July 1988.

A month before, my birthday cake had held three, flickering candles.

I nibbled the candy necklace around my neck as I sat in the front seat of the UHaul with my Pop, as my Mom and big sister followed in our brown station wagon. Loaded with homemade, pine furniture, crafted by my pop’s masterful, strong hands; touches of beauty, fabric, upholstery and paint to soften our new home, by my artful, pretty Mom.

We sped past the breezy beaches of Cape Cod we would come back to visit many summers later, past crimson cranberry bogs, spicy, cool pine forests,  great, old, historic buildings, and farms, (or “fahms”, in the native tongue), my uncle’s blueberry farm, and the produce truck farm my paternal great-grandparents from Italy had broken ground on, built up and coaxed food from, making new lives in beautiful Massachusetts.

My mom’s family had come, too, from Poland, France and Ireland a few decades before, to make a life in the land of opportunity.

How different my life would be, so many miles away.

Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Farms, yes, but many were not worked with old trucks and rusty tractors, like great grandpa drove, but with teams of muscular draft horses, the reins held firmly by bearded men in straw hats and black suspenders, often with their own wee children, my age, nestled close beside them.

Here were woods of Oak and Maple, rolling, gentle hills with tangles of wild honeysuckle, tiger lilies, blooming trees, and so much luscious, refreshing green. Ponds, creeks, tiny brooks, with snapping turtles, fish, frogs, and in winter, snow that clung to each twig and blade of the many trees, frosted from the moist, dense air.

Here, I would grow up, swathed by all that green, and flowers for the picking, with God, family and church being the center of my world.
My parents had left Catholicism, then mainstream Evangelicalism, and moved all that way to become part of the Anabaptist movement.

Our church fellowship was a tossed salad of sorts, a combo of Mennonite doctrine and lifestyle, Baptist-revivalist preaching, and the back-to-basics homeschool movement.

Here, I learned to sing. All four-parts of harmony at six, seven, eight years old, sitting next to ladies who sang soprano, alto and tenor, with bass by the sonorous men on the right half of the auditorium, committing to memory and heart a great vault of hymns from the thick, black Christian Hymnary. All a Capella.

My sister and I sang together, when we picked weeds, and when we had play dates with our friends. We imagined and pretended singing for weddings and concerts, all serious and formal-like, in tight, beautiful harmony, sometimes dressed up with sheets of fancy fabric, like elegant ladies.

This would become the foundation for the music I would love and play for the rest of my life.

We homeschooled, K-12 and beyond. My parents both being teachers, pioneered in a time when many thought it would be an utter failure, but they believed it was the best they could do for us. A tailored fit for our individual needs and interests.

Here, I learned to LOVE to read. We had no TV, watched no movies, but read an abundance of books. Ah, the ripe joy a wealth of pages held!

Adventures, wonderful experiences, romances, delights to be had, and marvelous travels through time, ticket-free. Dickens, Twain, Austen, Montgomery, and my very favorite, Alcott.

I read in the bathroom, leaned books behind the kitchen sink while I washed dishes, pored over pages outside on the swing… Those were moments of delicious delight. Still one of my favoritest of favorite simple life pleasures.

Church became our “extended family.” We celebrated many holidays with our church friends, (since our relatives were far away), we had picnics and field trips and invited each other for Sunday lunches.

Sunday lunch! The first question we kids would ask our parents when church concluded with the final amen, (after a three-hour, non-entertaining service, mind you!) “Did we get invited??!” Oh, the hope that one of the 100+ families had invited us to share a meal, preferably one of those who made really good food. If you were incredibly lucky, you might be invited to a place like the Esh’s, (although there was no place quite like it) a warm, delightful home where guests were honored, welcomed, served sumptuously, the best food this side of the Alleghenies, with a side of rousing conversation and humorous, friendly debate.

Here I learned the joy of hospitality, the happy memories that are tucked warm inside ones’ soul forever, around the simple joys of delightful food and jovial, meaningful conversation.

Roast beef, meltingly tender, with rich, velvety, smooth gravy. (See end of post for recipe). Heavenly clouds of mashed potatoes, silky with sour cream and cream cheese, topped with brown butter and toasted bread crumbs on top. Delight! Fresh garden peas, with butter. Homemade pickles. Soft, pillowy, freshly-baked buns with fresh strawberry jam. (Like angel cherubs singing in your mouth.)

