I catch a shadow of them through the through the side porch’s windows. The slant of the November sun reflecting off the glass panes mirrors the chicken coop on the other side of the lane, the hanging boughs of the spruce, and my own dark silhouette standing here in this place. But if I step back a bit, at a certain angle, I can see clearly into the interior of the porch, with its bead board walls flaking chips of white, its plank floor a tired grey. I count again, to be certain. Yes, there really is five.
Five rocking chairs ring, fill, crowd the small side porch. One is cushioned with a lumpy green polyester, another with a brown and orange nine-patch pillow. Others beckon unclothed. Slender wood rails, bare and gently curved, wait openly, patiently, for one to come sit a spell. Actually, for five to come and sit a spell. Five persons to sit, all in the same moment of time, watching light pool in a pond of warmth in the center of the worn floor. A floor worn with gentle rocking.
Does Saloma sit out here with knitting needles while Ephraim rocks beside her? But the remaining triplet of rockers? Does a ring of bonneted women sway upon these chairs with their laps full of embroidery hoops and threads, balls of yarn and socks in need of mending? Perhaps a wreath of men in black jackets and starch white shirts buttoned to the top, congregate here after Sunday’s noon meal, while women in cape dresses clatter with dishes and gentle laugher in the kitchen.
I am still mesmerized by this humble cluster of five swayers when Saloma steps out on the far stoop, her grey cape dress draping long, her plain black shoes laced tightly. Her gentle eyes reflect the blue grey of the cooling sky, the wisps of white hair curling from about her bonnet, like the remnants of snow wrapping round the feet of the spruce trees. She nods her welcome and turns the steel doorknob into the dim shop.
I have come to restock our pantry. My last visit was involved, with Ephraim fetching one item at a time as I checked it each one off my list… and waited. This time, I have taken a different tack: two lists. On one list I have carefully printed out the bulk items that Ephraim will need to carry from the storage shed: 3 pails of honey, 2 bags of whole wheat, 2 bags of oats, 1 bag of cornmeal, flax, 3 boxes of raisins. I will keep another list to guide me around the wee shop’s wooden shelves lit by only one small window: salt, cream of tartar, baking soda, chicken boullion, baking powder, yeast. I glance at my watch. How much time can I afford to give up for this errand? On the counter at home looms another list with Saturday chores: window-washing, bathrooms to wash down, vacuuming of the learning nook and rec room, a dessert to make for Sunday’s guests, rolls to make for Sunday dinner. If Ephraim makes short order of the bulk list I have, and Saloma tallies quickly each of my shop purchases… might I be able to head home in twenty minutes?
Saloma waves for Ephraim to come in from the yard. His eyes light with recognition as he steps in from outside. I smile and he nods his black hat. They exchange words in German, and she hands him my list of needed bulk goods. Ephraim’s wrinkled hand slowly takes my list, and lays it upon the wooden counter before the window’s grey light. His finger underscores my first item. He repeats, “Three pails of honey,” as he steps out into the cold, headed towards the storage shed. He leaves my list there on the counter. A sigh escapes and I fidget with my own list. Regardless of my efforts otherwise, Ephraim will now have to return to the shop again to read the list for the next item, and then again for the next, and the next. I try to squelch this welling feeling of panic, that at this rate that chore list at home will have a layer of dust slowly accumulating upon it before I return. Imperceptibly, I shake my head, shake my head at me. Slow, now. All is well.
I collect my shop items and try to wait patiently as Saloma meticulously records “2 jars cream of tartar” in her perfect Edwardian script across her spiral notebook. Out the window, the hens cluck and scratch about the edge of the frozen garden. On a scratch pad off to the side, Saloma calculates “.75 X 2” and then notes $1.50 besides the entry of cream of tartar. I offer a small bag of wheat germ next. As she neatly records, I struggle not to think on how quickly the cashier in town scans each item’s bar code, how automatic the tallying, the rapid digital output. Sparrows light about the stoop, twittering, singing. Slow now; all is well.
While billing up my cache of goods, Saloma pauses often as Ephraim steps in to note how he is gradually fulfilling my order for bulk supplies. Yes, he has loaded up the wheat, no not the cornmeal yet. Isn’t there a bag of flax there in the side room? Their heads, hers bonneted and his capped, nearly touch, as they lean over the ledger, their voices mingling German words with English. I wait, watching the snow melt off the eve, pattering into a puddle on the stoop. About the edges of wet, sparrows catch their reflection. I have the cheque already made out, but for the final total, pen waiting, when Saloma gives me the tally. The sparrows scatter as I push the door open, arms full of the box of supplies. I slide my box into the back of the truck, making sure there is room for Mama’s order, which she and Saloma are now ordering.
I stand in the deep quiet of the farmyard. Soon Ephraim will open the door of the shed and haul out the last of the bags of oats. Mama will step out on the stoop with her box of goods, Saloma holding the door for her. And then Ephraim will begin to carry out Mama’s bulk supplies. But all there is for me in the now, is to wait. There, at 2:42 on a Saturday afternoon in November, in the farmyard of Ephraim and Saloma Weber, the quiet softly, completely, falls down on me.
There is no hum of electricity anywhere. No whir of vehicles. No drones, no crackles, no beeps. Just thick silence. The quiet cackle of the black and white speckled hens, now scratching around the sandbox at the base of the windmill. The windmill moves lazily, soundlessly, bird houses stringing up its metal scaffolding like a necklace of feathers and nests. In the far back field, behind the barn, I think I can see a workhorse hauling a wagon, straw-capped man at the reins.
Alone in the all-embracing still, I glance over again at the side porch with its clutch of beckoning rocking chairs. Fretting and fussing, I have been lulled, hushed by the sway of this place.
The curve of the rocking chair spindles gather to tell the story of what has happened on my insides: when two sit side-by-side in rocking chairs, they will, as a law of the universe, adopt the same rocking frequency.
One study concludes, “Most surprisingly, synchronization occurred even when participants rocked two [chairs] with different eigenfrequencies.” Thus, even though the chairs natural tendency was to desynchronize, individuals unintentionally [but dramatically] acted against this dissimilarity, so as to synchronize their rhythmical movements. To harmonize.
So I have. I have fallen into the pace and rhythm of Saloma and Ephraim’s quiet ways. Mindful ways of being; considered, unharried ways of living.
Ephraim loads the last bag of oats, but I do not turn, move. I am watching the way the clouds seem to have caught in the lightning rods perched atop Ephraim’s barn roof.
As the light seeps out the end of that Saturday, the lantern’s reflection flickering happily in the window, I sit for a moment in our rocker. The fireplace glows. The clock ticks. The washrooms are sparkled, the house smells of wholewheat bread. The windows are still smudged, and I mentally add another task to the list: oil rocking chair. I sit and creak.. . creak. Rocking. The light glimmers off the two copper lightning rods standing before our hearth.
And I think: how I rock in this place changes everything. If I rock mindfully, I might just catch a bit of heaven.
Father, what if I rocked differently? How might it change the place in which I live, effect the people who rock here with me? By Your power, Your grace, let me rock in the gentle ways of Jesus.
Related: Lessons from last visit to the Weber’s
