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. She smiled, perhaps wasted, as if her beautiful smile could appear without captivating anyone who would appreciate its tenderness and, without a doubt, its kindheartedness. The carriage suddenly disappeared as the road twisted and dipped from view, which sent the young woman bolting toward the backroom steps. 

          Mary Jane "Jennie" Gearhart, all of 21 years and as sweet as the apple dumplings in her Mama's wood-fire oven, ran heedlessly down the steps and out the door, holding up the bottom hem of her cotton dress, enabling her feet to move fluidly like the well-oiled pulsator her father kept in the barn. 

          "Girl," her Mama yelled from the kitchen, "where are you going? Where are your shoes?"

          Running as fast as she could, she ran down the grass bank and headed for the old road that led to the visitor, Elder Samuel Hepner. While the horse and carriage clopped slowly toward the farm, Jennie — feeling the stones and pebbles cutting her feet — shifted to the roadside, cutting a path through the coltsfoots and dandelions that sprouted to soak in the moisture from the early morning rain before the sun dried it out.

           "Whoa, hey, ho, ease up there, whoa," Hepner barked to the Morgan mare as he pulled gently on the reins. "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. "What's got into you, Jenny Gearhart? Nearly spooked Jessy."

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

          "Well now, girl," Hepner replied, "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 replied quickly, her chest still heaving from her shoeless skedaddle out the kitchen door. "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.'

          "Ah, that he does, girl," Hepner chuckled, "that He does. So, you believe He is speaking directly to you, is He?"

          "Yes, Elder, I do."

          "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.

          “Another thing, Elder,” Jennie continued, “I need to be where I can meet more interesting men, if you know what I mean.”

          “I do girl,” Hepner grinned. “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. And Dwain is nice, but my mother was the teacher. He was scared to death to wink at me. And Raymond McClosky is smitten on Abigal Miller.”

          "All right, girl," Hapner chuckled, "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."

          Jennie's feet dangled as the carriage slowly finished its journey up the old road toward the farm. She watched a doe, and two fawns play gracefully in the upper field as if the doe was teaching the fawns to hop over snakes that crawled out from under rocks to bask in the sunshine. The Virginia bluebells mixed with the golden ragworts in the field surrounding the fishpond and the wild geraniums were beginning to sprout. It was Jennie’s favorite field, and it always reminded her of the American flag. Her heart was filled with the hope and joy of experiencing a new world that lay just beyond Red Bank Road, which bordered the farm south of Lost Creek and north along Shade Road into McAlisterville.  

* * *                             

 

          At Sounder's first call, the sun had not yet peaked over the top of Shade Mountain, nestled in the Appalachians above the Juniata River Valley. As the hen's watchman, Sounder's bellowing yell gave notice not only to those at the Gearhart farm, but to the deer and turkey in the fertile fields and trees that surrounded it. Slowly, as daylight crept over the farm, the deer made their way to the cover of the woodlots. At the same time, large flocks of vision-impaired turkeys waited for the arrival of the sky's orangy glow before leaving the trees to begin the day's foraging. 

          Mary "Ella" Gearhart woke and waited for Sounder's second bellow just five minutes from the first. She then poked her husband, Michael, who, at age 43, was already having hereditary hearing loss. He grunted. Following Sounder's second call, a rooster ensemble reverberated throughout the farm with cocks strutting and yelling to announce the arrival of a new day. Ella, like she does every morning, rose from the bed, stuck her feet into two frazzled slippers, slipped on her robe, and made her way down the stairs, out the kitchen door, to the gravel walkway to the back house. Twenty-one-year-old Jenny sprang from her bed in the middle bedroom and quickly exchanged her nightly petticoat for a cotton dress, cotton stockings, and low-heeled leather boots. She wasn't sure what day it was, Tuesday, she thought, but she knew it was the day Elder Hepner would come to discuss the lunatics' job, although Jenny despised that name. She preferred mentally sick but decided to wait before educating the family about things. Jenny gave her sister, May, who was four years her junior, a shove and left the room. It was a consensus amongst the family that they each get to the back house before Father, who suffered from an additional hereditary dilemma: constipation. 

         When Father's inner workings finally did allow him to do his business, the back house was uninhabitable. Upon returning to the kitchen, Ella lit two kerosene lamps, fired up the kitchen woodstove, and made coffee. By the time Father came into the kitchen from the back house, Ella had blueberry bread and coffee on the table. Father was quite grumpy in the morning, especially before he had his coffee, but if his inner workings were favorable, he could be pleasant. Father said he had a "system" that needed to be followed. Ella and the girls weren't sure what that was, but Father always referred to it, nonetheless. It seemed he had to do certain things or else he'd "be stuffed up,” which meant he could be constipated for a week. He'd sit out in the back house grunting, groaning, and cursing. May wanted to write some words down, but Jenny laughed and told her no, it would be disrespectful to Father. 

