Serena B. Miller's Blog, page 13

Teaching The Amish How To Cook?

I’m hanging out with one of my Amish friends today–she’s writing some poetry for me to use in my next book–and somehow we get to talking about homemade Amish egg noodles. She tells me she doesn’t know how to make them. To put this in perspective, this is a woman who milks cows, raises chickens, grows a huge vegetable garden, and helps butcher her own pigs. The fact that she’s never made homemade egg noodles astonishes me.

It turns out that there is a small local factory that makes Amish egg noodles and all the Amish women simply buy them dried and packaged.

Well–thanks to my mom’s old-fashioned cooking, I have made tons of egg noodles! So I volunteer to teach this Amish woman and her five daughters how to make my favorite dish which I always thought was Amish: Egg noodles and cabbage drizzled with butter and sprinkled with crisp bacon.

So here I am today, with five lovely Old Order Amish girls ages twenty-one to five, gathered around me while we mix and roll and cut. The mother fries the bacon and cooks the cabbage while watching ad commenting from the stove. The littlest one really wants to help, so I let her mix the flour and egg and use the rolling pin. We both manage to get covered in flour.

One daughter is sewing a teddy bear to sell. She turns the treadle sewing machine around facing us, so she can watch our fun while she sews.

The table is magically set–no complaints. The girls just see what needs to be done and do it. No fussing. No arguing. The food is put on the table and then the brother and father comes in from their jobs in the carpentry shop.

We have a silent prayer, and then dig in. Our joke is how sad it is that I had to come and teach the mother how to cook proper Amish food.

I loved every minute of it.

But here’s one thing about the Amish–they share. Before I left, the mother had walked out to the phone shanty and called her sister-in-law, who also does not know how to make egg noodles.

The upshot of this is: Tomorrow it appears that I will be cooking my egg-noodle dinner for nineteen people:-)

I’m a little surprised, but I’m really looking forward to it!

Hotel Millersburg

So…I’m in Holmes County, researching my next Amish book, and since I’m going to be here all week and it’s still not tourist season, the owner of Hotel Millersburg gave me a great discount. This historic hotel is lovely and clean–decorated in antiques and authentic Victorian decor. Only one problem-it turns out that this really IS off-season. A three-story hotel–and housekeeping told me this morning that I’m the only one staying here. Seriously. It’s after nine o’clock and I just crept down the stairs to get some ice and a pop. Could hear every creak of the floorboards. Felt like all the old pictures of dead people hanging on the hall way walls were looking at me. You know–moving eyes. Came back to my room. Slammed it shut. Hit the dead bolt immediately wrote down a title for a new Amish book—Murder In the Millersburg Hotel. lol

Age and writing

I've given two talks in the past 48 hours. One to a group of aspiring writers at my local library, another to a book discussion group a couple hours away. Both had dreamers there with stories in their soul who have always wanted to write. Nearly all were people who had put these dreams on hold while they raised families, tended to ill parents,and  worked demanding jobs. Most were at a point in their lives where they finally had the time to write–but assumed they were too old at 40, or 50, or 60 to try for publication.

When I began seriously writing and submitting at age 50, I "knew" I was too old–but felt compelled to at least try. At my first writers conference where I shakily pitched my first book to a New York editor, I was astonished to find out that my age didn't seem to be a consideration. The only thing that mattered to her was whether or not my writing was any good. She accepted a manuscript, read it, and turned it down with suggestions for improvement–not because of my age but because the novel's structure was dicey.

I was sixty years old when my first book Love Finds You In Sugarcreek, Ohio was published. I am sixty-two now. My third novel came out this month and I have four more contracted novels that will be publishing at six month intervals into 2014.

This is one of surprising things about the publishing industry: Age, weight, gender, education, looks, social connections–everything by which society tends to judge us–is unimportant compared to whether or not we can write well and consistently. I even heard one literary agent say that he prefers to represent older people because their life experiences tend to make their writing deeper.

It was never my intention to become a poster child for starting a writing career simultaneously with qualifying for social security–but if it will help give someone the heart to write–so be it.

