wispered. "What brought me?" Veiled sunlight penetrated a cloud rift, pointing a golden
line across her unharvested field to the muddy dirt road. Then her heart remembered. She'd been inside at
the sewing table and thought she'd heard something. Clearly no one was coming. Her blue eyes fixed sadly on
the distant browne ribbon clinging to the hill. It looked so deserted she wondered whether anyone would ever
travel this way.
The thought made the wind colder through her thin, dark blue sweater. She turned and walked slowly to the house
with its peeling paint and sun-bleached wood. What's to be done? God will provide. He always has.
With that she quickened her pace. Sewing waited inside, and she wanted to finish before supper. Then she'd
do the milking and get ready for bed. |
Tales From Amish Country Volume 1
by Jeffrey Fox
36 pages, paperback
Jeffrey Fox is an award-winning poet from the foothills of Appalachian Ohio. He studied English literature and
graduated from Bowling Green State University (BA, 1973) and the Ohio State University (MA, 1974; PhD, 1980). He
taught composition and technical writing for a time at the Ohio State University. Currently, Jeffrey works as a
budget analyst for the United States Air Force. After a long hiatus, he resumed writing poetry in May 1997.
Several of Jeffrey's poems have been published, and his essays and articles regularly appear in bluegrass music
periodicals. He recently co-authored a book on mountain music, Bluegrass Adventures.
He's currently working on another mountain music book and a pair of novels about life in Amish country. Jeffrey
and his wife, Betty, live in Centerville, Ohio, where they are active in advocacy for children and adults with
developmental disabilities. They have two children, Lisa and Matthew. |
