Detour : Simple Gifts (Rachelle's Side) by Rachelle Allen |
Before I punch in my cousin’s number, I formulate what I’m going to say. With so little juice left in Gretchen’s phone and no electrical outlets within who-knows-how-wide a radius, this could be our last chance of getting rescued before Wednesday, when the sheriff and doctor return to town. It’s as if time is standing still here. So much has happened since Old Reliable failed us, yet, in actuality, only sixteen hours have elapsed. The thought of an additional forty-eight before we can return to civilization? Better to stand in Klem and Barney’s rampaging path and save myself the torture. It’s not that they’re not lovely people; they totally are. They’re just not my lovely people, and the idea of another eight hours of them sleeping while I’m wide awake with no books or writing instruments wreaks havoc with my psyche. I guess, if worse came to absolute worst, I could take the Bible on the nightstand next to my bed and concoct “different endings” for several dozen stories, and then hope Simian Savant sponsors another FS contest with that heading. “Ready?” asks Gretchen. “Ready,” I say, blowing a jet of air out between my lips as if I’m Rocky Balboa getting ready to step into the ring with Apollo Creed. So much is resting on this! Tova’s number rings four times then goes to voice mail. “Tova,” I say, “it’s Rachelle. Gretchen and I are in big trouble, and we need help. Her car broke down, and we’re stranded in Amish country. Please, please use my car and come pick us up at #16 County Line Road in Applewood, Pennsylvania. The family who took us in are the Zimmermans. If you get lost, just knock on doors and ask for directions to their farm. Do NOT call this number. We’re almost out of juice, and there’s no electricity here, so we can’t re-charge the phone. Please hurry! Oh, and also, could you please bring me nice clothes and high heels because, Tova, the goats ate my beautiful hemp suitcases and everything in them, and I’m in a long Amish dress and work boots! FLAT. WORKBOOTS, Tova! Please hurry!” I hear the desperation in my voice and quickly end the call because, strangely, I’m on the cusp of tears. Knowing family is coming to the rescue can evoke that. We all need our tribe when life becomes chaotic. I can just imagine Tova laughing hysterically as she plays that message over and over, picturing me in Amish clothes. I even know that, within an hour, it will have been shared with everyone on this side of the continent. Our tribe savors ridiculousness. “This was no time for my husband to be away on business,” I grouse to Gretchen. “He’d have come in record time.” "And I'd pay big bucks to see his expression as he pulls into the Zimmermans' driveway and you come running out in this fashion statement!" says Gretchen, offering her upward-turned palms in my direction. She then proceeds to snort with abandon. I make a mental note to ask Simeon if he'd be willing to gift Gretchen with that snake head under her pillow. Our day of picking blueberries is broken up with a lunch of pork sausage hash: cubed potatoes, and sausage, smothered in gravy, with a side of green beans. I opt out of the former, needless to say, and have some more blueberries-and-cream with the latter. I’m calling this the Amish Farm Diet for Jewesses. Oy! I will certainly be svelte for the conference! Five hours of berry-picking later, it's time for dinner: ham steaks and corn fritters (fried in – did you guess? – pork grease) and snap peas in an enormous serving bowl, so I didn’t feel guilty overloading my plate. I also take an extra helping of rice pudding. I’m losing brownie points with Helene, though, for not eating her meals. She’s actually resorted to the Mom thing of praising Gretchen – twice, in fact! – for her “hearty appetite” Still, I’m not about to counter with, “Hey, Helene, serve chicken instead of pork for a change, and I’ll tank up, too!” They’re being so incredibly generous as it is – welcoming us into their homes and letting us co-habitate with them when we are complete and total strangers. I’m not about to explain how our cultures’ dietary laws do not mesh. The Yoder kids return after dinner and congregate in Rebekah and her brothers’ living room. By now, I’ve learned that the Yoder brother is Judah, the older sister, who made Solomon blush earlier, is Miriam, and the sister who gave goo-goo eyes to Simeon for beheading the snake is Grace. The little cutie who’s over playing with Hannah at her house is Elizabeth. Mondays are always church choir practice night at the Zimmermans’, I am told, and tonight I’ve been asked to lend my conducting and choral teaching skills to the group. It is exactly the joy I need to bring to this day. The Yoders are good, solid singers, and, better yet, they know how to blend. There are definitely no peacocks in this group. It’s all for one, and one for all, a choral leader’s dream. The Zimmerman siblings’ voices are absolutely exceptional, and I have an instinct where Solomon is concerned. As I stand in front of the group, getting ready to conduct, I say to him, “Solomon, would you please give me an ‘A.’” He complies at once. The others look on, perplexed, and he gives them a quizzical look. “What?” he asks. “How do you know that’s an ‘A’?” asks Rebekah. “I don’t know how I know. I just do,” is Solomon’s adorably honest answer. “You have perfect pitch,” I tell him. “It’s the equivalent of a photographic memory, but for sound instead of sights.” “Not everyone has this?” he asks, genuinely surprised. “Nope,” I say. “Only about one person in ten thousand does.” “WOW!” says Miriam and beams up at him. Solomon’s cheeks now match his very red beard and hair. “It’s a wonderful advantage as a choral leader,” I tell him. “I know the Amish use no instruments – only their voices – to make music. So, your having perfect pitch allows you to give the proper starting note to each section of singers. This is phenomenal!” I turn back to the group. “Okay,” I say. “Let me hear Amazing Grace. But you’re all in really big trouble if you make me cry.” I see smiles en masse appear before my eyes and delight in the moment. They are not even ten notes in when I’m covered in little jolts of electricity all over my head. Another three measures, and I’m sopping tears from my cheeks with both hands. G-d is all but palpable in this room at this perfect moment in time. When they finish, all I’m able to say is, “I feel like the luckiest musician on the planet right now. I will treasure this moment for the rest of my life. Thank you.” I re-arrange them so they’re in groups of soprano, alto, tenor and bass then have Solomon come to the front so I can show him how to conduct in ¾ time. I also demonstrate the hand motions to use for extending a phrase and how to do a proper cut-off. Then I have the group sing the piece again, this time with me conducting, then one more time with Solomon leading with his newly acquired conducting skills. He is a natural at it. It’s not just music he’s making; it’s magic. If he had a baton, he’d look like a wizard casting a spell over everyone within his listening audience. In fact, I, myself, am feeling so enchanted at this moment that I don’t care if Tova ever arrives or not. I no longer want to be rescued…though a cute fashion-forward outfit with matching high heels would certainly not take away from this heavenly feeling!
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Rachelle Allen
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