Mennonite Modesty

Mennonite Modesty

One of the first things my parents did after our pilgrimage from Lancaster, Pennsylvania to Nashville, Tennessee in ’89 was to find an Amish or Mennonite community to reassure themselves southern savages weren’t the only ones around. For my father, their presence provided security because if the world “blew up” and took all means of transportation with it — something he predicted every time a Democrat weaseled his way into office — the Amish or Old Order Mennonite horse and buggies could take us back to PA. My mother, more relational than survival centered, craved the companionship of their community, for they understood the world we’d left behind and made the transition into a foreign, nuance-infested land that much easier.

To prevent offense by our everyday Englisher dress, whenever we visited their homes Mother clothed herself as conservatively as a Quaker, and I was not exempt from this Little House On The Prairie transformation. My usually beaded and beribboned hair was braided into scalping pigtails, and I was forced to wear plain cotton tops, long jean skirts, and tennis shoes. Even at such a young age, I knew this was a fashion faux pas.

But the smile on Mother’s face soon revealed how much our ridiculous costuming had been worth; for, unlike the Southern Belles (whom Mother thought only made biscuits and chocolate gravy), these buxom women in their dark cape dresses did not have to ask what the main ingredient in ham loaf was; they just wordlessly clunked out a cistern of lard and began kneading everything into a cholesterol-laden mound. Oh, but this was not all. Their cupboards were crammed with King syrup — the only brand that could make shoo-fly pie look like tar but taste like heaven — their cold cellars had ceramic crocks filled with cloth cheese; everything from a baby to a bed was draped with a crocheted something; their coffee tables were neatly stacked with laminated picture books made from farming magazine scraps. And, most importantly, when addressing groups they said you’ins and yous guys with an endearing, Dutchy accent rather than the grating, Redneck y’all.

Long after our connection to the Amish community in Hopkinsville, Kentucky was established, Mother attempted to make extra money by peddling pies stamped with the name Beulah Beiler’s Amish Baked Goods. The business proposition Mother offered Beulah came as no surprise to the community for she was, by far, the best baker this side of Lancaster, and her behemoth figure confirmed this. What did come as a source of surprise — and my acute embarrassment — was how Mother sold them. She simply pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot and opened the doors of our black conversion van–where, stacked as high as the van’s ceiling, were plastic tubs crammed with steaming baked goods. But regardless of Mother’s methodolgy, word soon got around of how wonderful everything was, and she began selling out as quickly as she set up. (Convenient since it kept her from paying an illegal solicitation fine.) Mother then knew, with relief, her waitressing days were over.

Once my little brother, Caleb, was enrolled in kindergarten at South Haven, Mother moved her bakery from the back of the van to a dingy-gray pizzeria with cheap rent. We scraped, scrubbed, and scoured until the grease the previous owners let accumulate was gone. Father painted the gray white, replaced the rotten shingles with a green tin roof, and built shelving for the baked goods. Mother washed the windows until they sparkled and sewed green gingham curtains for them. On the freshly painted walls she placed the portraits of our plain-dressed grandparents with captions stating the closeness of our relation to the Amish/Mennonites.
For this was the only strike against our opening an Amish store: technically, we were neither Mennonite or Amish. Mother thought she could remedy the situation by purchasing a girl’s Amish outfit at the Hopkinsville community’s annual yard sale. The only problem was she couldn’t wiggle into that cape dress, but it fit me perfectly. I could smell a set up, and although Mother told me she wasn’t going to pay my wages unless I dressed plain, I refused. I’d rather waitress at Sonic — even if it meant putting up with the sleazy football players — and wear my Englisher clothes than humiliate myself by putting on a cape dress and a prayer covering.

Finally, after many fierce battles that left us both spent, Mother and I reached a Mennonite modesty compromise, and I spent two scorching summers working at Miller’s Amish Country Store’s produce stand while garbed in tennis shoes, plain cotton tops, and culottes.