Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [8]
These were the living quarters on which our whole experiment depended, the chance on which it hinged. Mr. Miller, the owner, who lived nearby on land presumably adjacent to and in back of this piece, had heard about us from the local church bishop, who in turn had taken over the role of go-between from the man on the bus. (Soon after passing on my name, this helpful messenger had moved to another community in search of a spouse.) Miller had recently bought the property in order to hold it until one of his grown children was ready to move in. In the meantime, he needed to rent it out. The right place was available at the right time.
The circumstance was a piece of astonishing good fortune and made our entire stay here possible. It also eased another potential difficulty. As Catholics we belonged to a religion theologically divided from the Amish and other Anabaptist groups. Long ago the priest Menno Simons had left the Church of Rome in search of a simpler, more personal spirituality. His followers, the “Mennonites,” gave rise to another even more minimalist offshoot, led by the stern Jacob Ammann, dubbed the “Amish.” Among Menno’s grievances with Catholicism was its practice of infant baptism, which he believed engendered lukewarm religious conformity. As a remedy he baptized adults only after they had made conscious assent to Biblical precepts, even if they had been baptized before (hence the word “Anabaptist,” or “Re-Baptizer”). Mary and I had both been baptized as infants, once and for all (albeit I as a Lutheran before later switching denominations). It was probably fair to say that on most other matters of Christian form or liturgy, Menno’s spiritual heirs still defined their positions as antitheses to Catholic ones.
Given all this potential friction, our landlord’s short-term financial interest may have oiled things considerably. At the same time, our theological distance granted us a certain objectivity. Any success that might arise from this venture would be the result of the change in our material conditions and technological approaches, not a prior religious affinity.
In the garden behind our cottage, we spied what appeared to be our own green field, with long faint rows of what I suspected were corn, potatoes, beans, and tomato plants, starting to sprout. I had offered to pay Mr. Miller to have one of his children plant a few vegetables for us before we arrived (it was now June 4), but I hadn’t expected a full garden.
The front door of the house was open, and we entered. The interior was almost as refreshing as the exterior. From the moment we walked in, I could see Mary was already enjoying her new home. She looked radiant. The three downstairs rooms were spacious and airy and freshly painted. Front and back porches made them seem even more expansive. And the rooms were furnished. I had been told the house would be empty, so we had expected to spend our first days scouring junk stores and yard sales. But all was supplied. This was a true favor. Catholic though we were, our landlord had gone out of his way to make our arrival comfortable.
As I moved out the back door and around the corner, I almost fell over him. At first I thought it was an elf. He was slender, a bit short, somewhat aged. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, blue denim broad-fall pants, and suspenders. His beard flowed thickly in gray and charcoal streaks from his face, and he seemed to stoop from its weight. From under his straw hat, he gazed up at me keenly.
His wife, following behind, half again his size, wore a long blue apron over her ankle-length blue dress and a round black traveling bonnet over her hair. There was a hint of mirth in her eyes, a hint of a quiver in her plumpness.