Quiet Hearts Mennonite Friends Up the Road Quilting
The blueing of alfalfa The golding of the bean The swaying of the cornstalks By country roads are seen. The mounding of potatoes The cabbage colonies The checker of the Holsteins The bursting apple trees. The romping of the lambkins The heron at the creek The Clydesdales all in caramel The nursing foals still weak. The corduroy of planting The auburn harvest yield The splaying of the hay bales A giant billiard field. This banquet of the senses A patchwork ‘neath the skies Commending our Great Artist Who looks with knowing Eyes.
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C. Doug Blair, 2012
Canvas Master City dweller with Much Menno in the veins. Smell of the upturned clods, Sound of the stately Percherons Hauling with little strain. Meek murmers of drover Urging muscle onward. Rustle of talking leaves At farm laneway. Children in black and blue (Rosy cheeks) Portraying the chores Of next season’s assignment. Rounders baseball. Sunday meal aplenty On the front lawn. Dreamy magenta blossoms edging Finely measured green rows; Mother’s simple enterprise. …All the images inspiring Numbered prints by Peter*. Brush once busy for studio For community and for Commission in tasteful offices. But a different pace now. Sunset years and jaunts. One canvas stands alone In memory and impact. Hay wagon making the turn At land’s end Pitch fork, blue jean And hay stooks Moving with animation As storm clouds, In foreboding blue-gray, Approach the field. Drover can almost be heard 2
Urging the young ‘uns “Get ‘em in sons While there’s still time.” Two big chestnut beasts Keel into the turn. All noble enterprise. All thrilling, timeless… (*Peter Etril Snyder)
Word for Train Murray is an enterprising Mennonite farmer and young father. He supplies our factory with steel drums for shipping purposes. His father Cleeson did also for years before him. I have enjoyed many a talk with them. Cleeson died of cancer about seven years ago. Over a thousand Mennonite people from around the county attended his funeral. How they "chip in", one for the other! Murray has taken to bringing his four year old son Jeffrey in the truck for an outing and in order "to do some work". Never too early to start. The little fellow gets a real kick out of rolling barrels off the back of the truck. Of course I clown around with him. He usually speaks Old German to his Dad. Today Jeff stopped in his tracks because a freight train was going by on the industrial spur line to the east of our steel yard. Lots of rumbling and groaning and squeaking steel. I asked what was the Old German word for "train". He stood silent and baffled. His father piped up, "I don't think we have one, Doug." And that's the way it goes for the Old Order Mennonites. They have picked an arbitrary year of the past and will not move beyond it with respect to technology, convenience, luxuries or social custom. Hence the horses and buggies, the parochial schools, the abstinence from insurance schemes, the black and blue clothing, the industrious market gardening by the women, the "No Sunday sales" signs etc. I do find that the men are weakening when it comes to fancy farm
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equipment, small metal shop equipment and hydro-electric conveniences in the barn. I remember once sharing a bus ride with a Mennonite elder from Mount Forest who had just taken over leadership of a church. By custom he was required as pastor to remove all hydro from his home. He had spent a lot of time and money converting to propane. 'The local Home Hardware proprietor thought that he had become unhinged', he told me with a chuckle.
Conestogo A single-lane bridge In the country. The Mennonites Use it the most, With corn fields Surrounding, And cattle, And wire-fences Nailed to old posts. A resting spot North of the suburbs, With black buggies Easy to spy. The horses all Glistening and clopping. A hint of a time We passed by. The father, broad-brimmed, Stately teamster. His bonneted wife At his side. The purple-dressed Daughters behind them, Enjoying the change Of the ride. Politely, they 4
Honour my presence, Alone at the road-side, By car. I’ve come here to Listen to nature. Just out of the City, not far. With Bible and Note-pad beside me, A chance to see Life on the wing. As blackbirds explode From alfalfa. And plovers so Fretfully sing. Some rooster proclaims From a barnyard, His kingdom extends To the lane. A collie comes Over to greet me, With broad grin And soft, flowing mane. I’m thankful For slow Woolwich Township. Its Mennonites, Back-roads and corn. And marvel at God’s Orchestration Of this sunny Sabbath-day’s morn. Mennonite Memories We had just moved to Waterloo (1987), and seven-year old Lauren came running into the house, "Mom, Dad, a Mennonite, a real live Mennonite, out front...and a horse!" Sure enough one of the "quiet people" was clopping
