Broken English by P. L. Gaus

Author:P. L. Gaus
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-09-20T22:00:00+00:00

17

Wednesday, June 11 9:15 A.M.

“OH, listen, darlin’,” one woman said to the other as they stood in front of Abigail’s little roadside stand. “They gather the reeds themselves, off the land. It’s the way they do everything, isn’t that right, dear? Off the land.”

Their husbands sat in the long Cadillac, dozing after an early lunch at the Harvestfest Authentic Amish Restaurant on Route 250 south of Kidron. The lady friend stood over Abigail’s folding table and peeled off bills to pay for five baskets.

“Well, I know they make everything at home. That much I do know,” the first chirped confidently. “I’ve been coming down here for four years now. But, do you, my dear?” she asked Abigail. “You know. Gather your own reeds off the land?” Both ladies waited eagerly for an answer.

Abigail had been selling baskets there beside the road for ten years. In those years, she had learned to listen to the prattlings of the English tourists without an opinion or a thought showing on her face. And she knew that a little broken English would help sales more than anything.

Abigail counted back change and said a few words in Low German. Then, haltingly, she said, “We gather, yes.”

In an audible whisper, the veteran of four day-trips to Holmes County explained to her neophyte friend, “They don’t speak that much English.”

Abigail looked up and, in Low German, said the equivalent of, “We gather the reeds by post. They come in crates from an art supply wholesaler out of New York City.”

The ladies smiled at the German, understanding nothing whatsoever of it, and then gathered up their baskets, roused their husbands, and drove off with the satisfying knowledge that they had garnered another secret of the mysterious Amish ways. Certain that they had unearthed another of the authentic mysteries of Holmes County, Ohio. Satisfied to have hunted down the kind of rare, personal experience that would carry the day at bridge games and lawn parties for weeks to come.

Abigail folded the bills, pushed them into a small cloth drawstring purse, dropped the purse into a brown grocery bag under her little table, and counted the baskets that remained. Only five hadn’t sold, and now it seemed that there might not be enough. She had started the day with twenty-six.

Earlier, when she had returned to the Daadihaus after her visit to the cabin, Abigail had sat in her rocker until dawn, filled with a peacefulness she had rarely known before. By the light of her kerosene lamp, she had hummed the young people’s songs, favorites at the Sunday socials, and she had changed the prices on all of her baskets. The first six or seven she had doubled, marking the new prices in pencil on each of the paper tags. Then, to be sure, she had changed them again, to triple her usual asking prices. Surely, she had thought, that would do it nicely. Triple the regular price on all of her baskets. It would take all day to sell even one.

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