The McAlisterville Farm

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          She saw it before she heard it. Out of her second-floor bedroom window, looking up the old dirt road through the wooded fields, a speck at first but growing larger as the one-horse carriage made its way toward the Gearhart farm. Mary Jane "Jennie" Gearhart, all of 21 years and as sweet as the apple dumplings in her Mama's wood-fire oven, smiled—a smile perhaps wasted, as there was no one present to appreciate its tenderness and certain kindheartedness.

          The carriage suddenly dipped and twisted out of sight, and Jennie bolted, her cotton dress held high above the bottom hem. She ran heedlessly down the backroom steps and out the door, her feet moving fluidly like the well-oiled pulsator her father kept in the barn.

          "Girl!" her Mama yelled from the kitchen, the steam from the coffee kettle rising, "Where are you going? Where are your shoes?"

Jennie ignored the call, running down the grass bank and shifting to the roadside, heedless of the stones and pebbles cutting her bare soles. She cut a path through the coltsfoots and dandelions, which had sprouted to soak in the moisture from the early morning rain. The visitor, Elder Samuel Hepner, was nearing.

          "Whoa, hey, ho, ease up there, whoa," Hepner barked gently to the Morgan mare. "Whoa."

          "Elder Hepner! Elder Hepner!" she shouted, slowing her pace and shifting back to the middle of the road.

          "Easy, girl, easy now," Hepner called to the mare, pulling the horse's head gently to the right. He peered down at Jennie. "What's got into you, Jennie Gearhart? Nearly spooked Jessy."

          Gasping for breath, Jennie stopped right in front of the mare. "You said," she sucked in air, "you were checking on the job at the asylum. I was thinking you had some important information for me."

          "Well now, girl," Hepner replied, his expression softening, "you better check with your Paw; he's not liking you going to the lunatic farm."

          "It's not his decision, Elder. I'm a grown woman. I'm 21."

          "Ah, my dear," Hepner replied, "Our Lord doesn't say honor your mother and father until you're 21, does he, now? There's no age limit on God's laws, my child."

          "That's true, but He also tells the young to serve the needy," she countered quickly, her chest still heaving from the sprint. "He tells us it is more blessed to give than to receive. In Matthew, he says, 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.' I believe He is speaking directly to me, Elder, telling me to help the mentally sick."

          "Ah, that he does, girl," Hapner chuckled, impressed by her conviction. "So, what does your Mama say about all of this?"

          "She says follow your heart, your dreams. She attended the West Chester school despite everybody saying it was foolish. But she followed her heart, and now she teaches the young how to read and write. I want to help people who are ill at the state asylum, Elder. I believe it's my calling, what I was meant to do." Jennie leaned in closer, dropping her voice. "Another thing, Elder, I need to be where I can meet more interesting men, if you know what I mean."

          Hepner grinned knowingly. "I do, girl. I do. But what about the McClosky boy? And Dwain Thompson, wasn't he in your school class?"

          "But they're farmers, Elder. I'm done with farmers. Every dollar they earn goes to fighting mastitis or potato beetles or the taxes the township won't pay back. And Dwain is nice, but he was scared to death to wink at me. Raymond McClosky is smitten on Abigal Miller."

          "All right, girl," Hepner laughed. "I should know better than to argue with you. Jump in the back there, and we'll see what your folks say to this. 'He-ahh, now,'" Hepner called out as he snapped the reins, "get up there. Go on, get up there."

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                                                                                         ***

 

          At Sounder's second bellow, the rooster ensemble reverberated throughout the farm, announcing the arrival of a new day. Mary "Ella" Gearhart poked her husband, Michael, who, at age 43, was already struggling with hereditary hearing loss. Michael was already grumpy, especially before his first cup of coffee and before he faced the back-breaking, sunup-to-sundown toil of a farmer in the Juniata Valley.

          The constant battle with disease—bovine tuberculosis sweeping the Valley, the ever-present threat of mastitis crippling their Holstein milkers—meant their cash flow was perpetually precarious. They fought the elements, the cattle, and the meager returns from the two local markets that only came on Wednesdays, if the dirt roads weren't blocked by flood or snow. Ella's teaching income, paid through limited township taxes, barely kept them solvent. Jennie knew her parents were giving their lives to this cycle, and her new path was essential. The $4.00 a week and subsidized housing at the Wernersville State Hospital would be a steady, critical contribution.

          Michael was working in the barn when Elder Hepner pulled up with Jennie sitting quietly in the back of the carriage. Ella, having just returned from the one-room schoolhouse, headed straight for the barn.

          "Good day to you, Elder," Father called, leaning the shovel and rake he was holding up against the barn door.

          "Hooo, whoa, easy girl, easy now," Hepner bellowed to Jessy.

          "Hello, Elder," Ella called out from behind the carriage. "It's so good to see you."

          Michael looked at Jennie. He was suspicious, but he was a good father and a hard-working man who knew the bitter taste of being cash-poor. He could see the determination in his daughter's eyes. She's not a child anymore, he thought. She's a grown woman.

          "What brings you to the farm today, Elder? Doing God's work?" Father asked Hepner, avoiding Jennie's gaze.

Jennie walked around to the front. "Father," she said gently. "I met with the people from the state hospital. I want to go there. I want to work and help the family with expenses. $4 a week, Father. That's steady money."

          Michael looked from his daughter to his wife. "So, my daughter is going far away to be with crazy people, and I'm supposed to be happy with that?"

          "Michael," Ella stepped forward, placing a hand on his forearm. "Listen to her. She has it thought out. The girl has dreams. We can't just snuff them out like a fire in the woodstove. We need this, Michael. We both know that."

          "I think, Michael," Hepner said, his voice grave, "you have to allow Jennie to make her own decisions. You and Ella raised her properly, under the watchful eye of our Lord. Michael, she is like a butterfly who wants to leave the jar and explore the world. Sometimes, even though it breaks your heart, you need to give the butterfly its wings."

          Michael Gearhart nodded slowly, defeat mixed with a weary resignation to the farm's economic reality settling over him. "Okay, Jennie. I won't stand in your way. When are you planning on going, dear?"

          "Oh, Father," Jennie cried, running to hug him, the rough canvas of his work coat smelling of hay and honest sweat.

Elder Hepner looked at Ella and smiled, knowing that the real blessing was the promise of a steady wage. Jennie's feet dangled from the back of the carriage as it left, but her heart was no longer fixed on the soil. It was filled with the hope and joy of a new world that lay just beyond Red Bank Road.