          "But I never heard such words, Jennie. What do they mean?" May asked her older sister. 

          Jennie put her finger to her lips. "Shhh. Never mind that, May," she answered. "Those are words you don't say.”

       "But Father says them," May answered. 

       "That's because his inner workings aren't working, and he's stuffed up. He doesn't use those words when his system is functional."

       "Oh," May replied, not sure what to make of it all.

       Michael Gearhart was an expert farmer. Most of his crop production was used as fodder for his dairy and beef cows and hogs, with the remainder reserved for the family. He employed a four-crop rotation to maintain the rich and productive soil in his fields. He rotated crops, including corn, oats, wheat, and hay, as fodder. He had numerous smaller, well-maintained “food gardens” growing a variety of crops, including corn, potatoes, beets, and even a healthy asparagus patch. 

          Besides keeping his fields fresh and fertile, his crop rotation was designed to disrupt weed cycles, thus reducing their amount in the fields. Michael Gearhart attended several meetings in McAlisterville held by a man from the College of Agriculture at Penn State University on draft horses for plowing and moving heavy equipment. Penn State was giving away a dozen Percheron farm horses to farmers in the Valley, if Penn State personnel could assist in their use and breeding.

          Gearhart readily agreed, and he was given two Percherons, a stallion and mare. The people from Penn State referred to themselves as "researchers" and conducted inspection visits to the farm on several occasions. They helped Gearhart become accustomed to the horses, and Gearhart loved the way the horses responded to his commands. He could finally remove stubborn stumps on the farm because the horses, Dolly and Sam, were enormously strong. 

          The Penn State researchers also assisted Gearhart in breeding the two horses. The Gearhart’s also had help from several Amish farms which bordered the farm. Father appreciated their advice and counted them as blessings to his family. The Amish were knowledgeable about everything from horses to crop rotation to field management — especially the use of manure to nurture the fields. One Sunday afternoon, Abram and Catherine came to visit from an adjacent Amish farm along with their three children and brought a wonderful blueberry pie. Several times throughout the year, when projects required both Abram and Catherine to be in the field, Jennie would stay with their children. They wanted to pay her for her work, but Jennie always refused to accept it. The next day, the Gearhart’s would find baked and canned goods on their front step. On that Sunday, Father mentioned to the Amish family that they had a problem with potato beetles, and it seemed to worsen every year. He said the dusting powder he bought at the farm store only helped a little, and the next rain would wash the powder away.

          "They're bad this year," Father told Abram, “Never seen nothing like it. They devour the whole plant, and the potatoes don't grow."

          Overhearing Father's words, Catherine took Jennie by the arm and whispered, "Jennie, come with me. "I want to show you something." The two women walked the short distance to the Gearhart potato patch. Potatoes grow well below the soil, while the green plants spring up from the ground and grow approximately 20 inches tall. If the plant dies too soon, the potato seeds won't reach maturity and will be worthless. Jennie followed Catherine into the patch, walking carefully between the rows. Catherine stooped down. 

"If you take a potato leaf like this," Catherine told Jennie. “And look at the other side of the leaf, you will see this pinkish larva. You see it? Just take your thumb and finger and pinch off the larva. Do it gently so it doesn’t hurt the leaf. It will stop the beetles from reproducing, and they will die off."

          "Look," Jennie said, "there's larva under just about every leaf."

          "Yes, Catherine responded. "The patch is infested. Come, let's do the whole patch. You take that side and I’ll do the other. If we work fast, it won't take long. "  And it didn't. In a short time, Catherine and Jennie went through the entire potato patch pinching off beetle larvae beneath each leaf on the plants. From that time on, the Gearhart’s never experienced problems with potato beetles. 