A friend in Tennessee has been e-mailing me short stories he has written. He's a retired teacher and writing has become a retirement hobby. He thinks he's too old to publish–but these stories are SO good! One thing I've noticed–his latest story, written at age 79, is even BETTER than those he wrote five years ago. Pushing 80, he's grown as a writer.

And then this morning, I read the most amazing thing–and it triggered this post. Herman Wauk, author of The Caine Mutiny, and War and Remembrance, recently sold a brand new book to my publisher, Simon & Schuster. The word is that his new book is really good.

Here's the thing: Herman Wauk is 97.  Compared to him–I'm a mere child! Kinda made my morning:-)

An Uncommon Grace

My third published novel came out yesterday and is doing really well. I'm especially grateful for this book to be read because in a small way, it is my own story.

No–I never came out of the Swartzentruber Amish faith–but like many Christians, I had to trudge through a whole lot of legalism before I understood the power, the mercy, and the freedom of God's grace. It became the difference between life and death to me. It became the difference between breathing freely–or barely breathing at all.

A reader just sent me an e-mail saying that she saw two complicated love stories going on in An Uncommon Grace–the one between my Amish hero and military heroine, and the one between my hero and God. I hadn't though of it in those terms, but she's right. I have some very smart readers.

 

Made In China

I have a friend who smuggles Bibles and Bible-study material into China. The communist government frowns on this sort of activity. It is a dangerous thing my friend does.

You can imagine my confusion then, a couple months ago, when I was wandering through The Dollar Tree, and discovered a bin of New Testaments. I flipped through one and discovered that it was…made in China.

I was at the Dollar Tree again (to those who never go to such places–everything in the Dollar Tree is–you guessed it–one dollar). I was picking up candy for my grandkids' Easter Baskets. Had filled my buggy with cute little candy rabbits, etc. Then it struck me. I wondered where all this stuff had been made. Started reading back labels. Made in China. Made in China. Made in China. Well what-do-you-know…..this one is made in America!

I put the made in China candy back on the shelf and started foraging for made-in-America candy, and there was plenty. All I had to do was look. Same price.

Wandered on down the aisle. I've been a little nose-out-of-joint lately because a card company I used to love working for, Hallmark, has begun to outsource their jobs to China. I assumed the greeting cards in Dollar Tree would be from China. Nope. Made in America. They were nice cards.

I needed hand soap for the bathroom sinks. I found two brands. The name brand was made in America. The no-name brand was made in China. Same price.

I then went to Big Lots. (Yes, I shop at all the finest establishments. LOL) Needed a glass measuring cup. I had a choice of two brands. Anchor Hocking had a nice one for a reasonable price. Made in USA. There was one on the shelf from China. Only a few cents different. Guess which one I bought?

I recently purchased two Kitchenaid appliances. A little more pricey than other brands–but oh the quality! And they are made right here in Ohio.

This discovery has given me a new hobby. Finding Made-In-America labels is becoming a treasure hunt to me. Not always, but frequently, there just isn't that big of a difference in price. I figure donating those two extra seconds it takes to check the label is a small gift I can give to my fellow countrymen who are struggling to keep their jobs.

And that shopping trip to the Dollar Tree? It had quite an ending. As I was checking out, I noticed a little card with two American-flag buttons hanging near the cash register. Both buttons said "Proud To Be An American." In large letters on the back it said–you guessed it–Made In China. I did not purchase one.

 

 

An Amish Poetess

One of my Amish friends (I'll call her Violet) is a homeschooling mother of seven. I asked her once why she home-schooled when she had so much work to do and had the option of sending her children down the road to an excellent one-room Amish school.

"For the opportunity to spend more time with my children," she said. She didn't elaborate, but the tone in her voice said, "Such a silly question. Why else would I home-school except for the sheer joy of it."

At the time, we had just driven to a private home where a local family makes a modest living selling Amish-friendly home-schooling materials out of a small garage. There is no sign indicating that this building is housing anything more than a buggy or workshop–and yet it appeared to be a flourishing business. There were several customers.

