Friday, July 21, 2017

SNL skit or my real life?
Sketch 2: The Visa Appointment

Our looming appointment date arrived: July 12th, 2017.  We were required to have separate appointment times for each person applying, whether they were an adult or a 1-year-old, and since no one answers phones or emails to tell me how long each appointment would be, I spaced them 30 minutes apart, hoping that Nico could take the first kid and I could take the other after I finished my own appointment.  Wondering if 30 minutes was enough time to complete one appointment and go to another in the strict French embassy environment was one of many little butterflies flappin' around in my stomach.

My mother-in-law dropped all four of us off at the drab, unfriendly front gate of the Ambassade de France.  We approached the window and handed over our appointment tickets for approval, and our licences as collateral for an entry pass.  After we filed through the metal detector, we were ushered up a street within the embassy to the cheerless 80's era building.  My butterflies sensed how close we were and started fluttering around even faster.

Actual posters of intimidation on
the walls of the French embassy.
Images found in online search.

Inside the building, the visa section was a room perhaps one third the size of the DMV, but otherwise just like it.  You know: rows of chairs and windows at the front, pull a number and watch for it to pop up on the digital screen.  There were huge posters on the wall advertising "3 years imprisonment and a € 300 000 fine" if you are caught "buying or carrying a counterfeit product" in France.  But how would I know if something I bought was counterfeit?  I decided I just wouldn't buy anything in France and dismissed the new butterflies that were trying to join the congregation in my stomach.

While we waited, we could hear everything everyone ahead of us was saying.  This was partly because the room was so small, and partly because there was thick glass between the applicants and the interviewers, so everyone had to yell their information through the tiny round grate in the middle of the window.  We heard the mumble of the interviewers' voices and then hollers of: "I'm a student!"  "Yes, I have family there!"  "Here is my plane ticket!"  "I plan to stay 8 months!"

The words of the interviewer in window number two were loud enough to be understood from the room, and he was apparently not having a good day.  His gruff voice interrogated rather than questioned and his scowl lines were permanent.  I sighed, certain I was bound for this man's window.  As my sweet children bopped up and down our isle and experimented with what would happen if they pushed the water cooler spigot down, I began to breathe slowly and meditate on the peace of Christ to prepare myself to be patient and kind.

There was a buzz and the digital red numbers on the screen changed.  Yep, my number to window two: the angry man.

I calmly picked up my documents and walked to his window.  "Why do you want to go to France?" he asked me sharply, as if annoyed at my very existence.  "My family and I are visiting a community in France," I began to tell him and the whole room behind me, not sure how specific he needed me to be.  He scowled and cut me off, "We have lots of communities in France.  What is this community?"  I started again, "It's called the Ark of Lanza del Vasto, they're a Christian monastic..."  He was already disinterested and asked for my documents.   I passed them to him through a slot in the window and took the break in his questions to ask one of my own.

The French embassy website lays out the process whereby someone can apply for a visa as the spouse of a French or European Union national, which includes almost as many documents as I had to gather to go as a regular American.  We did not go this route because we would need our church marriage certificate, the same document the Greeks had already refused, and we didn't want to risk being refused by the French since their visa required a steep application fee.  Not to mention, the Greeks had warned us that if we got a state marriage licence now, after the birth of both our boys, the government could not recognize our children as true sons of a Greek national.

However, a short time before that day's appointment, I had actually received a reply to the email I had sent to the embassy weeks before, asking a few questions to clarify the visa application process.  Having picked up in the text of my email that my husband was Greek, they ignored all questions and replied that an American spouse of a French or EU national could enter France without any paperwork, as long as they registered with the immigration office within three months of arrival.

As calmly as I could, I explained to the disgruntled man that I was married to a Greek and we wanted to know which of these two sources were correct.  He took my printed email and went to ask his manager.  When he returned, he pushed all my documents back through the window and told me that the information on my email was, in fact, correct, and washed his hands clean of me saying we only needed an official marriage certificate from the Greeks to send the immigration office in France.  The irony of this was that we already had difficulty acquiring exactly that document, which is what led us to apply for the French visa in the first place.

Balancing our two little buddies in the back of the room, Nico heard the whole thing.  He rushed up and asked the man if I and the boys could just apply as regular Americans anyway, which I was too nervous to have thought to say.  The man explained in a single curt sentence, obviously considering our well-being, that it would be more beneficial for us to go as family of an EU national, then turned his eyes away from us toward his computer to cut off communication and call the next number.  That was all.  Our turn was up.

We sheepishly sat back down in the long rows of seats.  As I organized my papers back into the briefcase, we discussed the situation in hushed voices.  I had booked this appointment two months ago and it had been the first available.  The security guards don't let people in without an appointment, so if we left we might not get back in for two more months.  It became clear to us that if we wanted to talk to the visa officers again and really stress applying as regular Americans, we had to do it today.  Nico suggested I get another number.  My butterflies had multiplied and were flying around so furiously that I was almost shaking as I reached for another number.  I don't know if anyone has ever gotten a second number at the French visa section, and I was sure that if the ambassadors thought someone might, it would have certainly been outlawed with a poster on the wall.

Nico and the kids exited the small visa section room to wait in the large entryway just outside, where they could be a little louder and move around a little more.  I sat and waited, praying and breathing slowly to attempt some sort of serenity.  The buzzer sounded and the numbers changed on the screen until I saw that mine was next.  Oh whose window will I get?!  BZZ.  I looked up and the dreaded window number two was flashing next to my ticket number again.

"NOO!" my butterflies wailed from within me, silent to the room around us.  I pasted on a calm face and as I stood up I made eye contact with the angry man.

"NOO!" the angry man wailed from within the window, not hiding his scorn from those waiting in the room.  He jumped up waving his hands to shoo me away, butterflies and all, and to further clarify hollered, "I'm done with you!  You will see the manager!"  He sat back down and quickly began pushing buttons on his computer.

Keeping my calm face, I also sat back down and sorted out my emotions.  Not the angry man but the manager?  Wonderful!!!  I would love to speak to the manager instead!  A couple more numbers buzzed through, giving me time to wonder if the manager would be nicer.  Did the manager train the angry man in interrogation skills?

Window number three's applicant finished and my number buzzed up.  My butterflies continued to fly around so frantically that I made a mental note about where the bathroom was and wondered if I should leave my documents behind in the window or try to gather them if I had to run.

The manager was the same person who had confirmed the information in the printed email I had given the angry man, so she already knew a bit of the situation.  Keeping myself composed, I explained that we wanted to apply as Americans even though my husband was Greek.  With a baffled look she shrugged and said, "I guess you can do that."  I was caught off guard by her nonchalant answer, having gotten used to the strict rules and curt responses of the French.  Quickly regaining myself, I started pulling out documents to give her before she could change her mind.

She took all the documents I provided for myself and the boys and gently asked some clarifying questions.  Her manner of communication, including actually listening to my responses, was a relief.  There was no more angry interrogation.  By the end of the interview I was surprised that I felt close to peaceful.

