Raising his head, Dat gave me a thoughtful, sad look. My father lowered his head briefly and sighed. Preacher Zook’s taken a turn for the worse. I hoped that what I was about to disclose wasn’t news to him. Nodding, I said, Susie Zook stopped by earlier while I was shaking out rugs. And all the while, the pendulums swung, and the clocks ticked their familiar pulse in this magical place.ĭat took his seat on the wooden swivel chair and gave me an appraising look. Sometimes, when the work was especially intricate, he hummed unfamiliar melodies while leaning close to the clock in hand, his black-rimmed magnifying loupe pressed to his right eye, his left eye squeezed shut. In this cozy yet cluttered room, complete with its own small fireplace, Dat had worked from early morning to suppertime, and occasionally into the evening, for as long as I remembered. Grinning, he removed his corn silk–colored straw hat, revealing that his dark brown bowl cut was in need of Mamma’s scissors.įollowing him over to what had always been his work haven, as well as a small showroom, I found myself in the area where old and new clocks lined the walls and where clock parts filled shelves an array of tools for the exacting work he was so well-known for were on his work desk and organized in cupboards nearby. " Jah, but never too fleissich for my Sylvie-girl," he said, blending his English and Deitsch as he sometimes did. Moving toward the porch steps, I called, Busy day? Some customers traveled from as far as Philly and Pittsburgh after word spread through the years that Dat was a fine workman and his integrity second to none. There, he made timepieces large and small, not only for our Plain folk but for Englischers, too. Walking quickly, he waved back and headed toward his clockmaker’s shop, the House of Time, a structure separate from the main house. Just now, finishing my kitchen chores, I stepped barefoot out the back door, waving to my father coming across the newly planted field of sweet corn. Maybe so, but all the same, I wished I knew something more about his family. Hadn’t it been hard for him to leave it behind? Mamma says it’s like he was born to be Amish. I’ve marveled at his ability to accept the Old Ways so readily, considering his modern upbringing. Now, at eighteen, I sometimes contemplated that long-ago conversation, wondering why my father still seemed reluctant to discuss his past. Most Amish families I knew had oodles of girls, but in our family, there was only me. Ach, I couldn’t have been happier to be his little girl-the firstborn and the apple of Dat’s eye. I giggled as we proceeded through the crowded marketplace. "Well, one thing’s for sure, I can’t imagine missing out on you, Sylvie." Miss living out in the world? He glanced down at me, grinning. We wandered from one produce stand to another as I finally got up the courage to ask, Do ya ever miss bein’ fancy, Dat? He was mum for a while, then hemmed and hawed a bit, seemingly reluctant to say much. It was the first time I’d asked about his other life as an Englischer, before he came to Hickory Hollow. My earliest recollection of Dat was of going with him to Root’s Country Market when I was no taller than a buggy wheel and surprised to see so many fancy folk there. Contentsīack Cover That Time could turn up his swift sandy glass, To untell the days, and to redeem these hours. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.Ĭover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative ServicesĪrt direction by Paul Higdon To Claudia Ferrin Muniz, sweet friend and partner in prayer. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-for example, electronic, photocopy, recording-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbookīethany House Publishers is a division ofīaker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, MichiganĪll rights reserved.
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