I followed along behind Violet while she and two of her daughters selected the materials they needed for the coming year. The girls were as excited about their new schoolbooks as Englisch girls their age would be over a new I-pod.

Later, we stopped and did some shopping at a scratch-n-dent Amish grocery store made up of soon-to-go-out-of-date canned goods and damaged boxes.All were neatly displayed on shelves with great prices. It was a relatively large place by Amish store standards–and it was packed with locals filling their grocery carts.

After coming home, Violet and I chored together. Or, rather, she chored and I kept her entertained by being way too worried about getting too close to the business end of the huge Holstein milk cow Violet was milking.

Violet is a gracious, dignified, beautiful woman whom I admire very much. But I discovered that she has kept a secret from me. Her husband told me that Violet is a poet.

Quietly, and privately, she has composed reams of poetry over the years. In between scalding milk, and making butter, and baking bread, and giving birth, and making raspberry jam, and she has been writing poetry. She blushed when her husband told me this. This is the only time I've ever seen this stalwart woman get embarrassed about anything.

The next time I went to visit, I asked permission to see her poetry. She brought out a lovely briefcase-like basket woven of straw, and inside, there were dozens of hand-written poems on loose pieces of paper as well as various notebooks. I had expected her poems to be written about her children, or her favorite milk cow, or her love for her husband, but instead, each poem was praise straight from her heart to God. Every last one had a Biblical basis. Like David, and Deborah, and Mary, and so many others in the scriptures–Violet uses her gift of poetry to praise God.

I'm a professional writer. That is how I make my living. I can, and have, written some fairly good poetry. About birds. And building our house. And my sons. And life. Not once have I written a poem in praise of our Lord.

Yet once again, I found myself spiritually humbled by my Amish friends.

I'm in the process of writing Hidden Mercies, the book that will follow An Uncommon Grace–and I will be including a few of Violet's poems. She is Amish to the core, and not a prideful woman–but I did see a tell-tale leap of excitement in her eyes when I asked if she would like to see some of her poetry in print.

Writers are writers–even when one of us is wearing a bonnet:-)

The Paralysis of “Perfect”

There is not one thing in my life that is perfect. My hair, my clothes, my body…there is no danger of me ever being mistaken as a supermodel. Never was. I’m okay with that.The way I figure it, if everything works, nothing hurts, and I don’t scare anyone when I walk out the door–I’m good.

There is not one thing about my house that is perfect. My husband and I used rough-cut lumber sawed off our own land to build it, and that lumber wasn’t always straight. I love every imperfection because after too many years of living in parsonages–this is my house. I figure if friends and family always feel welcome here–I’m good.

There is nothing about our church that is perfect. People have messy lives. They make mistakes. Not every service is a soul-stirring event. Not every song is my favorite. But I love my church. I figure as long as we’re trying to follow Christ–we’re good.

There is nothing about my family that is perfect. I talk too much and frequently forget what I’m saying mid-sentence. My husband works too hard and has conversations with himself while other people are in the room. One son is in Afghanistan and is a Republican. Another son is passionate about pacifism and is a libertarian. The third son wisely keeps his opinions to himself until he feels something is important enough that he needs to weigh in on it. Then he will rarely, but memorably lay everyone else low. One daughter-in-law is from Canada and says “aboot” instead of “about.” She is an accountant and balances her checkbook to the last penny. Sometimes she takes pity on me and balances ours. The other daughter-in-law grew up in Texas and says “all y’all” a lot. She rarely knows the balance in her checkbook, but man, can she throw a party! My beautiful granddaughter spaces out into teenage day dreams. My grandson runs around the house shooting nerf guns and making random noises. Sunday dinner at our house when everyone is present is interesting to say the least. I figure as long as we love and support each other (and we do) we’re good.