Necessary visa application item, listed as optional
on the official embassy website.  Don't affix the
stamp and mailing label before you turn it in!
They like to do it themselves.
Image found in online search.
Finally, with all the papers in order, she requested, "Give me your self-addressed envelope and I will then send you to my colleague to get your fingerprints and payment for the application."  The website said you could either pick up your passport in person or bring an envelope and they would mail the passport back to you.  My parents-in-law live very close, and since the required envelope was very specific and expensive, I thought we could easily just come back and pick up our passports.

"Oh no, we don't do that anymore.  You have to have an envelope," the manager told me flatly.  Boy, these people love to keep surprises up their sleeves!  I asked if I could go get one and bring it right back.  "Sure," she replied, "if you can get it here before noon."  It was about 10:45.

I gathered my things and went straight out to Nico in the lobby.  "They accepted the application!" I happily announced, then told him the news about the envelope.  I kept the kids since I wasn't sure if they needed to get their fingerprints scanned or not, while he called his mother to purchase an envelope before she returned to pick us up.

The manager's colleague turned out to be the angry man, who was now strangely indifferent to me, perhaps since I wasn't bothering him with a visa application.  Yanni was feeling like he wanted to be held while I was getting my fingerprints scanned, and the angry man suggested I put him down to use two hands to position my fingers just so, and then apologized that I had to put the baby down...!  At last, to make it all final, I handed him my payment hoping they wouldn't take my money for an application they already knew they were going to reject.

I walked the boys out to my mother-in-law's car and traded them for the fancy envelope.  When I returned to the angry man to pass off this missing piece to my otherwise complete application, he looked over everything to make sure it was ok, then turned to me and said, almost amiably, "Alright, you're free as a bird."  Or maybe a butterfly?  :)

Thursday, July 20, 2017

SNL skit or my real life?
Sketch 1: The French Embassy

If you read about our experience with the Greek embassy, you may already know that the boys and I were planning to go to France as dependents of a European Union citizen (Nico), but 5 months into the process of gathering all the necessary information and with only 3 months left until we hoped to leave the country, we had to shift gears quickly to apply for a visa at the French embassy to go to France as Americans.

Before we were certain the Greek route wouldn't work, I had done a bit of research on the French embassy's website about acquiring a "long-stay visa".  I read the general information section, the long-stay visa section, and the FAQ section, among a couple other articles on the website.  I accidentally discovered that each French embassy location in the US had it's own webpage of required documents to obtain a long-stay visa.  Each one was slightly different, which helped me because the other websites explained some of the requirements in more depth, but also confused me since other locations asked for more specific items than the office in DC.  I had a couple questions that weren't answered anywhere and I found nothing that mentioned what to prepare for a child visa.  So, naturally, I thought I would just call and ask them.

The glaring results of a
simple Google Search.
With a quick Google search, I easily found the phone number for the embassy office in Washington DC, which I'm sure all of the ambassadors would cringe to hear.  After a couple rings, an automated message greeted me in French and then in English.  I navigated through the labyrinth of options to get to the visa section, where another automated message began, "You have reached the visa section at the French embassy.  Due to high call volume, the staff at the visa section cannot answer your call."

The recording continued on about how to find their website, but I got stuck on those last words.  "What?" I thought, "Well if they don't answer the phone they will surely let me leave a message."  No, the recording ended and so did the phone call.  How is anyone supposed to get questions answered?

I went back to the FAQ section of their website where they had information on how to email them.  The rules for email communication with the visa section are very strict.  I had to include my name, date of birth, passport information, gender, and more at the beginning of the email or they would not answer me.  If any question I asked had anything to do with something already answered on the website, they would not answer the entire email.  I wrote up my questions, proofread the email 100 times, held my breath, and hit the send button.

Immediately an automatic email response appeared in my inbox.  Among various curt suggestions to several possible reasons I may have emailed them, my eyes locked in on one sentence in particular: "Due to a very high number of requests, please note that you may not receive any reply to your query."  These people need to hire more staff!  Couldn't they take it as a compliment that so many people want to visit their wonderful country and help us out?

Within the next week, Nico and I had a turn for a date in our weekly-rotating, childcare-sharing, date night.  I brought a notebook along on the date and after dinner we leaned in to do some serious brainstorming about how to get my questions answered.  We weren't interested in paying the French embassy $113 per person, including children, and risk a visa refusal without all our papers in order.  The FAQ section was very clear on the topic, "No.  There are no refunds for refused visas."  I can't help but imagine most of the answers in the FAQ section said with arms crossed and a scowl on the face.

The best idea from our date night brainstorm was that I would call the embassy and try to talk to a person, any person, about my questions without framing them as visa questions.  Pushing aside the reality that I'd rather bike up Massanutten mountain with square wheels than weasel around people to get answers, or bargain with merchants for cheaper prices or anything, the next day I took a deep breath and dialed the phone number, sitting with better posture than usual to represent how bold I would be.  The automated greeting began in French and I already knew to push "two" for English, which increased my confidence.  I listened carefully to all the options and chose zero for "other departments".

Without any time on hold, a real live woman answered in French right away!  Now was my chance.  "Bonjour, hello," I began, encouraging myself by deciding there was no way she could hear how fast my blood was rushing, "I was just interested in finding out some information on traveling in France..."  I had to stop talking because I was cut off by her curt, unwavering inquiry, "Are you calling about a visa question?"  She must've been the one who wrote the website!  I kicked myself for not getting a better intro sentence from my shrewd Peruvian husband.  My confidence deflated and all I could do was respond with a defeated, "Uh, yes."  She quickly retorted, "We do not answer visa questions over the phone."  Before I could throw any questions at her to see if she would accidentally answer one, she suggested I send them an email and gave me a different email address than I had already sent a message to.  I sheepishly thanked her and hung up the phone.

Back at the computer, I forwarded the message with my questions to the new email address and an automatic response instantly popped into my inbox.  Déjà vu!  The text was shorter for this automatic response than the previous one, but still very clear. "If your request concerns issues for visas for France, no answer will be given by e-mail."  Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, couldn't have guessed.

A week later I had no response from the French embassy in my inbox, and out of sheer desperation I thought I'd call again and attempt to convince them to at least give me two answers.  I pushed "zero" again since "other departments" are staffed with live human people.  A woman answered, perhaps the same one, and I explained that I'd emailed about visas and hadn't gotten a response in a week, how long would it take?  She told me very assuredly, as if it had been the case all along, that I could call the visa section between 2pm and 5pm to talk to someone.  I don't know if it was a trick to stop talking to me, but it worked for that moment.  I was hopeful to hear this news, albeit confused.  Had I never called between those hours?!  The next day I called the visa section within the appropriate time window expecting a new response, but the same old "due to high call volume we do not answer the phone" message was playing.  Wishing I had notarized the French woman's words, I called her extension again.

This is a real ad from the French Embassy website.
Will any of the 42.7 million euros go to hiring
email and phone agents in their US visa department??
"Bonjour, I was told I could call the visa section between 2pm and 5pm and they aren't answering the phone." I spoke into the mouthpiece more confidently this time than ever.  The woman responded, speaking very quickly in her French accent, "Yes, well, they don't do that anymore.  They're very busy right now.  Everyone is working on the election coming up this weekend.  You have to send them an email."  The conversation went nowhere, and I should mention that the French presidential election had completed a few weeks before this phone call.  Emmanuel Macron was already announced as president.  I didn't ever figure out if "the election coming up [that] weekend" was a some kind of post-election election or another ploy to get off the phone with me.

