This weekend we visited an Old Order Mennonite colony called Barton Creek and they asked us not to take pictures. Wanting to respect their wishes, here is the best picture we can give you.
how refreshing
to live without electricity, running water,
to get around by horse and buggy,
to spend the morning hoeing
fields of cabbage and plowing the fields
for next years potato crop.
sitting on the porch at night
hymns are sung from almost every direction,
from almost every farm house.
as the day comes to a close, the farm animals quiet,
we sit in a circle in the grass,
telling each other stories of home.
the younger children, restless,
whisper to each other in german.
the older ones stretch their bare feet into the grass
glancing back and forth between the sky
and whoever is speaking.
and then silence, pure silence
as the family heads to bed.
the stars shine brighter than usual,
the night and the moon, the dewy fields glisten.
working a farm means waking up hours before the sun,
four a.m., maybe five.
i crawl out of bed later than the rest,
they are already up, working—
milking cows, collecting eggs for breakfast,
shaking fresh cream in a mason jar for breakfast butter.
inside the flame of the candle gives off just enough light
to start cooking.
outside the moon is still bright on the pasture.
and the songs of the simple people
echo through the hills of Barton Creek.
breakfast begins with silence, a long,
unanticipated silence.
silence broken with a prayer.
and breakfast begins again as we get up from our knees.
bowls are passed around the table
full of oatmeal, bananas grown in the sideyard,
the morning’s collection of eggs,
fresh baked bread with butter from the cow’s utter and
honey purchased from the penner family
a few farms down the road.
with our stomachs full for the days work,
we finish breakfast with scripture,
a hymn of thankfulness,
and a time of silent prayer.
amen.
the rest of the day we work, mostly.
but first we are shown the greenhouse,
the horse that powers the saw mill,
the barn, tools, and sugar cane press,
the family’s canning room.
walking through the fields
we see the beautiful, perfect, rows
of broccoli, lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, hot peppers.
like members of their own family
these people talk, caress, send their vegetables
with such care.
finishing in the fields we head back to the house
for cold mint tea and bananas.
written by Taylor Kirkland