I can deal with scuffed floors and finger prints on doors. I can deal with dishes that don’t match, towels that have faded, even a dog that digs up my flower beds. I can deal with  imperfection in every aspect of my life–except one. I polish these books of mine until the words start to lose their meaning and I’m half crazy with nerves. I don’t “send” my manuscripts to the editor as much as I mentally fling them at her. Then I duck and cover–convinced that she’s going to hate them. She never does, but I’m always surprised when she doesn’t.

And so I did something yesterday that I had never done before–I read my advanced author copy of one of my published books. The one that will be coming out April 3rd. An Uncommon Grace. Reading it was a mistake. I should never have done so. I wanted to tweak every paragraph, every sentence, every word. I was practically sick with the need to start editing yet once again. But I couldn’t. The book was already printed. People would be reading it in a few days.

Today–realizing that my book was not perfect, I fell into a deep writing depression. The gloomy weather mirrored the gloom in my soul. I couldn’t write a word. Then something interesting happened. A friend of mine sent me the first review of An Uncommon Grace that had appeared in a magazine called Romantic Times. Their reviews are pretty important. To my amazement, the reviewer loved my book. She gave me an excellent four-star rating and said wonderful things about the book and my skill as a writer.

Imagine. My imperfect story had given at least one person a lot of enjoyment. Evidently she didn’t see the things that I had been obsessing about. Or else she got so caught up in the story that she didn’t care.

Here’s the thing: I lost the joy of one entire glorious day because I had not written perfectly and despaired of ever being able to do so. I couldn’t write a word today–even though I’m on deadline for two more books.

So, as An Uncommon Grace appears on the shelves, I hope that my readers will sink into this story that I poured my heart and soul and hours of research into–even if it isn’t perfect.

 

The Paralysis of "Perfect"

There is not one thing in my life that is perfect. My hair, my clothes, my body…there is no danger of me ever being mistaken as a supermodel. Never was. I'm okay with that.The way I figure it, if everything works, nothing hurts, and I don't scare anyone when I walk out the door–I'm good.

There is not one thing about my house that is perfect. My husband and I used rough-cut lumber sawed off our own land to build it, and that lumber wasn't always straight. I love every imperfection because after too many years of living in parsonages–this is my house. I figure if friends and family always feel welcome here–I'm good.

There is nothing about our church that is perfect. People have messy lives. They make mistakes. Not every service is a soul-stirring event. Not every song is my favorite. But I love my church. I figure as long as we're trying to follow Christ–we're good.

There is nothing about my family that is perfect. I talk too much and frequently forget what I'm saying mid-sentence. My husband works too hard and has conversations with himself while other people are in the room. One son is in Afghanistan and is a Republican. Another son is passionate about pacifism and is a libertarian. The third son wisely keeps his opinions to himself until he feels something is important enough that he needs to weigh in on it. Then he will rarely, but memorably lay everyone else low. One daughter-in-law is from Canada and says "aboot" instead of "about." She is an accountant and balances her checkbook to the last penny. Sometimes she takes pity on me and balances ours. The other daughter-in-law grew up in Texas and says "all y'all" a lot. She rarely knows the balance in her checkbook, but man, can she throw a party! My beautiful granddaughter spaces out into teenage day dreams. My grandson runs around the house shooting nerf guns and making random noises. Sunday dinner at our house when everyone is present is interesting to say the least. I figure as long as we love and support each other (and we do) we're good.

I can deal with scuffed floors and finger prints on doors. I can deal with dishes that don't match, towels that have faded, even a dog that digs up my flower beds. I can deal with  imperfection in every aspect of my life–except one. I polish these books of mine until the words start to lose their meaning and I'm half crazy with nerves. I don't "send" my manuscripts to the editor as much as I mentally fling them at her. Then I duck and cover–convinced that she's going to hate them. She never does, but I'm always surprised when she doesn't.

And so I did something yesterday that I had never done before–I read my advanced author copy of one of my published books. The one that will be coming out April 3rd. An Uncommon Grace. Reading it was a mistake. I should never have done so. I wanted to tweak every paragraph, every sentence, every word. I was practically sick with the need to start editing yet once again. But I couldn't. The book was already printed. People would be reading it in a few days.