Nico and I decided we would just go ahead and do our best, trusting that if God wanted us to go to France then the French people wouldn't stop us.  The only thing left to do was rent a dolly to roll our entire file cabinet into the embassy office for our appointment, giving us the ability to pull out any extra documents at whim to deflect lurking ambushes to our application.  (Just kidding.)

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Comedy and Tragedy at The Greek Embassy

A little while ago I shared the most updated information on our visa process with my mom and she burst out laughing and exclaimed, "You need to send this to Saturday Night Live!"  With more outlandish experiences since then, I thought it would be worth recording the saga.

It all begins at the end of 2016 when we began to look into how we'd get ourselves to France.  Americans can go for 3 months or less without any paperwork, but to go for a year we'd need a special visa.  We decided that Nico would apply for a Greek passport and the boys and I could enter France as the family of an European Union member, with a backup plan of any or all of us going as Americans.  Greece and France are both part of the Schengen Area, a group of European countries that signed an agreement in which they abolished border checks across boundaries between Schengen countries, and agreed to allow citizens of other Schengen countries to live and work without a visa.

Greek embassy in Washington DC.
Image found in online search.
In December 2016, with a warning from his brother that the entire Greek government is "one giant DMV", Nico called the Greek embassy in Washington DC to begin the process of acquiring his Greek passport.  The first step, we already knew, was to get his mandatory military service waived.  A year or so before, we had received a letter and a voicemail, both in solid Greek, requesting that Nico show up in Athens to serve his time.  (How did they get our address and phone number?!)  Luckily Nico's brother speaks fluent Greek, or else we'd have had to ask Daniel and Brian, the most scholarly of our neighborhood's New Testament Greek students, to apply their ancient written skills to our modern spoken phone message.  Ultimately we knew the bottom line was: no military service, no passport.

On the phone in December 2016, Nico spoke with Mr. Tsonis, who said that waiving military service was "no problem", Nico only needed to make an appointment at the embassy.  Nico asked what to bring to the appointment and Mr. Tsonis told him not to worry about it, that they would talk about it when he got there.  (But why couldn't they tell us on the phone?  It's all mystique to me!)

Not owning a car makes it more than a little effort for us to get 130 miles away to Washington DC, and Nico did quite a bit of organizing to get himself back and forth to all the meetings over the next six months at the Greek embassy.  Sometimes he could coordinate an appointment at the embassy with someone going to or fro the airport in DC, or sometimes he could find a ride on Zimrides, a ride-sharing website.  (It's all backseat to me!)

Nico caught a ride to DC to meet with the Greeks in mid-January 2017.  At the appointment, Mr. Tsonis welcomed Nico into his office and asked, "So, where's your family from?"  They spent the bulk of the time discussing Greek heritage, then at the very end of their meeting, Mr. Tsonis handed Nico a sheet of paper with a list of documents he needed to gather in order to prove he hadn't lived in Greece for the last 11 years.  (It's all "not from Crete" to me!)

Between the December phone call and January appointment, we were given a good feel of the slowness and inefficiency to come.  If the ambassador had mailed Nico that single sheet of paper, Nico could've prepared all the required documents and brought them in January.  Over the next eight months, Nico had many more appointments and each time they would tell him the next step, which often could've been completed in tandem with whichever step he had just finished.  On the bright side, everyone we met with was personable and very laid back.  They love an opportunity to talk about where their ancestors are from or what wonderful crops grow in Greece!  (It's all sugar beets to me!)

One of the hoops Nico had to jump involved calling Australia during their business hours, beginning at 10pm our time, to gain proof of his semester abroad in Melbourne during college.  First he needed to speak with the Australian Department of Immigration to request an official proof of entry into Australia, and second to the Greek embassy in Melbourne to acquire a proof of residency there.  In order to process his request, the Greek embassy in Australia needed a certified copy of his passport from the Greek embassy in the US, which meant another trip to DC, **sigh**.  The Greek embassy in Australia also needed "a relative or friend of [ours to] come to [their] office and pay the equivalent of Euros 50,00, which is the administrative fee for the certificate."  Since Nico's friends were other transient college students like himself, most of whom he's not in contact with anymore, this felt unachievable.  (It's all hide-and-seek to me!)  Thankfully, the email from the Australian Greek embassy went on to say, "In case it is not possible for someone to come on your behalf, let us know, so we will able to notify you the Consulate's Bank account."

Moisés and Yaya Besi watching TV
in October 2015
In May I opted to join Nico to DC for an appointment.  We had hope that his final step would be finished and we could shift to processing the boys and me.  I was excited to go because I love seeing how other cultures work and delight in noticing subtle differences here and there.

The embassy looked large from the outside, but inside opened to a tiny waiting room.  As Nico signed in with the clerk, Theodosis, I found a seat and looked around.  A television played romantic scenes of gorgeous tourist sites in Greece, and I could see into someone's office.  He was on YouTube, watching the same Greek news and talk show that Nico's grandmother watches every morning.  (It's all... Eek! I don't mean to be offbeat, but the show is all in Greek, which I don't speak.)

We were called in rather quickly and shown to Mr. Gatos, the ambassador who takes care of passports.  "Do you speak Greek?" he asked us and seemed discouraged that we didn't.  It turned out that his English wasn't very strong, but we were able to communicate fairly easily anyway.  Nico handed over his most recently gathered papers and Mr. Gatos, though he had a computer on his desk, pulled out several ledgers and leafed through until he found Nico's information.  He referenced a file cabinet and many books and ledgers while we were there.  (It's all antique to me!)

Nico's turn finished and we moved on to beginning the process to obtain Greek citizenship for the spouse and children.  "All we had to do" was produce our marriage license.  We found out in January that "all you have to do" is a phrase of false hope, which actually means "all you have to do that I can think of right now while I'm talking to you".  (It's all doublespeak to me!)

Guarding our hearts against any hope of procedural swiftness, Nico and I presented our church marriage certificate, an elegant document with handwritten calligraphy by our nomadic Christian friend Keshiah, and which Nico and I had signed together on the hottest wedding day that there ever has been.

"What is this?" the ambassador said with disdain in his thick Greek accent, pushing the document back at us.  Nico explained, "We're members of the Mennonite church.  We signed this document with our pastor and witnesses.  We even had it notarized."  Mr. Gatos kept staring at the page in front of him, probably noticing how beautiful it was.  I added, "The United States accepts this document for all legal processes; we use it for our taxes."  To explain that we wanted our marriage to be based in the church and not the state might have been a foreign concept to him; there is no separation of church and state in Greece.  All of a sudden, Mr. Gatos yelled in Greek.

Now, I worked in an office for a few years and I've seen how other white collars function in the US.  When you want to talk to someone, even when you're in the next cube over, you pick up your phone, dial their extension, and talk quietly and politely through the mouthpiece instead of peering over the fuzzy 4-foot wall, despite the reality that they could probably hear you if you spoke quietly and politely without the phone.  This is apparently not universal office etiquette.  Almost immediately after the shout, Theodosis appeared and Mr. Gatos handed him our certificate.

