Chapter 6 #2
Rachel drew back and slouched in her chair. “Two years with no proposal in sight, which to me means he doesn’t really love me.”
“Has David said as much?”
“Well, no, but …”
“Then perhaps you’re worried about nothing. You may be reading too much into it.”
“It’s not that simple, Mom. Something has changed between us, and I need to face up to that fact.
I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s too painful.
” Rachel pushed her chair back and stood.
“I’m going up to my room and rest for a while until it’s time to help you make supper.
Maybe resting in the privacy of my room will do me some good. ”
Dianna wanted to say something more, but Rachel darted out of the room too quickly for her to get any words out.
As she remained seated at the table, her hands resting on its aged surface, Dianna reflected on her three daughters and their ongoing struggles.
She believed that her unwavering faith in God and unrelenting trust would help her girls withstand their trials and persevere through their hardships.
With folded hands and her head bowed, Dianna said a silent prayer.
Heavenly Father, I’m concerned about all three of my girls.
The daughter who left home and may never return; the one who is hurting because she believes her boyfriend doesn’t love her; and my youngest girl, who is struggling to find her way while she learns the skills of sewing and cooking under the teachings of my mamm.
Please be with them all, and may Your will be done in each of their lives.
Arthur
With the encouragement of her grandmother, Emma settled into a chair in front of the treadle sewing machine for her second sewing lesson. Nothing about learning to sew came easy to her—especially not the use of the pedals on this machine that Grandma had used a good many years.
“Now remember, Emma,” Grandma said, “When using a treadle machine, don’t place your feet side by side.
You need to have one foot higher than the other on the treadle plate.
Let’s have you practice for a while without the use of fabric or thread until you get a good feel for it.
Treadle machines sew very well, and once you get the hang of it, you’ll do a fine job of stitching your fabric to create an acceptable dress. ”
“I hope you’re right, Grandma.” Emma struggled to keep her feet in the correct position as she pushed against the treadle plate, which moved the threadless needle up and down.
“Practice makes perfect, dear one, which is why I suggested you use the machine for a while before sewing any seams on the dress we cut out the other day. The pieces are all pinned, so as soon as you feel confident using the machine, you’ll be ready to start sewing some seams.”
Emma gulped against the lump that had formed in her throat. She wasn’t sure she could even sew a straight seam, much less complete a dress.
“Oh, there are a few more things you should know,” Grandma added. “This sewing machine is very reliable and sews the straightest stitches. However, the backward stitching can sometimes be a bit annoying when you lift the pressure foot, flip the project around, lift again, and flip it back around.”
“You said there were a few things. What else do I need to know about?” Emma questioned.
“Be sure you pull the flywheel toward you to start stitching. Otherwise, it won’t work.”
Oh great, Emma thought with a grimace. Now I have even more to worry about. This is hopeless.
When Emma took a break from practicing, she brought up Ida Mae’s suggestion about teaching her how to quilt.
Since she had first laid eyes on Ida Mae’s quilt, Emma remained curious about what it would be like to quilt.
She didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to learn something and perhaps even make her own quilt by hand, because this might be her only chance before she returned home.
“I’d really like to try it, Grandma,” Emma said. “Do you think there would be time for me to do something like that?”
A smile spread across her grandmother’s face. “We’ll make time. You won’t be spending every hour in a day learning to cook and sew, and it would be nice if you had the opportunity to learn the art of quilting.”
Emma rolled her neck from side to side. “Quilting looks hard, though, and I might be too dumm to learn.”
“You’re not dumb, Emma. You’re an intelligent young woman, and if you wish to learn something badly enough, then you’ll catch on quickly.
” Grandma gestured to the material they’d bought last week.
“We can talk about that later, though, because right now you need to get busy and start stitching on that frack.”
Emma sighed, pinching the thin steel of a sewing needle between her fingers. Well, at least Grandma didn’t say no to my request to learn how to quilt. I hope she gives me an answer soon so I can let Ida Mae know whether I can take lessons from her or not.
That afternoon, once the sewing project had been stowed away for another day, Grandma presented Emma with a freshly plucked and cleaned chicken. Then, before Emma could comment, Grandma said, “Remember now, we will be having fried chicken for supper this evening.”
Emma had a feeling about what was coming next, and she braced herself for it.
“I’m going to cut up the chicken for you into proper pieces,” Grandma stated. “And then it will be your job to fry each piece so that they all come out crispy on the outside and juicy inside.”
Emma didn’t figure it would be that hard to handle the frying part, but she wasn’t sure where to begin. She gripped her hands together, awaiting further instructions.
Several minutes later, after her grandmother had cut up the chicken, she turned to face Emma and rattled off the recipe instructions quicker than Emma could blink. No recipe book; no 3x5 recipe card—Grandma obviously knew the fried chicken recipe by heart.
“You got all that, Emma?”
“Not all of it. I—I think I may have missed a few things that you said. Would you mind repeating the instructions for me?”
Grandma began again, stating that Emma should use a cup of buttermilk, two cups of all-purpose flour, salt and pepper to taste, and one teaspoon of paprika.
Then she went on to tell Emma how to dip the chicken pieces in the buttermilk, then put them in a bag with the flour and dry ingredients.
Next, she explained what to do with the coated chicken, and said something about the consistency and that it was crucial.
By this time, Emma felt like her head was swimming with information that she might not remember once she began the process of preparing the chicken for frying.
A loud knock sounded on the front door, at which time Grandma looked at Emma and said, “Go ahead and do what I told you, while I see who’s at the door.” She whirled around and scurried out of the kitchen.
One by one, Emma took all the ingredients out of the cupboard and set them on the counter.
She couldn’t help but notice as Grandma left the room that she wasn’t holding or rubbing her back, the way she’d done this morning.
Emma figured that maybe after Grandma had been out of bed for a few hours, the pain lessened.
Perhaps Grandpa had been right when he’d said they needed a new mattress.
That would probably be all it would take to fix Grandma’s back.
Emma pushed her thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on the job at hand. She was about to reach for a cast-iron skillet when Grandma returned to the kitchen with Ivan Yoder at her side.
“Look who came by to see us.” Grandma fairly beamed as she gestured to Ivan. “He was out in the barn talking to your grossdaddi, and then he came up to the house to speak with me.”
“Oh?” Emma’s single word came out in a squeak.
“Jah.” Ivan bobbed his auburn head. “I asked your grandparents if they had objections to me comin’ by here this Sunday evening to give you a ride to the singing my sisters and I will be going to.
” His prominent cheekbones seemed to expand as he looked over at Emma.
“They both said it was fine, so I’ll come by Sunday around four thirty to pick you up. That is, if you’re okay with it.”
Emma was afraid to respond verbally, for fear of losing her voice again, so she merely nodded. Her fingers, covered in flour, curled into the palms of her hands as waves of heat rushed over Emma’s body.
“That’s great,” he said, rubbing one hand down the side of his trousers.
“Okay, I’ll see you then,” Emma said, glad that she’d been able to get the words out.
“You definitely will,” he responded with a wink. “But you’ll see me this evening too, ’cause your grandma invited me to stay for supper.”
Emma almost dropped the chicken wing she’d just picked up. This is not good, she thought, attempting to concentrate on coating the chicken pieces in the mixture. If I mess up this meal, Ivan will truly know that I can’t cook.