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down Regina Street headed for the buggy stall near the City Hall. It was a sunny, chilly October morning. We would soon be surprised by how much of an influence the Mennonite community had here. Churches. Flourishing crops. Farmers' markets. Quilters' festivals. Peter Etril Snyder's famed art gallery. Maple syrup. Roadside flower stands. (Pay in the money jar on the honour system, please.) "No Sunday Sales" signs at each lane. Barn raising bees. Sunday meeting houses, all white clapboard with large horse and buggy lots. Single room rural route schools. Every generation would be represented. The elders with long beard, stiffbrimmed hat and rolled shirt-sleeves sitting porch-side with pipes aglow discussing cattle prices or the new addition to the grain storage facility. Grandmothers orchestrating Sunday front yard picnics. The young husbands in black fedoras guiding nimble horse and buggy into town for supplies, or mastering large teams on horse-plow. The young bonneted wives tending to fluttering laundry or bounteous vegetable gardens edged with colourful gladiolae. The teen-age boys breaking free for their Sunday afternoon bike hike. The girls in severe purple or blue dresses walking, arms folded, along the highway margin, deep in conversation. The little ones gaily flying on hand-crafted swings, or taking a try at baseball. It was as if their culture (the Old Order culture) made an arbitrary decision to halt all technology and convenience at a certain date in the late 1800's. No hydro (propane). No televisions. No internet. No cosmetics. No current fashions. But big on industrious agrarian endeavour, literacy, small township shops in wood or metal-working, Christian based education. Charitable relief through the Mennonite Central Committee. Much help extended to disaster-ridden areas, and particularly Central and South American communities. Unfortunately there are some sad entries of note. Impatient motorists in over-priced, over-waxed cars blasting their horns at any inconvenience on township roads caused by buggy or hay wagon. Only seldom have the horses become skittish in traffic, precipitating accidents. There was that episode of some weekend teenagers throwing a broken beer bottle at a young wife in buggy. Much injury to the face. In response a mammoth fund-raiser led by one of the banks and resulting in totally satisfactory plastic surgery and a trust fund to benefit others. Some farmers would talk about the occasional 6
shady deal on a horse or a piece of equipment. As if aggressively looking for cause for censure. There is something in us that despises the different. BUT PEOPLE, THEY WERE HERE FIRST! BE NEIGHBOURLY, WILL YOU?
Breathtaking Buggies
One Christmas Season my family took a night-time drive with a friend into the country north of Waterloo - Mennonite country. A moderate amount of snow lay all around. The air was thick with moisture, almost foggy. A partial moon helped our vision along an otherwise unlit Township road. At one point we were on a height of land overlooking a valley, partially white and showing broken field remnants of harvest. An intersecting road crossed our view at the crest of the hill. Three Mennonite buggies were there. Gas or battery lanterns on the back. Twin-horse teams enthusiastically pacing the journey. Occupants all blanketed and enjoying the beauty of the night. Animals steaming from the exercise in the humidity. Peter Etril Snyder should have had an opportunity to paint the scene. It was a magical, timeless Christmas family moment.
The Meek Win Psalm 37: 11 – But the meek will inherit the land and enjoy great peace. (NIV) Who are these meek? Moses was called the meekest of all men (Numbers 7
12) yet he was wise and accomplished in all the wisdom of Egypt. You saw the movie! Charlton Heston was amazing at science, mathematics, architecture, construction, horsemanship, warfare, plant science, leadership of men, diplomacy, etc. Jesus described himself as meek and lowly (Matthew 11). He was clearly an accomplished craftsman, an outdoors-man, a man instantly attractive to rugged fishermen and other tradesmen, a captivating storyteller, a tamer of storms, an attention-getter able to arrest and fascinate large crowds, etc. I have heard meekness described as controlled strength, channeled to Godordained purposes. Imagine a busy farm-yard and a mighty Clydesdale work-horse gently moving his way through numbers of chickens and ducks and harming none with his huge feathered hooves. Talk about controlled strength! The Beatitudes affirm that the meek will inherit the earth (Matthew 5). The Spirit offers the fruit of meekness (Galatians 5). Isn’t it astonishing that simply because our Lord encourages meek ones to turn the other cheek, they are perceived by the world as weak and somehow un-manly? This seems very far from the truth.
Crowning the Year Psalm 65: 11Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and thy paths drop fatness. 12They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side. It is as if He pulls out all the stops in His artistry. Bounteous crops of all sizes, shapes and colours are displayed. Corn cobs, pumpkins and squash adorn front porches. Northwoods flash red maple and golden birch on a back-drop of coniferous green. Treasure the sight. In a single wet day all of the colour may escape to 8
forest floor. Country lanes over-arch with orange and yellow, and low angle rays filter to the gravel beneath. Squirrels hurriedly gather their inventory. Calls of jays register with greater resonance. Stooks and bales take toll of the reapers' vigour, teamwork and discipline. Black clods of disked earth prophesy the silent, white blankets to come. Happy children rake and pile and kick their rustling collection to hearts' content. Fireplace smoke brings a delicious smell to an evening's neighbourhood walk. He has done it all again on this beautiful canvas of autumn. At day's end a large harvest moon shines like an embossed golden seal on the whole project of God.
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