"What is this?" Theodosis said with disdain in his thick Greek accent, pushing the document back at us.  We explained again.  He took hold of our certificate and inspected it as the two men spoke briefly in Greek.  Then, Theodosis turned to us again and said in English, "No, you have to get a document from the government," and nonchalantly tossed our beautiful certificate onto the desk.  (It's all bleak to me!)

Outside the embassy, Nico and I wondered together if we should give up this route for entry to France or even begin to consider giving up our original conviction about the marriage license.  By choosing a church certificate instead of a state license, we knew that some things may eventually be hard for us.  This was a battle that we, along with others in our church congregation and even more folks throughout Anabaptist history, were willing to choose, as one way to practice living into our citizenship in God's kingdom.

"France in the United States", as they say.
French Embassy in Washington DC.
Image found in online search.
We realized that if the boys and I couldn't go to France as family of a Greek citizen, we'd have to shift gears quickly to begin the visa process as Americans.  Since we were child-free in DC, we decided to do some research about American visas to France at the French embassy, which we assumed wouldn't be too far away since we were on embassy row (but actually it's quite a distance between the two, especially if you accidentally go a slightly indirect route nearly doubling the journey...).

Now, why would we go in person to ask questions instead of simply call or email them??  Stay tuned for the next posts!  It turns out that blocking communication is a key element of humor for the French, who are very funny.

Monday, July 10, 2017

The (Very) Old Order Mennonites

**Out of respect for the community's desire to avoid publicity, I have used a fictitious name for the nearby town and any individual in this internet post.  I am happy to share more specific info in person.  Also, sorry this post is super long; the stories just shot out of my fingers!**

In the Summer of 2016, Nico went to Tillers International, a traditional skills and agricultural school in Kalamazoo, Michigan, to take a draft horse farming class.  In sharing his desire to live and farm petrol/electric-free, he learned of a plain group in Riverside, Kentucky that lived very primitively.  For example, Nico heard that they chose to use a horse-powered threshing machine, a huge 19th century implement, which effectively means they were growing grain without a combine.

Now to really understand what's going on here, you may need a minute of back story (I did!).  Nico got this crash course while at his class at Tillers.  Getting grain off the field is very challenging without fossil fuels.  A combine is a sizable modern machine that streamlines (or literally combines) three processes - reaping, threshing, and winnowing - right in the field, and is run at high RPMs which requires an internal combustion engine of some kind.  The advantage is that you can allow the grain to cure on the stalks in the field.  Before the combine came out, you had to cut the stalks down a week or so before they were cured, bind them into sheaves, and then lean the sheaves together in shocks to dry in the sun.  If you were late to cut the stalks down, the cured grain would mostly fall out of the grain heads and onto the ground as you were mowing it.  Amish and other old-fashioned farmers were hard-pressed not to incorporate the combine since it was such a labor-saving device.

A horse-drawn grain binder, "The King of the Harvest Field".
Image found in online search.
All that being said, it's very hard to find people or communities growing grain petrol/electric-free.  The grain binder, a predecessor to the combine, is the icon of the pre-modern times and is a dead-giveaway of a "technology holdout".  Nico still had hope to find someone knowledgeable about these obsolete techniques, especially since the grain binder was once such a common piece of farm equipment.  It can be still be maintenanced today, however, the canvas conveyor belt that feeds the cut hay into the binder needs to be specially made.

On the train back to Virginia after his class in Michigan, Nico struck up a conversation with an Amish couple and ended up talking late into the night on their shared 15 hour train ride.  Right away, Nico learned that this man was the owner of an Amish farm equipment manufacturing company, and having heard at Tillers that there are still Plain communities who stock the canvas conveyor belts, naturally, he brought up the grain binder.  Little did he know that the grain binder was such a line in the sand that separates the progressives from the holdouts.  The man said that some Amish still use grain binders, and he'd heard they still use such machines in Riverside, but that Nico was "asking about a tool from a bygone era".

Two horses walk around a horse power sweep.
Image found in online search.
Now, when you get told you're doing something "from a bygone era" by an Amish man, you may start to feel like you're headed in a bit of a problematic direction.  But if you know Nico, "no" is not a period, it's a comma.  Eventually Nico tracked down a video of 8 horses, bridled together around a carousel, called a "horse power sweep".  The horses were following each other in a circle to run a saw mill.  And if discovering that video wasn't thrilling enough, after some further research he learned that the particular group of Old Order Mennonites in the video were committed to living without petroleum, electricity, or the internal combustion engine.  What's more, they were based out of Riverside, that same small rural Kentucky town that was referenced at Tillers and by the Amish man on the train!

Months later, in October 2016 at a farming event led by Anne and Eric Nordell at Beech Grove Farm in Trout Run, Pennsylvania, Nico initiated a conversation with some Amish folks attending his same workshop.  He asked if they'd ever heard of the Old Order Mennonite community in Riverside, Kentucky.  One man at the conference said he did believe he knew someone within the requested community, but didn't have contact info on him at the moment, so he took down Nico's mailing address in pencil, on the torn off corner of a piece of old newspaper from his driver's van.  He stuck the note in his pocket and said he'd let Nico know when he found the address.  Not too promising.

Months later, in late Winter 2017, a letter arrived in the mail.  The Amish man from the conference answered his request!  The man wrote the shortest of short letters, greeting Nico and giving the mailing address for his contact in Riverside, who we'll call Abram.  Nico was glowingly delighted to now have in his possession, the contact information for someone in the only Old Order Mennonite community living fully petrol/electric-free in the United States.  Nico quickly wrote Abram a letter introducing himself and asking about the Riverside community.

More months later, in late Spring 2017, a letter arrived in the mail.  Abram answered Nico's letter!  They corresponded over the next several months.  Eventually Nico asked if we could visit their community.  Abram said we could visit, when would we come?  At that time we had a host of details to work out for our upcoming trip to France and an entire house to pack up, so it was our turn to take some time before responding to the letter.  We eventually made arrangements for July.

The group in Riverside is much larger, more spread out, and has been around quite a bit longer than Caneyville, the community we visited prior to Riverside.  Around 100 families live within a seven-mile radius, where each family runs their own farm and business.  The community came out of a leading from God to take a more radical stance on technology, by maintaining their traditional, pre-engine farming methods.

Finally, July had come, and we found ourselves in Kentucky.  As we drove through the countryside getting very close to the address Nico had written to and received letters from, we began to see row after perfect row of all types of vegetables.  Beautiful tomato plants, melons, squash and pumpkins, eggplant, onions, and tons of yellow peppers.  At the road's dead end, we found Abram's locally renowned market, just closing up for the day.  A large percentage of their market patrons are Bosnian, who had come to the US as refugees, and to whom yellow peppers are an important cuisine item.  Abram, probably in his late fifties, and his unmarried, adult sons were bustling about, making sure the shop was in order for the next day, and they were a lively bunch!  I was at first reminded of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, except there were only four brothers, and as far as I could tell, none of them were planning to cart off helpless maidens through the snowy mountain pass to be trapped, and eventually fall in love with the lonely, unsocialized men.  (Ugh, who decided that plot line is ok?!)

