Looking for Noah, Part Two

When we bought the min-van several weeks ago, we imagined it would be useful in many ways, easier to get kids in an out of, more room for luggage and pets when we travel long distances. What we had not anticipated was that the van would also be so useful for overtaking runaway Amish.

After arriving at Noah’s home to find him gone, we sped back to the nearby paved road, scanning the horizon for a black buggy creeping along the highway.

A few minutes later we spied one. Ahead of us on the right, we could see the iron wheels roll.  The Mrs. laid on the accelerator and we zoomed up close.

As we pulled along side the driver, I opened my door, leaned out and prepared to offer a moving introduction of myself.  Inside the buggy, there was no one who could reasonably have been Noah.

Instead, a girl, probably eleven or twelve, held the reigns. A little boy of six seven sat beside her. Both looked terrified. Their faces showed not the temporary “it’s scary, but it’s only a movie” kind of fear, but the “some crazy people in a mini-van are going to run us into the ditch” kind of fear.

I thought it best to cut our interaction short.

“It’s not him,” I said to the Mrs.

I slammed the door and we sped away leaving behind what had to be, at that moment, the two happiest Amish kids in the world.

Half a mile or so further down the road, we took a left. A quick survey of the land ahead indicated no buggies were in site. We sped on.

As we approached a stop sign at the first cross road, we saw a buggy with two horses stopped to our left.

“There he is,” I said, popping the door open before we even stopped moving.

I hurried toward the buggy. I could see a bristly bearded man sitting next to a teenage girl. I lifted my hand, signaling him to wait. He tugged on the reins. He whispered something to the horses and fixed me in his quizzical gaze.

“I’m looking for Noah,” I said. He squinted.

“Noah?” I repeated.

“Ja, I am Noah,” he said.

I explained that the Mrs. had written him a note. Recognition flashed on his face.  He pointed to a grassy patch next to the road.

“Pull over there,” he said, “and I’ll pull over too.”

We got there first and Noah drew the horses to a stop behind the van.

“Do your horses have names?” I asked.

“Ja,” he said, pointing to the one on the right, and then the other. “Mae and Peanit”

I turned over negotiations to the Mrs. due to her greater expertise in our fencing needs while I dug the girls from their car seats.

I returned to listen and hold the Chud while she stroked Mae’s sturdy snout.

Noah was older than I am, I think, maybe in his early fifties. His beard was the consistency of the steel wool and almost the same color. His hands were hard, his fingers thick. More than one nail was black with dirt and blood. These were hands long accustomed to beating from the earth a living for his family.

The girl beside him said nothing. She sat still in her heavy black cloak, her bonnet often covering her eyes, which she kept focused on the buggy floor. In her lap she held, strangely enough, a plastic Cool Whip tub. It was a chilly morning and after a few minutes, she peeled the lid from the tub and lowered her hand, palm up, into it as if warming herself in there.

Noah did a lot of figuring without the aide of paper and pencil. He calculated, costs and lengths and widths. Occasionally he would lean back his head slightly and press his eyes tightly closed.  During these times, I got the impression he was trying to think. Admittedly, I mostly got this impression from the way he would stab a finger against his forehead while saying “I’m drying to tink. I’m drying to tink.”

We finished our open-air business meeting with an agreement that he would make our fence and, if the church permits, come to our home to do the installation. We adjourned and he clucked to his team. The buggy groaned again into action. We stood a while in the morning sun and watched it climb a strange and distant hill.