So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis, are still relying on the kindness of strangers after the Suburban breaks down. Rachelle has mentioned to Rebekah that she should think about coming with them and being dropped off at a voice coach for the remainder of the convention. The suggestion is met with mixed reviews.

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I ease up on breakfast this morning. I know I will be nibbling on those fat juicy blueberries shortly and I've noticed that having such heavy meat-laden meals are starting to mess with my sleep. They aren't keeping me up, but my dreams are becoming a tad worrisome. I won't divulge what they are about, until after I can get an appointment with a therapist. I always thought anxiety and stress were the same thing. I see them now as two very different components of my personality. I don't really have any stress right now. I have a roof over my head, meals prepared for me, and no contact with the outside world. Prison, if you will, except there is no one named Roxie trading me for a pack of cigarettes.

After Rachelle gets summoned to the house, I stand alone at the edge of the woods, plucking dew kissed berries like it's my job. Not really sure how Hannah got out of doing it, but in a way, I'm glad I'm alone. Gives me much needed time to think. I brought a small canvas bag with me today, inside is my notebook and a pen. I check to make sure the pails are almost full and finally sit down. I pull out the book, and caress the stately Bic crystal black ink pen in my hand. I haven't gone this long without writing in a while. It feels selfish to stop picking and just sit.

The Amish don't really ever rest. They wake, take care of animals, eat, work, work some more, eat again, do nightly chores, read the Bible, then go to bed. It's a very purposeful life. So, sitting here, letting myself indulge my passion for a few minutes, seems naughty.

I think about my character Miranda and how she would react. I tell her to go away, because if she shows up we will definitely get escorted out of the compound. But, Rachelle's excitement over her bond with Rebekah, just might do us in, as well. The tone of Helene's voice hinted at her mood. I scribble my first line down:

Contrary to popular belief, the Amish do get pissed off. It ain't all corn cobs and smiles.
Today, my little friend, Rachelle, is getting a taste of that first hand. I can only imagine her
turning on her Jewish mother setting and shaking her long suffering head and muttering "Oy
vay." I can all but guarantee that will not help the situation.

I tap the end of my pen on my chin and feel the creative juices starting to bubble uncontrollably. I put the tip of the pen to the paper again ready to continue.

Rachelle has been summoned to big house. She may or may not return. I wonder if her
New Yorkitude (New York attitude) will work out in her favor. In my humble opinion, it will
probably blow up in her face. I've seen her use it once on this trip. Poor lady at Dunkin
Donuts didn't know what hit her. It was fascinating. Being Southern, we don't accost people
verbally. We leave you scratching your head as to what we really mean when we say bless
your heart. It can mean many, many things.

I stop writing, pausing to look towards the direction of the house, hoping I don't see Rachelle with a hobo's bag at the end of a stick over her shoulder. I decide to hurry up and finish this little masterpiece and reluctantly go to her rescue.

So, in conclusion, I, knowing nothing about this world I was recently thrust in, now realize
one thing. We are all just people. People trying to get along, trying to make a difference.
We are trying to be a part of something without encroaching too much. People are
different.
As a writer, that knowledge puts a lot of possibilities out there. It's an endless source of
materials. Being smack dab in the middle is a very different problem. Should you
assimilate or remain your original self? That's something to think about.

I recap my pen and close the notebook and slip them back in my bag. I feel like a new person. My anxiety and stress are snoozing for the moment.

"Okay, Hargis, you've had your fix. Get your ass up and go try to pull Allen out of that hole she's dug for herself."

I brush the grass and leaves off of the back of my shorts, gather the buckets and my bag, then head for the house.

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The house is quiet and I raise my fist to knock, but think better of it. Surprise is always better. So, in true Gomer Pyle fashion, I throw open the door and look a teary eyed Rachelle in the eye. "I did the majority of picking, so roll up your sleeves and start washing. As for me, I'm going to walk my happy butt to the springs to soak my feet."

I can tell by the look of both women, they are thankful for my interruption. I wink at Rachelle, give her a mock salute and call out over my shoulder, "See ya', losers!"