Abram's daughter and sons.
No, just kidding, her dress is not "plain"!
Image found in online search.
But seriously, these guys didn't seem lonely and did appear to be socialized, and they were nearly bouncing they were so excited.  They boisterously welcomed us into their home where their mother and sister had prepared a delicious dinner.  They had even bought ice cream for dessert, which I imagine was a pretty big deal for them to have in the dead of summer.  When everyone sat down to the meal, Abram guided the overflowing table to bow their heads to give thanks in silence.  In the midst of the hustle and bustle of excitement and arrival, the still silence washed over us as we felt the presence of the Spirit blessing and filling our hearts.

Abram and his wife had set up a similar schedule to what we had in Caneyville, but instead of a home base to return to each evening, we were to have lunch and dinner with a different family each day, then go to a new household to sleep each night and to join for breakfast the next day.  We were there Thursday dinner through Monday breakfast, and it was a whirlwind!  In that time we visited with upwards of 10 families, plus any folks that stopped in to meet the visitors from "society".  What irony that the Old Orders whirlwinded the fast-paced city folk with their slow-and-steady ways!

Between Caneyville and Riverside, I told our story a hundred times.  At some point I had a cultural realization that even though Nico had written them many letters, which were somewhat passed around each community, one single hard copy of a letter can't touch everyone.  Most people didn't know a thing about us.  This opened my eyes in two ways.  First, I couldn't believe their generosity and trust!  They really welcomed us into their sheltered company with great hospitality, especially not knowing who we were.  I didn't feel like there were any walls blocking our connections, though I know there are many things about us that they don't want influencing their community.

And second, though they're surrounded by the information age, they have done a remarkable job preventing it's influence.  I am a fish in the water of these modern times, and I sometimes don't even realize how I'm affected by the systems of the day.  If I had received an email (because it would more likely be an email than a letter) from someone that wanted to visit us, and I had organized folks in our community to host them, I could instantaneously forward the email to all the hosts at once, sharing who the new people were that our community had agreed to entertain.  This was not the case for them.  When I was in their company, I could tell our same story with the same words every time, over and over again, not having to embellish anything unless to amuse myself.  For some reason this second realization of experiencing how people function without modern communication systems was particularly striking to me.

Early on in our visit, we were introduced to Hannah, a ninety-something-year-old woman and the widow of the community's founder.  She shared with us that before they resolved to adopt stricter technology boundaries, her church took a stand against growing tobacco, a very cutting edge decision since this was before smoking was a proven health concern.  In addition, we assumed they had only tasted the internal combustion engine era and quickly rejected it, still skilled in their old ways, but Hannah told us she hadn't washed clothes by hand before they made the switch, and the group had to re-learn many things that had been lost over the several generations that tested the new technologies.  Nico asked her what it was like when she and her husband left the church they were in to start this new one with their spirit-led technology convictions.  She thought a minute and told us, basically, that it's just what they had to do.

Since we're interested in and have been transitioning to a lifestyle similar to their own, I really enjoyed seeing how these folks lived completely off-grid in every way.  In our own lives, we've yet to let go of the flush toilet (though we've made some valid attempts), washing machine, and hot water heater, so amidst my interest to see any and all systems they had, I was specifically interested in these three.  I was intrigued that each house had slightly different systems and enjoyed seeing all the options.  Some got their water from a spring and some from a cistern.  Some had pumps inside the house and some had regular sink spigots.  Some had showers and some only bathtubs.

Everyone had an outhouse.  A few were located within a closed porch but most were a few steps away from the house.  They were all pretty stinky, and I made a mental note that we needed to do some good research before relinquishing the flush toilet, to avoid nearly unbreathable conditions in the necessary.  Also, we've seen some ingenious latrine options in a couple communities east of Charlottesville in Louisa, Virginia.  Our overnight hosts offered us chamber pots for our bedrooms, a practice I only imagined in ancient history, but obviously still useful in this context, allowing us to not have to go outside in the middle of the night.

While we were in Riverside, life's realities found us needing to do laundry again, providing a hands-on learning experience!  We heard some folks had horse treadmills to run their washing machines (like the one we used in Caneyville), but the family we were staying with in Riverside when our laundry-washing needs hit, did not.  I was glad for this, to get to "study" under someone who had a lifetime experience of hand-washing clothes, with no alternative of an electric machine across the street... thanks, Wettigs!  :)

Washing machine - ringer on the left and stick on the right
to pull back and forth, swinging an agitator in the basin.
Image found in online search.
The family had added a room with a cement floor attached to the back of the log cabin they had inherited.  In this room was their wood cook stove, their washing station, and a bathtub surrounded by sheets hung as a privacy curtain.  When done with the bathtub and washing basin, we let the water drain right onto the floor, and the water flowed to the middle of the room were a drain took it out of the house.  Moisés and Yanni loved splashing on the flooded floor!  A daughter in her mid-twenties was still living at home and she offered to do my laundry for me, but I wanted to learn!  We filled a washing machine (see photo) with water from a hand pump and washed my clothes in three loads.  Moisés and Yanni caught the clothes as they came through the ringer to be gathered in a basket, then we hung them on the line outside to dry.  The ringer doesn't get nearly as much water out as the spin cycle on an electric machine, but I pushed away my doubt that the clothes would dry by dinner to trust that these people know what they're doing!  And it all worked out.  When we arrived at the home that was providing our overnight accommodations later that day, our dried and neatly folded clothes had already been delivered to the house!  That's hospitality!

Water was heated on the wood cook stove, where the "home fires" were always burning.  Many houses had one stove indoors for the winter and another outdoors for the summer.  The models they used were unlike ours at the Downstream Project, in the sense that they had huge fireboxes and the air intake could be shut down to almost nothing.  This allowed them to keep it running from dawn to dusk without burning through much wood.  A pot of water was always on the stove top, slowly heating on the gently smoldering fire, and they could easily rekindle the fire again to make the next meal.

Out of the many things I didn't expect, hot showers was near the top of the list.  I was pretty sure we'd have to forgo showers for baths, or at least do some real fancy footwork to make a functional shower if we eventually abandoned indoor plumbing one day.  In several houses we stayed in, they had a tank of water on the second floor that could be filled with hot water, with some cold mixed in to the desired temperature, hooked up to a gravity-fed shower on the floor below with decent water pressure.  Simple, cool!

Since Riverside is nearly 10 times larger than Caneyville, there was more age diversity.  In Caneyville every family we stayed with had young children, but in Riverside, though I'm sure there were many young families, most that we met had children in their teens and twenties.  After almost every meal we had, the parents would suggest to their pre-teen or teenage children to watch our kids so we could talk, that is, if their kids hadn't already offered.  By my own experiences, when I try to imagine a life where the women are raising a bushel of children, all while minding the home and family needs, without the use of modern technology, I just can't imagine how they do it without burning out.  Nico is sure that their ability to do all of this happily stems from their strong family unity and child-training traditions.  I learned that in this time-honored culture, older families send their pre-teens and teens around to help the younger families out, doing their every day home tasks and chores!  They don't just watch children so the mother can get some work done, they willingly wash dishes, make dinner, and do laundry for the mothers.  I was very interested and excited to hear this inside information of how the community takes care of itself.

