Page 78 of Chasing the Sun
As I slowed to give them ample room, I realized their carriage had a broken wheel. I eased on the brake, coming to a stop next to the buggy, and rolled down my window. “Hi there. Do you need some help?”
The oldest man in their group, dressed in a pale-blue shirt, black trousers, and black suspenders, looked at me, his eyes roaming over the old truck. “Are you Stan Stafford’s kin?” he asked while making only minimal eye contact.
“Uh, kind of,” I answered with a shrug. “I’m his friend. Borrowing his truck. It looks like your vehicle is in a bit of a bind. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
The man hesitated. “That is kind of you. We do not usually take rides, but this time, it appears to be needed. We have a damaged wheel,” he answered. “Your help would be much appreciated.”
I unlocked the door, and he pulled it open.
The man dipped his chin. “I am Gideon.”
I waved. “Elodie.”
“If it’s all right, we would all like to take you up on your offer,” he stated.
“Of course,” I said. “Hop on in.”
Gideon motioned to the others. “Sarah, Jonah, in the back.”
I glanced in the back seat of the cab, hoping that Stan’s greasy tool bag didn’t dirty Sarah’s beautiful dress. Gideon then instructed the oldest boy, Samuel, to stay behind with the horses. The younger children, instead of climbing in theback seat as I expected, climbed into the bed of the truck. Sarah climbed in carefully, smoothing her dark-blue dress over her lap, her white kapp fluttering in the breeze. She pressed her hands together, folding them neatly, her bare feet tucked beneath her.
Unbothered, Gideon sat in the front, next to me. From the back, I could hear the children speak a language I didn’t understand, but I recognized the melodic lilt of Pennsylvania Dutch.
I gripped the steering wheel. “Okay. Here we go.”
Gideon pointed out directions, taking me down a winding country road that led to the outskirts of the county. We reached a long narrow road, and the truck bounced along until we came to a stunning white farmhouse. Crisp white sheets pinned to clotheslines billowed in the breeze, baking in the afternoon sunlight.
A woman stopped, setting down the laundry basket and lifting a hand to wave. Two smaller children were running through the clotheslines, a yappy dog nipping at their heels.
The air around their homestead was peaceful—that of simple elegance and pride in the lifestyle they had maintained, despite modern progress all around them. In a way, I envied them, that they valued their culture and traditions so much that they refused to bend to the will of man and time.
In the distance, the sound of rhythmic hammering caught my attention, and I glanced toward a neighboring farm property where at least thirty men were nearly finished hammering the trusses of a massive barn.
“Wow,” I said, completely entranced with how the men straddled the wood without any safety equipment at all. “It’s masterful, isn’t it? The skill that must take is really impressive.”
Gideon only offered a dip of his chin and a small but proud smile. “It is simply what must be done.”
A seed of curiosity grew until, finally, it got the best of me. “How long does something like that take you?”
A slight frown pulled down Gideon’s mouth. “About two, I’d say. For that one, going on three.”
“Months?” I asked, with an exhale. “Wow, that seems pretty fast.”
Beside me, Gideon chuckled as he climbed out of the truck. “Days.”
“Days?” I couldn’t help the shock seeping into my voice. I pointed across the field. “They built that barn intwo days?”
“That’s not a mighty feat when the community works together. It’s just our way.”
The hammering was rhythmic, a steady song of labor and craftsmanship, of hands working in tandem like some unspoken symphony. The sheer number of people—all moving, lifting, working—was staggering.
A barn. An entirebarn, rising from the dust in mere days.
My throat tightened.Thiswas what true community looked like.
“Are you for hire?” A burst of embarrassed laughter escaped my lips before I could help it.
Gideon pursed his lips as though he was seriously considering my question. “You say you’re Stan Stafford’s kin? Word traveled about what happened to his barn. I take it that’s what you’re referencing.”
