FanStory.com - Regular People and Othersby Rachelle Allen

As soon as Gretchen deposits her pails of blueberries onto the floor and breaks the grip of Helene's and my discussion, she and her flip-flops leave again. I can hear them receding rhythmically in the direction of the hot springs. That oasis has definitely been the saving grace of our existence here.

As if on cue, Ezra comes in, gives Helene a look, and she follows him out the door. I heave the pails of blueberries onto the massive wooden table between the windows and the well-water pump that stands, like a sentinel, in the middle of kitchen and set to work cleaning Gretchen’s impressive haul.

It’s wonderful to be alone. I immediately begin to indulge in one of my favorite control-freak pastimes: making a To Do list. This one is subtitled “Once Tova Arrives.”

Call Bobby, world’s sweetest husband, who must be crazed with worry about now. We never, in our twenty-five years together, have gone this long without checking in with each other.
Call Maria Antinarelli, New York City voice coach extraordinaire, to secure Rebekah’s spot for the next several weeks.
Give Rebekah the low-down on what to expect from her music-fueled Rumspringa experience.
Get a phone for Rebekah and teach her how to use it.
Take her shopping for “modern” clothes.
Get to the FanStory International Convention in New Jersey by Friday at 6 p.m., when Mrs. KT delivers the “Welcome” address.

Every time I stop using the hand pump, I can hear the muffled sounds being lobbed back and forth, like a tennis ball in a heated match, between Helene and Ezra. Although I can’t discern even one of the actual words they are saying, the staccato deliveries they’re using and the ever-rising volume and pitch make it obvious it is not love-talk going on out there. I am reminded of Poor Richard’s Almanac and the quote: Fish and visitors stink after three days. We arrived Sunday, and now it is Tuesday. Yep, ol’ Ben Franklin nailed it yet again.

A few minutes later, Helene returns to the kitchen. We lock eyes only the briefest of moments before she quickly retreats to the root cellar. Oy. The mayhem my presence has evoked here! G-d, please; am I doing the right thing?

Another second later, I hear Gretchen scream my name, followed by the sweetest words imaginable: “SHE’S HEEEEEERE!!!!”

I run as fast as my flat Amish work boots will carry me, straight into the welcoming arms of my g-ddess/cousin.

“TOVA!!!!! You’re an ANGEL!” I shriek.

We squeeze each other hard, and I suddenly realize I’m soaking her beautiful butterscotch-colored coif with my tears. She holds me at arm’s length, lowers her big designer sunglasses and gasps. “Oy vey! You look meshugana!”

I glance from my long, shapeless blue dress, replete with wet muslin apron, to Tova’s Ralph Lauren zebra-striped silk sweater set and black Halston wrap-around mid-length skirt and ask, between pathetic snuffles, “Did you bring me nice clothes?”

“Yes, yes, Bubbelah,” she says. “Not to worry. You’re safe now.”

“And high heels?” I ask in a voice so high and pathetic I would never guess it to be mine.

“Yes, Bubbelah.” Tova pats my hair. “Jimmy Choos, your favorite! And, best of all, they were on SALE!”

“I love you,” I say and have never meant those three words more in my entire life.

I come out of my reverie enough to notice the various reactions from those who’ve gathered ‘round. Ezra is actually smiling (who knew he even had teeth?), Rebekah and her brothers are agape, Helene is hollow-eyed and motionless as Hannah hugs her waist and gazes up at her, and Gretchen is giving a side-eye to a woman I don’t recognize who has a headful of dark ringlets and is leaning against the vehicle that’s parked behind my Mercedes.

In the words of author Maurice Sendak: Let the wild rumpus start!