Speaking of big families, an eye-saucer moment happened for me at lunch one day.  We had been invited to the home of a couple in their seventies.  As the wife was setting the table, she told me about her family.  "How many grandchildren do you have?" I inquired.  "67," she replied casually, "and 26 great-grandchildren."  I was not able to hide my astonishment and burst out, "Wow, 67 grandchildren!  Isn't that a lot?"  But logically, it's not!  If families all average eight kids, then they would also average 64 grandchildren and 512 great-grandchildren.  I had just never processed these numbers and it was hard to fathom.  That's nearly as many grandchildren as my entire grade level in elementary school, and more great-grandchildren than there were students in the entire building: kindergarten through fifth grade.

At one point during our visit, the schedule that Abram had set up for us needed a slight shift, which meant that we needed to cancel a pre-planned buggy ride transporting us between two locations.  In favor of face-to-face communication, members of the church in Riverside don't have telephones, so we couldn't call and tell the couple not to come.  I really appreciated seeing how this change in plans was worked out.  We felt bad because we thought it would be a huge burden to communicate this new message without the instant communication methods we're familiar with, but to them it wasn't a big deal, just a part of daily life.  The message had to be communicated in person, and because they had always lived telephone-free, they had several ideas how to deliver it.  We ended up simply stopping by their house and leaving a note on their front door because they weren't home... no big deal!

Nico shows Moisés how the water wheel works.
One of our overnight hosts happened to be the owner of the community's saw mill.  Though Riverside's saw mill had a horse power sweep, the majority of the year they ran the mill with a water wheel, engineered to run off a man-made pond (dug out with implements pulled by horses!) that overflowed through a tunnel under the mill.  It rained quite a bit while we visited the Caneyville and Riverside communities, which is unusual for the summer months, so the pond was unexpectedly full.  When we told the family who owned the mill how interested we were, they invited us to come down and see the water wheel in operation.

Nico and Moisés posing with the saw mill's
log tongs.  The tongs grasp the log, and
stay clamped on by the gravity of log's own
weight.  On a 4:1 block & tackle, it can then
be easily raised or lowered, or moved left
or right on a track above Nico's head.
On our way down to the mill, I asked the daughter of the family, "You live so close to the saw mill, isn't it loud?  Can you hear it from your house?"  She seemed surprised at the question and said that she'd never heard it from the house.  Arriving at the mill, no one was wearing earplugs, and Nico brought the volume level to my attention: only the moderate sound of a blade cutting wood, as when one saws by hand.  It turns out that the ear-splitting, high-pitched scream I think of with electric saws comes from the motor, not the wood being cut.

We were invited to join the Riverside community for their church service on Sunday morning.  Their congregation is so large that they have two meeting houses, which take turns hosting a service in English, very helpful for "seekers" like us, with the other service being in German.  I asked what to expect in the service and was told, "Well, it's a couple hours long... first we sing a song, then we have the first sermon, which is usually short, only about 30 minutes, then the second sermon.  Then we sing another song to close."  Nico hadn't asked what to expect, so he was surprised.  :)

On Sunday morning before the church service, we had breakfast with a couple who still had one daughter in her early twenties at home.  As I helped the mother-daughter duo clean up breakfast, the mother questioned my choice to wear earrings.  Throughout my time in Caneyville and Riverside, I had kept my hair in a low bun on the back of my head, feeling like this was the most respectable way to look since I don't wear a head covering.  Until Sunday morning's breakfast, I had never once given thought to my earrings.  By pulling my hair back, they showed more obviously... whoops!  I didn't have a good answer to this woman's inquiry, and I appreciated her boldness to have asked.  The mother assumed that people get their ears pierced for a showy appearance, as if to say, "Look at me!" and I'm sure there are some people for whom that's true, but it's not true for me.  I often forget about my earrings and hardly change them, so then why have them?  It was a great question, but since my brain takes a while to mull things over, I didn't have an answer until much later.  After we were already gone, I realized that wearing earrings is the same to me as the women in their community having different colored dresses.  It's not showy, but it is fun!

We arrived at the meeting house in two buggies, since our family plus our host family wouldn't all fit in one.  The men gathered in a circle on the right side of the building and the women on the left.  As each new person arrived, they walked around the appropriate circle to give "a holy kiss" to everyone in line, then take their place at the end of the line to welcome the next folks.  At the appointed time, the men and women each entered through a door on their side of the building and sat on their side of the meeting room.  There's a nursing room on the women's side where the mamas can still hear the sermon.  The opening song was in German and each syllable was sung loud and long and slow.

Children are expected to sit quietly throughout the service, of course.  Since we hadn't yet practiced this type of sitting still like the other children had, Nico gave Moisés a good pep talk before the service.  Inside Moisés could put his head in Nico's lap and Nico rubbed his back.  Nico reports that the men around them were very supportive and understanding of the attempt to have Moisés sit still in the service.  This experience of sitting still for so long was really stretching for Moisés, who eventually fell asleep and Nico laid him on a sweater on the floor.  Yanni, on the other hand, slept through the first half of the service, which was helpful!  When he woke up, I tried to nurse him as long as possible, but he was full of energy and wanted to bop around.  We went outside and stood with another mother and toddler until the service was over.

I was delighted to see a woman from Caneyville at the church service!  It was so pleasant to see a familiar face, though I'd only met her a few days before.  Her in-laws lived in Riverside, so she and her husband were in town for a visit.  I asked her if she felt awkward at the Riverside church since her head covering was different, and she replied with a friendly grin, "Yeah, but I don't look as oddball as you!"  I think that meant she was glad I was there, too.  :)

Read more about this
thought-provoking book.
On Sunday afternoon after lunch, many family members and friends of our host had come over to meet us and visit with each other for a bit.  By this point, I had grown accustomed to the natural, yet intentional-seeming splitting of women and men when we were in a large group.  This time the women were together in a circle of chairs indoors, and the men pulled some chairs outside to talk together in the yard.  I was asked if we'd ever read the book, Henry and the Great Society.  I'd never heard of it.  They gave a high recommendation for the short chapter book, and because they had plenty copies of the book around their community, they gave me a copy that was there in the house.

Toward the end of our visit, as Nico and I reflected on our time in this "bygone" community, he likened our presence there to the Superbowl.  We really felt like the entertainment of the season for them!  Everyone came out to see us!  We wore unusual clothing!  We talked quickly and loudly about things they agreed with, and probably some things they didn't!  One time Nico sang, "This little light of mine" Negro-spiritual-style, clapping and stomping along.  Afterward they told us, "We sing that song too, but not like that."