Today–realizing that my book was not perfect, I fell into a deep writing depression. The gloomy weather mirrored the gloom in my soul. I couldn't write a word. Then something interesting happened. A friend of mine sent me the first review of An Uncommon Grace that had appeared in a magazine called Romantic Times. Their reviews are pretty important. To my amazement, the reviewer loved my book. She gave me an excellent four-star rating and said wonderful things about the book and my skill as a writer.

Imagine. My imperfect story had given at least one person a lot of enjoyment. Evidently she didn't see the things that I had been obsessing about. Or else she got so caught up in the story that she didn't care.

Here's the thing: I lost the joy of one entire glorious day because I had not written perfectly and despaired of ever being able to do so. I couldn't write a word today–even though I'm on deadline for two more books.

So, as An Uncommon Grace appears on the shelves, I hope that my readers will sink into this story that I poured my heart and soul and hours of research into–even if it isn't perfect.

 

An Amish Marriage

My Old Order Amish friend, Naomi, (not her real name) is in much demand as a midwife—often going without sleep for long periods of time. She tells me that she is grateful for a husband who has always encouraged her in her ministry.

The use of that term is important. She and her husband do not refer to what she does as her "work" or her "job." It is always her "ministry." I heard such respect for her in his voice when he estimated how many babies she had delivered. "Over five hundred," he said. Then he turned to her for affirmation. "Is that about right?" She quietly amended that she had delivered well over that number.

She is tired from helping a mother through a long labor the night before, and her legs ache. She has her feet up on a stool when she asks her husband if he will make her some mint tea. Mint tea is a favorite among the Amish, and most have a small harvest of mint from the plants they grow each summer.

Making tea at their house is a bit more complicated than popping a cup of water and a tea bag into a microwave. Water has to first be heated to boiling on a wood stove, then poured over loose mint leaves and finally strained into a clean cup. Her husband cheerfully brings each of us a mug of it.

I am a little taken aback by being waited on by an Amish man, but Naomi takes it as a matter-of-course and continues the conversation we were having about her ministry as a midwife and my ministry as a Christian writer. When her husband goes outside to feed the livestock, she takes the opportunity to discuss in some depth how blessed we are to have husbands who encourage us to do the work to which our Lord has called us. I tell her that my husband has prayed for my writing every day for over ten years. Her eyes sparkle. "My husband prays for me,too!" she says.

This gentle scenario came to mind recently when a non-Amish acquaintance asked if Amish women weren't terribly badly treated and downtrodden by their men. I can not speak about every Amish household in the world, but one thing I know–I have seen no evidence of it in the various Old Order homes where I've stayed. What I've seen, instead, is a mutual respect that most women would envy.

Late Night Amish Phone Call

It was nearly ten o'clock. My husband picked up the telephone, checked the caller ID and said, "It's Naomi," (not her real name.)

I'm not a big telephone talker, but there was a smile on my face as I reached for the telephone. Naomi has become one of my favorite people.

"Are you busy?" she asked in her soft, lyrical Pennsylvania Dutch accent.

Of course I was busy. I'm always busy. But never too busy to talk with a good friend, especially one who has taken the time to walk out to an unheated phone shanty in the middle of January!

I got caught up on her daughter's troubled pregnancy and how the other Amish were bringing in food and helping with housework so the daughter could be on complete bed rest. Naomi described the pregnancy problem in some detail. She's a midwife with forty years of experience and has dealt with troubled pregnancies before.

As we got caught up on each others lives, I marveled at the miles, (she lives in a different state) different customs and vastly different lives that lay between us–and yet how easily we have connected–even on the first day I met her. We discussed in some depth a friend of hers I had met who has two special needs children, and a less than ideal husband. I found out how Naomi's twin grandbabies are doing. (they're crawling now and such a handful!)

As we prepared to hang up–Naomi was growing cold even though she had dressed warmly–she asked if this had been a good time to call, or if it was too late. I assured her that it had been a terrific time to call.

Then she surprised me. "Good," she said. "Because sometimes I just really need to talk with you."

Me too, Naomi. Me too.