          That problem was fixable, but many are not. In her 21 years of life, Jennie Gearhart has seen it all. The Gearhart’s had a dozen Holstein milkers that had to be milked twice a day. Father did it by hand, but sometimes Ella and the girls helped. Two local markets bought Father's milk for butter and cheese, but they only came on Wednesdays, if, and that was a big if, the dirt roads to the farm weren't blocked by floods or snow. Heavy rain or snow would cause the farm to shut down and could flood the fields and ruin the crops. The return on the dollar made the milk sales barely profitable. Ella and the girls also made butter and cheese by hand in the milk house Father built with the help of neighboring farmers. Valley farmers like Michael Gearhart constantly battled cow diseases such as tuberculosis and brucellosis, as well as nutritional deficiencies that could cause mastitis —a bacterial infection in cows; or milk fever, which cows experience during calving; and lameness, afflicting cows' legs and feet that crippled the animals. It was a constant battle to keep the cows healthy. When blizzards moved through the Valley, the cows still had to be milked and fed, forcing many farmers to work in frigid conditions. As Father got older, slip and falls or equipment injuries could be disastrous. There was a doctor in McAlisterville six miles away so one of the women would have to take a carriage to get him — if he was home and not at another farm.

          The Gearhart’s also kept four to six beef cattle, which carried their own set of problems. The meat had to be smoked, salted, or potted, requiring Ella and the girls to cook the meat, pack it in jars with butter, lard, or tallow. Several years ago, the Gearhart’s battled bovine tuberculosis, which swept through the Valley. It first affected the beef cattle but eventually spread to the dairy cows through contact in both the fields and barn. Through the consumption of raw milk, bovine tuberculosis could spread to humans and cause serious illness. It was a significant issue for all the farms in the area. It was problems like these that made Father go shopping for loans. However, agricultural credit in the Valley was limited, and when Father could obtain a loan, he had to accept high interest rates and short-term repayment options.

          Jennie saw how much work her father did from sunup to sundown, with no days off to rest. Slowly, Jennie came to the realization that farming was no life for her. She grew up with it and lived it. She also knew that her family needed a cash flow. Her sister May had different aspirations. She wanted out of farming, too, but she wanted to find a man “well-situated, and that excluded farmers. May despised the near poverty the family lived day to day. Just when things got “steady,” something like a cow disease or drought would knock them down.

          “No,” May told Jennie, “My man won’t be growing no corn and potatoes, and he will have the means to live a better life.”

          But Michael Gearhart was luckier than most. His wife, Ella, taught in a one-room schoolhouse a short distance away, but her income was limited. All the farms in the Juniata Valley were pretty much as cash-poor as the Gearhart’s. Ella's teaching pay came from township and county taxes, limited at best. Moreover, when Ella’s students came to school with viruses and stomach ailments, they were passed around in the one-room schoolhouse and Ella often brough them home. There were no sick days on the Gearhart farm, or any farm in the Valley. Taking a day off wasn’t possible.

          Jennie saw how her mother and father worked and how they gave their lives to the farm. By helping the mentally sick, she could contribute to her parents' annual income. In April, she met with representatives from Wernersville State Hospital in the meeting room at Town Hall, McAlisterville. They told her she would make $4 a week her first year and $ 4.50 her second. Additionally, they offered her subsidized housing on both the hospital premises and within the town of Wernersville. If she lived on hospital grounds, they would deduct $1 a week from her pay, but in town, they would deduct $2. She also had the option of finding her own living arrangements, but with a salary of $4 a week, her opportunities were sparse. The hospital was forced to offer housing to attract and retain workers, who labored under extreme conditions. 

          Later that afternoon, Father was working in the barn when Elder Hepner pulled up in front of the barn with Jennie in the back of the carriage. Ella had just returned from school and headed for the barn when she saw Elder Hepner's carriage.

          "Good day to you, Elder," Father called from the barn. 

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

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

          Father was suspicious. He knew Jennie wanted to leave the farm to work at the lunatic asylum, as he called it. But the hard-working farmer was a good father, and he could sense that he might be standing in the way of his daughter's wishes. He looked at Jennie. 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.

          Jennie had walked around to the front of the carriage, where she was closer to her father. "Father," Jennie said, before Hepner could answer. "I've been talking to the people at the state hospital for the mentally sick. And I want to go there. I want to work there and help you with the farm expenses."

          Michael Gearhart looked at his daughter with a heavy heart. "So, my daughter is going far away to be with crazy people, and I'm supposed to be happy with that?"

          "Father," Ella said, "just listen to her. She has it thought out. I don't like it any more than you do, but the girl has dreams of her own. We can't just snuff them out like a fire in the woodstove."

          "And what do you think, Elder?" Father asked Hepner. 

          "I think, Michael," Hepner responded, "you have to allow Jennie to make her own decisions. She’s not a child anymore. 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."

          Father nodded. He leaned the shovel and rake he was holding up against the barndoor. "Okay, Jennie, I get it. I won’t stand in your way. When are you planning on going, dear?"

          "Oh, Father," Jennie cried, and she ran to hug him.

          Eldner Hepner looked at Ella and smiled.

 

                                                                               * * *