Leaving Lancaster by Kate Lloyd

main road onto a lane. We passed a herd of grazing sheep. I envisioned newly born lambs frolicking on the pasture next spring. Why did my mother leave this extraordinary place? Oh, yeah. No cars, electricity, or telephones. But still, why not visit her mother and brothers? Not to mention her outlandish lying to me.
    Through a grove of partially bare elms, their limbs reaching to the sky like ballet dancers’ arms, I spotted farmhouses much like Grandma’s, also with green shades. And no electric wires running from telephone poles.
    â€œI’m finally getting the hang of it,” I said. “No electric wires means Amish live there.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow can you stand living without electricity?” I thought of our TV—the five o’clock news and Masterpiece Mystery .
    â€œElectricity brings in the outside world and separates our community.” His voice turned forceful, emerging from his abdomen. “It separates us from God.”
    â€œAre kids required to join the church at a certain age?” I thought of my rebellious parents.
    â€œThey’re given a choice,” he said. “At age sixteen, they enter a running around period, what we call Rumspringa. By age twenty-one, around ninety percent of young adults raised Old Order Amish get baptized and commit themselves to God and the church.” The man who hardly finished a sentence seemed primed to give me a lecture. But I wanted to learn about their ways, my parents’ history.
    â€œAnd once they get baptized?” I said.
    â€œThey’re committed to remain Amish for life.”
    â€œI guess my parents didn’t want to be baptized for some reason.” I hoped Nathaniel would fill me in, but he clammed up, his focus directed on a bearded man in a field steering a team of mules.
    Feeling cozy, I unzipped my jacket. As I watched a rabbit scamper across the road, my thoughts skittered back to Mom. I was thrilled my grandma was alive, but Mom’s past behavior baffled me more than ever.
    Dori had mentioned meeting my mother in San Francisco when Mom was first pregnant, but Dori hadn’t divulged further details, only that my mother traveled to Seattle, where she gave birth to me. She’d lived with Dori and Jim for several years, until moving to her own home, later transformed into the Amish Shoppe with Jim’s assistance.
    Fifteen minutes later, Nathaniel slowed the horse and circled back toward his house. We hadn’t crossed a covered bridge, but I could see one tomorrow. Now might be my last chance to grill him for information about Dad.
    â€œDid you know my father, Samuel Fisher?”
    He loosened up on the reins and Galahad slowed his pace. “I was a couple years younger, but we all went to a one-room schoolhouse together.”
    â€œJust checking. My dad really existed?”
    â€œYah. For sure.”
    â€œMom has only one black-and-white photo, taken when Dad was eighteen.”
    His eyebrows lowered, and a look of disapproval morphed his face—why, I couldn’t fathom. “She owns a photograph of him?” he said.
    â€œYes, on her bureau.” Inquiries about Dad, everything from his personality quirks to his hobbies, crisscrossed my mind. Did Amishmen have time for hobbies? Mom had mentioned volleyball games on weekend afternoons. “What was he like?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s been many a year.” Nathaniel repositioned his hat. “I haven’t seen Samuel since I was thirteen. As I recall, he was outgoing and energetic. You should ask Esther.”
    â€œI have, but she sidesteps the subject.” I turned to face him; his hair and beard seemed more pleasing. “I wonder what his ambitions were. To be like his father? Mom said his dad was a farmer.”
    â€œHe still is. Ready to retire. Samuel’s parents live not far away. Maybe you and your mother will visit them while you’re here.”
    Would Grandma