Background
Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the Annual FanStory convention in Atlantic City, N. J. When Hargis's car breaks down. Now, until Wednesday, at the earliest, they are living wi
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So far, FanStorians, Gretchen and Rachelle, have taken off for the International Fanstory Writers Convention in Atlantic City, N. J. When Gretchen's "old reliable" Suburban breaks down, the two heroines find themselves being rescued by an unlikely source. Amish cavalry take them in to await help.
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I've been known to aggressively tap the snooze on my clock radio a time or two. I will quickly swipe the end alarm bell on my phone sending it careening off the edge of my nightstand. So, when I wake to the Amish alarm, I am both confused and a tad aggravated. This alarm crows. (It is the equivalent to a person who can't sing a note on key, belting out your very favorite song.) The room is still cloaked in darkness, and there is a slight coolness to the air.
I roll over and feel my hips squeal out in protest. I am once again reminded how I am not in a room at the Hilton. I am in the upstairs of a house with no electricity and paper thin walls. I am not getting a courtesy call from the front desk. No, I am being assaulted with the nails on chalkboard anthem of an over zealous rooster.
After the third time, I kick back my covers and painfully make my way over to the window. "Hey, dumb bird, shut up," I hiss.
It sounds off again.
"Will someone shoot that stupid chicken?" I call out into the darkness. And, as I am scouring the darkened landscape below, I see a familiar sight. Even in the dim light, I recognize the red hair of my friend. She is sitting on a bench outside of the other house. I open my mouth to call out but that freaking rooster starts its racket again. "Rachelle, go grab that stupid noisy rooster and please dispose of it."
Rachelle walks closer to my window. There she stands in a tarp of a dress. She smiles brightly, like all is right with the world. The name Pollyanna comes to mind. "I'll be right down."
I pull a fresh shirt and a pair of clean jeans out of my bag and proceed to dress in the dark. As I'm finger brushing my hair, I see the first streaks of sunlight curling up from the horizon. It's been a while since I've watched the sunrise. I make my way back over to the window, just in time to see Rebekah and Rachelle heading to the chicken coop, each with a basket on their arm.
I pull the ladder back chair over and sit. For the next ten minutes I watch as the blank canvas of sky is painted and repainted by God Himself. Maybe, despite the ear shattering alarm, today would be a good day.
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Before breakfast, Rachelle and I step away to regroup. Not sure why, because, my car is still dead and hope it hasn't been towed to some other location, and she still has no clothing to wear. We are still firmly planted in the nineteenth century, with people who don't know what coffee is, and can't tell a good old dirty joke to ease the tension. Once again, I am reminded that I am out of my element. My phone has sixty-four per cent left on its battery. I text my husband. I'm sure he's going out of his mind with worry. The little spinning thing just keeps spinning. Please, God, get my message through, even if, it takes all day.
"Helene, would you happen to have a comb I can use?" I say, as I get to the bottom of the stairs. "Sorry for the bed head," I mutter to Hannah. Hannah grins.
Rachelle and Rebekah come in with two baskets of brown eggs. Since Rachelle revealed her past farm experience, I can't giggle at the absurdity of her doing farm related chores. I can just dig up the memory of her in an over sized dress, with Amish toilet paper in her hair yesterday. That is a sight I will not ever forget.
"Helene, is there enough time for Gretchen and me to look at the flowers out back? I'd love for her to see them."
Since both Ezra and the boys were still busy with the animals, she nods. "Don't be too long. Breakfast is best when hot."
We escape out the door and step out into the cool purple and pink shadows of the early morning.
She tells me about her night. I can tell by just the look in her eyes what their singing meant to her. Music is her life. She sings without fear and hears music in every sound of nature. I envy her for that. The fact that she was able to be a witness to something so private and pure, has changed her.
I listen to her as she speaks and hear the writer in her, tiny details that are like flourishes on an unwritten page.
We both look to where Ezra leads two horses out of the barn. Without warning, one of them rears up, a frantic sound coming from it.
"What the hell?" I say, suddenly on high alert. "He's gonna get hurt if he isn't careful."
Rachelle rushes forward, leaving me in a wake of her dust. "Careful!" she calls, her ill fitting dress flapping in the breeze like a loose sail.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Rachelle? Remember, there isn't a doctor here. He won't be back until Wednesday. Don't think they have a spare racehorse for their Amish ambulance." I run along behind her, keeping my eyes on two things, the increasing fuss of the horse and Rachelle's backside as she hurries toward Ezra.
I watch in horror as Ezra stumbles, falling into the danger zone of horses' hooves. The boys are grabbing for the loose reins.
"Rachelle, be careful. I still have hopes of getting to the conference. Don't blow it by being a hero."
As all of this unfolds before my eyes, I wish for two things. That no one gets hurt and a pitch black cup of the strongest coffee known to man.
What do you think my chances of getting either of those things are? About the same as waking up in the Hilton tomorrow.
Author Notes
No horses, flowers or roosters were hurt in the making of this chapter. We are still waiting for a cell signal and I am still waiting for a good cup of coffee. Happy Sunday from Amish country. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.
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