P. L. Gaus’s Ohio Amish Journal

That phrase probably means something different to the Amish than it does to you and me. Whereas we might think of it in terms only of a metaphor, Amish people think of it as literal, too, because you do need to make your hay when the sun shines. Take it up in the rain, and you’ve got a real problem

We’ve had an ideal growing season in Ohio this year, with plenty of rain interspersed with periods of bright sunshine. The corn in Holmes County is over fifteen feet high, and it is only the end of July. There was an abundant wheat crop, and fields of hay have been cycled through the sequence many times since spring. First you cut it at just the right time. It lays in rows, then, and looks green. Then, after it has dried a while, you rake it to turn it over, and let it dry some more. Now it starts to brown up. Amish farmers know just how it should look at this stage. They have to, because if you don’t have enough sunlight, and you take up your hay when it’s still too wet, it’ll decompose slowly and exothermically in the barn, ignite spontaneously, and burn the barn down. So nobody wants to put up wet hay. Thus, you have to make hay while the sun shines. You need it to dry out on both sides before you can bale it.

I got this picture as an Amish lady was working her team of horses through a field of cut and raked hay. She used a gasoline baler on her wagon, and you can see that the bales are nice and brown. The children came through later and helped the family load the bales onto a cart with iron wheels, and then it all went into the barn. It took the whole family to do it. There had been warm sunshine for several days after it was cut, and the hay was not too wet when they took it up.

So, you have to “make hay while the sun shines.” We think it means to take the opportunities that present themselves. The Amish know better. Or at least they know more.

The first two reviews of my sixth Ohio Amish Mystery (Separate from the World – Ohio University Press, July, 2008) have been published – one in Publisher’s Weekly and the other in Kirkus Reviews – and they are both very good. Authors are usually nervous (at least I am) waiting for reviews of a new book, and when they come in, you read them so fast the first time that you don’t really get it all. Good, you’ll say to yourself – nothing bad there. Take a breath. Relax. Now read it slowly so you can see everything that is there.

It’s the bad reviews that cause you to do this. Every author gets one sooner or later, and you just have to learn to accept it. It’s not like there is a suitable place for an author to make counter arguments or complaints. Reviewers know what they like and what they don’t like, and they are good at spotting weaknesses. So, when good reviews come in, it is all the more gratifying.

This time both reviews contained accurate summaries of the plot. The names of the characters were all spelled correctly. Both reviewers understood the implications of the work. In one for instance, it was stated that the story presented “A perceptive look at problems that have no easy solutions.” Hurray! That’s what I set out to do two years ago when I designed the plot sequences for Separate from the World. In the other review, we read: “a convincing plot and credible, sympathetic characters” make this “another winner in this fine regional series.”

So, that’s excellent news. I’ll take these first reviews out on the porch this evening and read them again with a cool drink. There are other reviews to come, no doubt, and I’d like to savor each good one that comes in.

It’s iconic, don’t you think – an Amish barn raising. Kids scamper here and there, but never venture too close to the work. They’ve been told to stay back for safety, but you just can’t expect a boy to stay out of the rafters. Girls are the same, so all around the framing and hoisting, the kids scamper in and out.

The women stay back too, but for a different reason. There is food to prepare and serve, and everyone has brought something to contribute. There are tables set up in the shade, sometimes dozens of them. There are benches set around the tables, usually the same benches used in the Sunday services. Iced tea and coffee are available as soon as the sun comes up, and the men come down out of the rising structure when they need to. But that seems to be improbably seldom. The men stay at the work relentlessly, the women stay busy with food preparations, and the kids play, or work at assigned chores like tending the horses or carrying supplies. When noon approaches, the men start coming down for lunch in shifts. They will have already been at it for six or seven hours.

That’s when you’ll see of few of the more determined men clustered at the peaks in small groups, unwilling to lose the momentum they have acquired, and unwilling to come down for lunch until that last brace has been fit or that last joist has been set. And that’s a good time to take a picture from a distance, so long as none of the faces can be recognized.

The foundation of this barn was laid a week earlier by stone masons from Pennsylvania. The wall studs were nailed into place to make whole sections, on the ground the day before. The last man came out of the barn sometime around midnight, but I know that only because I went back out the next day and asked around.

We have a lot of these barn raisings in Holmes County. The Amish are particularly good at it. But they need to be. They don’t use lightning rods on their structures. The bishops don’t allow it. There’s a religious reason for that, but it borders on plain superstition, and the logic of it will not stand up to careful scrutiny. The most plausible explanation I have heard is that lightning rods are thought to invite attacks from the Devil. The irony is that Amish barns, lacking lightning rods, therefore burn down more often than the English ones. So of course the Amish become very adept at raising new barns for their neighbors and families. They have good reason to be experts.