Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

September 11.

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I promised to arrive back at Nia's porch by 5:00 every day to pick up my little sweetie; often earlier. This was the time dinner was beginning to be prepared. I say beginning, because there is much preparation that goes into the meals of an Amish home. 

A long handcrafted bench guarded one side of their spacious dark-stained farm table. Thick sturdy legs entertained no wobbles or movement. Those sitting could slide with ease as needed. This is the feature it was built for. A hard-working family with 6 children + Grandma and an extra little English girl in matching braids equalled a full table at mealtimes. Fuller with friends.

Friends did not (could not) call before they payed a visit. They simply arrived. Chores stopped. Any and all were welcomed warmly. Whoever was on the homestead property at mealtime sat down and slid over as close as necessary to fit as many or more plates on the table as needed. The bench welcomed everyone.

There were a handful of times when, for whatever reason, they ate early, and I arrived before 5:00 to see this novelty in action. Every time, I was invited to sit and stay for awhile. "It's no trouble, we can slide over to make room."

Every time, I declined their offer to slide kindly. Not only was my husband waiting for me to begin supper at my own home far down the road, but as is the English way, my self-consciousness to not interfere was stronger than my desire to join them. And, my desire to join the warmth and welcome of that table was strong. Every time.

Despite Nia's smile, I never felt that I belonged at that table; that my presence might in some way dilute something potently beautiful. The table felt as sacred as the shadow of a church steeple.

With skirts slid up next to skirts, there was no awkwardness in the touching. Elbows jostled elbows like a row of women knitting in a church pew. Though, knitting in a church pew is not quite sacred.

I learned that from my mother. She knitted a lot, but never in a church pew. Other women did; women with tight hair buns and glasses. I had witnessed this as a little girl lulled by the preacher's low rolling voice and the rhythm of watching knitting elbows a few rows in front of where our family sat.

I was honored to be invited once to a church service of sorts for the wedding of Nia's 2nd-oldest daughter. No cordial invitation arrived in the mail. It was only verbal, "Please come."

Though there were many tight hair buns present, no hands were knitting at the wedding, either. There were also no pews under the shadow of a steeple as there was no steeple raised over the barn and wooden benches instead of pews; similar to the bench at Nia's table, but rougher.

Even so, the sacredness in the air was palpable---as palpable as the earthy aroma of Nia's beef broil on a day when my shoes pivoted past the potted plants by her porch door and headed straight to the cement steps past the kitchen where the sturdy table sat unmoving with the sliding bench beside.

Her two oldest girls had been waiting for me at the end of the road when I drove up. Today, they had an important question for me and wanted to sit and talk. Sometimes we talked and lingered on the kitchen cement step in the shade of the pine. We headed there.

As my truck neared their driveway and I saw their pastel skirts swaying in the wind by the mailbox, I worried for a moment something was wrong with my little girl.

She was fine.

It was the world something was wrong with today.

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I sat down on the concrete step in the shadow of the pine and slid over to make room for a bonneted girl on each side. The younger nodded to the older as the blink of her blue eyes granted permission for the older to speak first.

"What is a sky scraper?" she said with a twitch of her white bonnet string in the wind.

Sigh. The voice of my heart said a prayer in greater earnest than most prayers I had ever secretly spoken. How I longed for the wisdom of even the unsacred knitting church ladies just now.  How I longed for the shadow of a steeple. This shaded overhang of the kitchen step would have to do.

"I can tell you what I know. But, there is a lot I don't know." I leaned my back against the white house siding.

The chickens at our ankles scattered as they heard Nia drying and clinking dishes through the window just over my head. I knew that Nia would not ask these questions, but she listened well. 

Now that I have raised 4 children and my parenting antennas have grown higher than they were then, I realize there was a sacred trust that floated in and out of the kitchen window that day along with the afternoon breeze. Nia must have trusted me?

Who is qualified to inform 2 young Amish girls and a listening mother what the complicated and often ugly world beyond their simplicity is capable of?

Who is qualified to bring a Tale of Ugly into the one place in this world I found to be most innocent and beautiful. Must it be my voice? This was the very reason I would not sit at their table. This is why I did not sit at their sliding bench. Yet, here I sat on this cold cement step. My voice was the only one that carried on the wind.

Where do I begin?

"A skyscraper is a big building; bigger around than the biggest barn you have ever sat in at church on Sunday. Now, think about the tallest corn silo you have ever seen...like that one down the road?---that one is about the same height as...4 flights of stairs. Your house has 2 flights of stairs to get to you upstairs."

"This building...bigger than the biggest barn...had 110 flights of stairs to get to the top. Can you picture that? That's what a sky scraper is. People with good imaginations call these big buildings, 'sky scrapers' because they are so big and so high that we imagine their roofs scraping the clouds in the sky." said the Art Teacher.

The story went on. I kept it simple for their sake and for mine. I wondered if Nia approved of my choice of words.

After a few minutes, there came a moment when the knitting needle of my heart nudged me in the ribs and I knew I had spoken enough. 

I remember a rush to my head as I stood up and feeling a sudden desire to brush my teeth, rinse with mouthwash, and chew gum all the way home. I did not go back through the kitchen door, past the mealtime table or the sliding bench. I took my shoes off and walked around the outside of the house barefoot beside theirs until I reached my truck.

My soles were clearly not as used to sharp gravel as were theirs. Neither were their souls as familiar with sharp truth as was mine.

I hunched over the backseat to slide my sleepy daughter into her 5-strap harness safety-carseat. She got to chase the chickens a few extra minutes today while mommy told stories to the older girls about airplanes and tall buildings. 

As I stood up; there she was standing beside me drying her hands off on her apron. "Well," she said with a voice that might also be used to announce the final knitted loop on a new and complicated pattern, "We will continue living tomorrow the same way we have lived today!"

I slid into my drivers seat and drove away into my complicated world.

That was Nia's answer on a day many years ago when the world suddenly became uncertain. Echoes of uncertainty linger long today. 

May I walk in Nia's footsteps.

Though she did recognize the gravity, she did not let the gravity alter the bounce in her step as she and her girls disappeared behind the front porch screen to begin preparing for dinner.

I can still hear her voice saying, "We can slide over to make room."

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*About the Art. Recently, Iv'e been on a kick of inviting friends to provide resource photos along the theme of my next article and illustration. I would rather add a smile to a friend's day than hunt up another stock photo or surf google images. This time, I needed a silo.

Though this is not the exact silo down the road from Nia's house, the repurposed chicken coop or shed roof was love-at-1st sight for this old silo on the "Haphazard Acres" homestead. The silo itself takes on a greenish tint over the years making it look as much a part of the landscape as a Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece of architecture. 

Thank you, Linda, for the gift of the photo resource!