While we will learn many things about petrol/electric-free living during our apprenticeship in France, one thing they have compromised at l'Arche is grinding grain.  Even in their mother community, grain was ground with an electric motor.  Nico realized that being trained in the l'Arche bakery, which uses a modern, state-of-the-art mill, would require him to learn an alternative method of milling later and elsewhere.  He was excited to have direct connections to the wealth of knowledge in the Plain heritage, and particularly this Riverside group, only a couple states over from us in Kentucky.  (See a quote from Wendell Berry on how the Amish can teach an important lesson for our times.)

We hope to interweave what we learn from the wealth of knowledge and heritage at both l'Arche and the Riverside community.  While we were in Riverside, we got to see an 8-horse power sweep in action, grinding corn in a major agricultural feed mill, which not only ground the feed for their whole community, but also for farmers in the surrounding area.  The man giving us a tour at the feed mill told Nico that enough grain could be ground for a bakery with a one- or two-horse treadmill.  Yes, electric-free grain grinding is still happening!

Life is slower in the Old Order Mennonite community in Riverside, and I think they appreciated how interested we were in their way of life.  It seems like they don't often have people coming through that are enthusiastic about their lifestyle and have already begun a transition away from "the great society".  I imagine most people that come through either see them as a nuisance or a novelty, as Lucas Shrock-Hurst once coined about the Petrol-Free Jubilee bicycle tour.  We were so delighted and honored to have been welcomed into their circles, and we hope our paths cross again.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Caneyville Christian Community

So, we don't have a smartphone.  How do you go anywhere without GPS these days?  Somehow we were going to find our way from the rental car agency in Nashville to a community off the beaten path in Kentucky where they have a telephone, but it's not likely that someone would actually be near it to hear it ring.  Many Amish communities allow telephones, so long as the ringing doesn't interrupt the flow of a quiet, ordered life.  But besides, how would we call anyway since someone accidentally left our flip phone in Ryan Deramus' car at Horse Progress Days?  (Yeah, yeah, it was me who left the phone.)  Thankfully, the rental car agency had a decent free map that would at least show us out of Nashville.

Nico and I were dead tired from the lack of sleep on our overnight bus, so we took advantage of our children napping in the car and hopped off the highway to shut our own eyes at a gas station near the exit.  The gas station didn't sell any maps, which we found remarkable, though maybe not surprising in the age of GPS.  Before we made our way back up the highway, we discovered a Barnes & Noble where Nico bought a Kentucky map to get us as far as the small town of Caneyville, Kentucky, but we would still have to find the community somewhere on the outskirts of town.

We had originally heard of the Caneyville Christian Community (Caneyville, for short) from some traveling friends who were written about in Plain Things, a bi-monthly magazine published by the community.  While we were there, Nico met the editor of Plain Things, and they had a great time geeking out about electricity-free magazine publication.  Since Caneyville is located near a group of very primitive Old Order Mennonites who we were already planning to visit, Nico sent a letter to Caneyville and eventually he and our host played a long game of phone tag, since neither Nico nor anyone in their community give high priority to the telephone.

Once in the small town of Caneyville, we started looking for people that may be able to give us directions to the community.  Would they have any idea who we were asking about?  Nico hopped out and asked the first person we saw, an auto mechanic, if he knew where we could find the Caneyville community.  "Oh, you mean the Mennonites?" he said, with immediate recognition, "Oh yeah, sure." He gave us directions to their market, just a few miles away.  It turns out that the Caneyville Christian Community has a very positive rapport in the greater public.

One of the most popular models
of Pioneer brand stoves.
Image found in online search.
The communty is currently made up of 11 families who live in short walking distance from one another and their centrally-located, community-run businesses.  Once we arrived at their market, we were directed down a gravel road to find our host.  Our introduction to this community began with a tour of the steam-powered workshop where our host works, building Pioneer brand wood cook stoves.  Moisés loved watching the gigantic, Industrial Revolution era machines bend thick sheets of metal and the men welding stove parts together.

We were particularly interested in this group to see the cross-section of Anabaptist Christianity, petrol/electric-free life systems and businesses, and community-living convictions.  Old Order Mennonite and Amish groups are usually made up of families, each living on and running their own farm, and all attending worship at the same church meeting space or rotating house church.  Caneyville differed slightly in that the families shared the land and businesses (though they were not "common purse"), and worked together in many daily activities.  For example, one mother told me how joyful it was to meet with the other women to do much of their canning together, rather than each person preserving their food separately.  Not that this wouldn't happen in other Plain groups, but it seems that there's more of an interest in common work in Caneyville.

It is important to note that environmentalism was not part of this community's narrative.  Their petrol/electric-free convictions came purely from a desire to live simply, as prescribed by their interpretation of the Bible.  It was intriguing to them that we have drawn similar conclusions because of experiencing environmental and social injustices in conjunction with our faith and reading of scripture.

Most folks in the community had grown up Old Order Mennonite or Amish, so they had previous experience in the Plain-style of living.  Coming together in Caneyville, they committed to a deeper level of "plainness" than some of them had come from.  From my perspective, here's a snapshot of a few ways the Caneyville Christians define the word "plain":
  • Clothing - simple home-sewn patterns using solid-colored material (not changing fashions with the changing times)
  • Travel - horse and buggy, walking, and biking, or hiring a driver for longer trips (not owning cars of their own)
  • Corporate worship - a solemn, reverent service filled with scripture, prayer, and simple songs (no musical instruments or Sunday school)
  • Income-producing work - close to home businesses creating products that they themselves are willing to use (not having parents regularly go farther than walking distance from each other or their children)
  • Communication - two phone lines hooked up in a common space, shared by all 11 families (no internet or cell phones)
  • Energy production - besides human and horse power, we saw steam (created from burning wood chips) to run one of the on-site businesses; solar panels to charge a battery bank powerful enough to run welding tools, and also to charge smaller batteries for light bulbs in houses and headlights on buggies
  • Economics - systems for sharing money easily and freely between families to cover any great need (no credit cards or insurance)
  • Citizenship - primary identity in the kingdom of God and the law of scripture (many choose no social security numbers or state-issued marriage licences)
  • Education - a communal school using a Biblically-based curriculum
  • Child raising - training children in a way that encourages them to develop the self-control necessary to be still and quiet when appropriate and respect the needs of others, while also considering it their good and important "work" to play and explore
Almost all the members have grown up very similarly to how they're living now, which as I have found out personally, makes a difference with respect to how easy or difficult it is to perform daily tasks in a petrol/electric-free environment.  On the contrary, a mother of two told me she didn't wash clothing by hand before coming to this community, but since it's part of the culture it wasn't a problem to integrate.  Another mother of eight, also without previous experience hand-washing clothes, had a horse treadmill to run her two washing machines at once.

Yeah, you read it right.  A real treadmill made for a real life-size horse.  I didn't take many photos in this community out of respect for their desire to avoid vain glory and publicity, and their low-technology preferences, but I had to ask if I could take a shot of the horse treadmill to give an image to the washing machine scene.  It turns out that larger treadmills, built for up to four horses abreast, are also made for serious power needs, like running an entire woodworking shop.

Horse walking on a treadmill, which spins a cross-bar
through the wall into the basement.

