Looking for Noah, Part Four

Our lives are sustained by deeds unseen. We use products; consume services that seem magically to appear when we need them. Yet, behind these there is labor, often the labor of a mechanized anonymous industry. Only rarely does the individual responsible leave some trace of himself upon the work.

This fact of modern life is nowhere more evident than in the areas of food and eating.  The ease with which we acquire the sustenance to keep going has left us disconnected from the processes, often dirty and demanding, by which our tables are filled.  Most of us are strangers to the dirt and muck and blood from which our provender springs.

I saw these truths again last night by lantern light.

The story begins, as so many good stories do, with a dog. When we moved to the town where we live, we moved into a home unable to meet our fencing needs. Our mutt is a wanderer. Without a sturdy barrier to keep her home, she would bolt off after every creature with a scent. To remedy this, the Mrs. and I contracted with the family of a local Amish man to build and install a fence for our backyard. That was in the fall. Read more about it here, here, and here.

Last night, I went to their home to retrieve pieces of the fence they are unable to transport.

I got there after dark. The air was cold. Their house in the distance glowed faintly, spots of lamplight punctuating the surrounding blackness.

They know us by now. The thrill of having us pull onto their land has gone. We are treated more like friends, weird friends no one could possibly understand, but still. The Mrs. has traveled out to speak to them about the fence and been invited in.  The kitchen, she said, was a dim affair marked by activity and wood smoke.  Once they sent her home with candy.

When I came rambling out of the van last night, the middle son came toward me out of the dark.

“Is Noah here,” I asked,

“Ja,” he said. “He are in da barn.”

In his hand he carried a flashlight. He indicated I should follow him.

A few steps away, and around a corner a feeble light came through an opening in the ancient wooden wall. The boy stepped through. I followed.

I was greeted by Noah and the back ends of seven or eight cows. I had come at milking time.

All those episodes of Little House on the Prairie had led me to believe the nineteenth century would be better lit than it actually is. You’ll see what I mean if you ever go there.

The barn was huge. Only a couple of lanterns, their wicks spluttering, threw a circle of amber around us. The boys stood around, eager to learn about the world by listening to every word the English man dropped.

“I have never actually been in the presence of a cow being milked,” I said.

“Really,” Noah asked from his milking stool, his hands finding whatever apparatus down there makes the milk come out. “ Well, you’re about to be.”

I stood there thirty minutes waiting for the chores to be done. I didn’t mind. They didn’t seem to.

Noah had a million questions. Were the pies in the cafeteria where I work baked there or brought in?  Is the campus inside the city limits? What were my students like?

One question seemed particularly significant. Something is wrong with his manure spreader. There is a piece of metal they need to remove.

“We tried to bang it off there, but we couldn’t budge it.”

He asked if I had an acetylene blowtorch.  Now, as a college professor, the occasions on which I need a flame so hot it will melt steel are rather uncommon. In fact, my needs in this area are such that I can easily manage without a blowtorch of my own.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.

In spite of my lack, the question struck me. Behind it lay the recognition of friendship. By asking this question, I was being invited into their lives a little more deeply. Never had I regretted not having a tool more.

Finally, the cows had given all they could. Noah and the boys and I loaded the heavy chunks of fence into the back of the borrowed truck.  They worked quickly. Supper was waiting.

I climbed back in the cab. Snow covered the circular drive that led to the road.  I couldn’t see it in the dark. I mentioned this.

“Don’t worry,” Noah said, disappearing, lantern in hand,toward the house, “We’ll show you the way.”

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–To read more about how we are distanced from the natural processes by which we feed ourselves, I recommend looking at Jenna’s blog.