Sweet corn, tender and ripe from the garden. And for dessert, maybe homemade pies, like shoo-fly, (a rich, molassesey crumb pie, toothsome, and very sweet) or fresh, just-picked strawberry pie, maybe even homemade ice cream, with milk from nearby farms, courtesy of big mama cows grazing on the endless green. And meadow tea! Mint, which grew wild along the many said creeks and ponds and lush green hills, brewed into a refreshing, sweet, bright green tea served with most any meal. I loved it.

Here, I learned the arts of homemaking. Most women did not work outside the home, traditional roles were prized and protected. Hard work was greatly valued, and young girls learned to keep a tidy, very clean, orderly home, cook wonderful meals, bake delightful treats, sew their own dresses, love babies and care for them, grow and preserve food with gardening, canning and freezing.

No medical insurance for most people, so herbs and natural cures were used whenever possible, as well as midwives for multiple home births.

This time-travel paradise was not a perfect heaven. I write about the struggles and heartaches it gave me. But I also celebrate the beautiful bedrock it was, the truth, goodness and beauty it gave my life as I grew.

Along came a brother, Anthony,

then another: Paul, then came the pretty pink dresses we hung on the line while we sang; our pretty little sister, Emily, and then Mark. (Whom I also dressed up in pink dresses for the fun of it. Poor helpless little guy.)

Life was busy, full of school and helping Mom around the house, and good times. Pop took us out for many excursions, bike rides, fishing trips, rollerskating, read us books and articles, inspiring works like the life of George Washington Carver, Little House on the Prairie, and multitudes of Bible stories. Mom faithfully kept us fed with the best spaghetti and meat sauce known to mankind, and taught us many skills, like baking, arts like beading, crocheting, and stenciling, our first music classes, and truths from the Bible.

My dad made us our first harp when I was 11.

His expertise in woodworking would prove to make him a leader in the craft of harp-making, with gorgeous designs, impeccable finesse, and sweet, clear tones. (Visit http://www.marinimadeharps.com to read more!) Mom was the excellent secretary and general manager, and kept all the many loose ends together and in neat files. My sister and I spent hours learning, practicing, arranging, and many more hours performing and sharing what we’d learned.

It became a family business, a ministry, and a great opportunity for all six of us kids. We spent the next decade performing together, recording albums, and developing our skills, on various different instruments.

So closes the chapter of my childhood home. So soon I’d wave goodbye to the rolling hills and peaceful farms of Lancaster, hug my beloved family tight, and move again, “far from the home I love”, but armed with memories, values, rich traditions, and of course, good recipes, which still transport me back in time to the good old days.

 

The Gold-Standard Roast Beef

(Courtesy of the Esh Family, in loving memory of Dave, the most wonderful host this side of the marriage supper in Heaven.)

1 large beef roast, any cut (chuck, arm, rump, etc…) 4-5 lbs.

1 cup water

1 tsp. dried rosemary

1 Tbsp. Butter

1 Tbsp. Olive Oil

Salt & Pepper to taste

1 large onion, peeled and cut into wedges

4 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed

8-10 mushrooms, cleaned and halved (optional)

1 cup strong brewed coffee

1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

1/3 cup red wine

1 Tbsp. molasses

Heat oven to 350. In large roasting pan, pour 1 cup water, sprinkle in rosemary. In large skillet, heat butter and olive oil on medium heat til very hot. Pat beef dry with paper towels, brown in skillet on all sides. Remove beef from skillet, place in roasting pan. Add onion wedges and mushrooms, if using, to the hot fat in skillet, sear for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Pour over roast. Add garlic, salt & pepper, Worcestershire, coffee, wine and molasses. Cover, bake for 1 hour, reduce heat to 300 and bake another 3-4 hours until very tender. (Two hours before serving, you can add peeled potatoes and carrots to the beef for a classic pot roast dinner. Cover and cook til tender. Add more water if needed.)

Before serving, strain all liquid from roasting pan into a saucepan, bring to boil. In a small mug, mix 3 Tbsp. all-purpose flour with 1/4 cup cold water, strain into boiling liquid while whisking quickly. Add 2 Tbsp. butter and more salt and pepper to taste. Serve over beef.