Through the window: horse on the treadmill;
In the basement: belt spinning to run the
two Maytag washing machines

During our stay in the community, our host organized for us to spend every lunch and dinner with a different family.  Each morning we joined our host's family for their morning prayers and breakfast, then the boys and I headed over to a new family's house to visit with the mother and children for a couple hours while Nico worked with the father.  The men would join us for lunch at the family's house.  After lunch each day I took the boys for a nap and Nico would either continue working with the same man from the morning, or he would join the husband of the family we'd be eating dinner with that evening.

I felt honored to be welcomed into our host family's morning prayers.  The mother and father would hop up in the morning and do a couple morning chores, including start breakfast cooking, and while breakfast stayed hot on their wood cook stove (one of their own Pioneer models!), the parents and children would gather together to read the Bible, sing, and pray together.  For the Bible reading, each person that could read took turns reading two verses apiece around the circle, then the father would give a reflection on the passage and invite commentary from anyone else.  Afterward we sang a hymn or two from a shape note hymnal and gathered on our knees to pray for the day and recite the Lord's Prayer.  Nico and I felt inspired by this morning ritual and hope to incorporate it into our own family rhythms.

We met many families and I enjoyed getting to know everyone's varied backgrounds.  Learning that the husband and wife of one couple had grown up in different communities and had met somewhere else before coming to live at Caneyville, I asked them to tell me their story.  The husband laughed and replied, "Well now, you don't normally ask an Amish man how he and his wife met.  It's just not that interesting!  He'll say, 'Oh, well, I saw her at church and she looked like she'd make a good wife.'  But I guess you're right to ask us because we've got more nuance to our story."

My interactions and conversations with the mothers were easy.  Almost all our meal hosts had children the ages of my own, some having older or younger ones also.  I enjoyed learning how they organized their days and cared for their children's needs.  The women were open to talking about birth and breastfeeding, two of my favorite topics in my current life stage.  I was delighted to learn about the culture of these two more intimate processes.

I paid special attention to how the women experienced their roles as wife, mother, and homemaker, because I feel caught in a tug-of-war of two perspectives.  On the one hand, much of the culture around me considers it inherently oppressive if each individual does not have control of their role in society.  I notice this critique employed particularly to advocate for women, and it certainly seems logical and fair to me.  On the other hand, it is interesting to note that in most, if not all, traditional cultures around the world and throughout history, the sexual division of labor has been part of the very fabric of society.  I realize that if the importance of one role is elevated over another, there's a slippery slope to oppressing the "less important" role, but since sexual division of labor has been so common to humanity, I can't help but feel interested to see what it would be like for this model to function healthily.  If both roles are held to be of equal importance and weight by the society, does that lend people to feel happy and secure or sad and oppressed?

From my own perspective as a wife, mother, and homemaker not in an Amish community, I feel like there's little support and enthusiasm from the greater culture or the women's liberation culture towards women who want to be mothers, and particularly, women who want to stay home with their children.  I have found beauty and intimacy and sheer joy from having another being form and grow within my own womb, then felt the deepest of deep connections to that new little helpless person after meeting them.  This connection between mother and baby is made without really even trying and it is a connection unmatched by any other human-to-human relationship.  And further, to get to spend my days with that little person... what boundless joy to watch and be part of every minute of my own children's growth!

In my chosen field, why do I respond to questions of "What do you do?" by saying slowly, "Oh, I'm just a stay-at-home mom."  And then, to give myself validity in a culture where status is based in wealth and income, I add quickly, "Also I do the bookkeeping (one day a week) for a local non-profit!"  How would our culture look if the position of motherhood was elevated to the importance of C.E.O. status?  Couldn't it be possible that fully supporting people to lovingly raise a healthy new generation is at least as necessary to society as the responsibility of smoothly running a business?

Moisés and Yanni show their carrot snack
while at the Caneyville Christian Community.
Oh, so in that case, "What do I do?"  Well, I am an M.O.M.  It's a single role that encompasses many roles, including but not limited to: a teacher, a day-to-day operations manager, a lawyer and judge, an emergency physician, a detective, a trainer and coach, a janitor, a (Lego) engineer and architect, an adviser, a waste management specialist, a chef and waitress, an administrative secretary, and a respected authority figure.  My clientele have no social skills whatsoever, require lifetime commitment, and have constantly changing demands.  I work first, second, and third shifts and am otherwise always on call.  I acquired all these positions without putting together a single resume.  Not to mention, an M.O.M. is under constant scrutiny.  The public eye notices my clientele and, by their behavior, judges on the spot whether I am successful or not.

Sure, my multi-job can be limiting, and on a bad day I have definitely felt the lack of support for my role in society, but I also have experienced the power of choosing to be happy with where I am and what I have.  I've worked a 40-hour per week office job and found that to be pretty limiting too, in it's own ways, even though it is supported by society.

To pause for a moment, I realize I could easily fill several blog posts just on the topics of motherhood and gender roles, and since these particular topics are not the focus of this particular blog, I'll reel myself in and encourage further conversation in person.  I'm aware that there are plenty of other ways of thinking about gender roles than what I've mentioned, and I'd love to participate in the discourse.  Rather, my goal here is to report what I felt and saw while visiting a group with a deep culture, history, and tradition.

In Caneyville I got the overwhelming impression that these women were satisfied and comfortable in the stability and definition of their role.  I spoke directly with the mom (or should I say, M.O.M.) of our host family who shared her joy and true contentment in having a valuable role and the necessary support to fulfill it well.  I appreciated that in this community, the women's roles are respected, balanced well in giving and receiving love from God, their husbands, their children, and other community members.  These women aren't second class.  They do have different jobs than the men, and both men's and women's roles are seen as equally key to healthy community function.  I felt genuinely happy for them.

I was also happy for the children.  I could easily see how Caneyville families harmonized play with responsibility, children's nature with parents' and communal expectations, and how the parents shared their true deep faith with their children through the parents' own choices, actions, and sincerity.

Out of our main host family's 8 children, numbers 6 and 7 were both boys, one older and the other a smidgen younger than Moisés.  The three were immediate friends.  I loved the two boys' influence on Moisés: they were very still and obedient at the proper times (though the older of the two apparently gave the parents more grey hairs than any of their other offspring), and when they played, oh how those boys played!

This is exactly how Moisés and
his two buddies looked.
Image found in online search.
Their bare feet ran all over the property as the three small comrades made up sweet wholesome games together.  One game that was a little less sweet included precarious, cartoon-like careening down a hill, around a sharp curve, and up another hill, all on a gravel road in a multi-purpose hand cart.  These carts were like the classic little red wagon, but they could be driven by the riders and even had a hand brake on the side!  I couldn't help but wonder if this mobile fun would end in some kind of body part being smashed.  I encouraged myself by continuously repeating, "I guess they do this all the time and they're all still alive."

We had arrived in Caneyville in the late afternoon of a Monday, and our final meal with the community was the following Thursday's lunch.  The family who hosted us for our last meal was so easy to talk to that, like the others we spent time with, it was hard to leave!  We had so many topics we wanted to hear their perspective on, and they wanted to know all the intricacies of why we were interested in visiting their community.  Eventually our time was constrained by everyone's babies needing to nap, so we parted ways and headed about an hour and a half southeast toward our second destination in Kentucky.