Friday Night in Ephrata, PA
Silence kept me awake last night. I consider myself to live a relatively calm and peaceful life, at least within the confines of my own home. But, it turns out there is more ‘noise’ there than I know. Here in the little house that we rent for two days, in the countryside of Lancaster County, it is quiet. Not the approximation of quiet compared to the busy route that sits a block outside my own front door, this is the real thing. The bright, slow sunrise of the morning is only punctuated by the odd truck slipping down the road, or the call of early birds, which doesn’t seem like noise at all.
It is the silence that greets me, like a stranger looking me over for clues. Perhaps it’s not so different from the way that I look at the Amish. I look without looking in my simple way, because that’s polite. But, my curiosity is deeper than that. I wonder what it feels like to have that gauzy bonnet pinned into her hair. It looks weightless, does she feel it at all? Or does it carry a weight that’s quietly regretful? I know when I look at her she’s made a decision to put on those dresses, to live a plain life — after everything she saw in the world.
She did that at 18. I thought I knew what I wanted at that age, too.
They smile at us Englischers. I wonder what they think. Do pacifists get impatient and irritated? There’s not a wrinkle in her forehead for me to discern anything but smooth calmness. Sometimes people can see irritation plain on my face, without me speaking a word. My silence is not so refined. Maybe she’s calm inside or perhaps she is buzzing with thoughts and opinions best left unexpressed.
The mixture is strange here, like flavors that don’t go quite right together. Last night, we went on the advice of our Air BnB host to what she excitedly referred to as the biggest farmers market in Lancaster County. It’s in Ephrata, to be exact.
The Green Dragon. Well, the name certainly recommends it to me.
I’m standing next to a woman in flip flops that are so thin she might as well be barefoot. Her children are clamoring because they want something from a stall carrying knock off handbags and sunglasses. Five dollars, ten dollars, 2 for $9. Odd lot stalls are poured like grout in between the handmade fry pies and beeswax candles. I imagine at one time this market was different. The patient and chaotic mingle on concrete.
Twenty acres of free parking! As advertised, for sure. I had no idea they would need such space. Indeed they do. It’s a warm October night that straddles summer and fall. This is weather that can’t decide what it wants to be when it grows up, I can relate.
We wander inside the small animal building where seats are starting to fill up. Dark painted wood bleachers built into the floor and up against the walls are dotted with people. Some attendees hold index cards with numbers, leaning forward to look at the pen that houses small cages and mystery boxes with holes. They’re here for something. Maybe even something specific, or maybe they’re just window shopping.
A little boy with bowl cut hair and suspenders sits next to me eating cut fruit out of a bowl. His father says something to him in a language I don’t understand. I’m pretty sure this is a German dialect, guttural and soft. The boy nods his head. He can’t be more than six, but he’s been here a dozen times. He can sit there on his own while his father goes to the manual conveyor belt in the center of the room to look into some of the boxes they are lining up for auction.
At 6:30 the calling starts. Everyone but me understands the auctioneer. I’m catching every third or fourth word and filming a little on my phone. I’m being a tourist and trying not to look like a tourist. I feel like a spy. Guinea pigs are sold amidst the squawking and clucking and the steady rumbling stream of auctioneering. He’s an artist. His words sometimes rapidly rushing over rocks and other times swirling lazy into swimming hole to draw in the bidder. His language is only punctuated by the exclamation “SOLD!”, to the murmurs and a little shuffling. Without skipping a beat the attention turns to the next small animal.
The little boy looks around, still munching his fruit. He smiles at me. I have on a charcoal dress and black flats. I’m not wearing one of those bonnets his mother wears, but I could be. It’s the first real smile I’ve had directed at me from an Amish person. He’s delighted and swinging his boots soft in the bleachers.
They don’t quite touch the ground.
I smile back.
This is Friday night in Ephrata.
