irascible rooster. The cock was named Chaunticleer and his favorite wife - also my favorite hen - I called Pertelote. To my
knowledge they were the only literary fowl in Bedford County, and very near and dear to my heart.
Then along came that horrible storm and my flock went flying, never to be seen again. Undoubtedly some were eaten by
foxes and raccoons, but I have a sneaking suspicion a few managed to sail over the border into Maryland and ultimately ended up
on the dinner tables of folks living there. Most of my hens were past their laying days and far too old to be consumed by humans,
but those Marylanders, I've heard, will eat anything that Comes flying down the pike.
At any rate, I was up and dressed by five-thirty, and had just sat down at the kitchen table with my first cup of coffee and the
Bedford Times, when someone rapped sharply on the door. It was a good thing I was no longer holding the cup, because I jumped
so high I got altitude sickness. Okay, so maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but I was really spooked, and it took me a while to find
my voice.
"Who is it?" I finally rasped.
"It's me." The speaker was obviously a male and his voice vaguely familiar.
"Be more specific, dear. The last time I checked there were almost eight billion 'me's in the world. Which one would you be?"
"It's Samuel Berkey." That narrowed it down, but not as much as you might think. Berkey is a common Mennonite and Amish
name, and Samuel is as ubiquitous as maple trees in Vermont. I knew eight men by that name in Bedford County, and six over in
Somerset.
"It's Samuel Berkey the Bishop's son-in-law."
"That narrows it down to two, dear."
"Samuel Berkey with the straggly beard."
"Ah, that Samuel Berkey. Strubbly Sam." I strode to the door and flung it open. "Why didn't you say so to begin with?"
Samuel blinked. He is an Amish man, perhaps in his early seventies, and he dresses in typical garb for this religion: black
pants, white shirt, black vest, and black coat. His shirt and coat fasten with hooks and eyes rather than worldly buttons. His pants
are held up by suspenders. He wears a straw hat on weekdays, and on Sundays a wide-brimmed, black felt hat. Since he is a
married man - well, a widower now - he wears a beard, and it is this feature that immediately distinguishes him from the other
men in his generation. Sam's beard is sparse to the point of looking messy. Strubbly, we call it in Pennsylvania-Dutch.
"Come in Strubbly Sam," I said not unkindly. In a culture where so many share the same name, nicknames are not derisive,
they are necessary.
Sam stepped in, and his glance swept the expanse of my kitchen. No doubt he was allowing himself the luxury of gazing
upon modern electric-powered appliances he could never use, much less own. I'm sure had his wife Amanda been alive, he would
have memorized every detail to recount that night at the dinner table.
"Here, for you," Sam said, and handed me a wire basket, practically spilling over with eggs.
"Thank you." I took the gift with mixed feelings. I knew Strubbly Sam by sight and reputation, but these were the first words
we had ever exchanged. Sure, I saw him at the feed store from time to time, and sometimes at Cousin Sam's Corner Market, but
we definitely did not move in the same circles. I was a Mennonite woman, after all, and he an Amish man. For a fleeting moment I
flattered myself with the notion that Samuel Berkey had come" to pay court. But because he was an Amish man, and I a
Mennonite woman, this was highly unlikely. He was also old enough to be my father. Still, I tried to picture myself in a stiff black
apron and a black bonnet, perched on the front seat of a buggy built for two. When the buggy turned down the drive of a
farmhouse that lacked central heat and air conditioning, the fantasy faded.
But an egg is an egg, and I had an inn about to fill up with guests. I transferred the eggs from the wire basket to a large blue crock.
Alas, several of the eggs were in less than pristine condition.
"You should have washed the eggs," I said gently.
"Yah, that's what my Amanda would say."
I pointed to a chair, but he shook his head.
"So, Strubbly Sam, to what do I owe this honor?"
"Honor?"
"This visit - these eggs. Something on your mind?"
"Yah, Big Magdalena - "
"Big Magdalena? I may be five foot ten, but I'm skinny as a mop handle!"
"Ach" - he turned a lovely shade of salmon under his wispy whiskers - "there are things besides height and weight to
consider." I would have liked to think he was referring to my bosoms, but since I have a concave chest, there wasn't enough
evidence there to hang my hat on. Besides, his pale blue eyes were focused quite clearly on my probing proboscis.
"Why, I never! It is an honest Yoder nose. Just consider yourself lucky, buster, because you Berkeys have a little Yoder blood
too.”
Strubbly Sam seemed startled. Then I remembered that he was not originally from around these parts, but from one of those
far-flung Amish communities, like Nebraska or Paraguay. According to what Mama told me, Strubbly Sam had been on his way to
Lancaster to visit some distant relatives, and when it was almost dark, sought accommodations with an Amish family for the night.
The family he picked just happened to be the bishop, who just happened to have three of the most beautiful daughters ever to
descend from Eve. Strubbly Sam never made it to Lancaster, and never returned to Paraguay, or Nebraska, or wherever he was
from. Perhaps those foreign Berkeys lacked Yoder blood.
"Okay, so maybe there aren't Yoders where you come from, but you've seen plenty enough here to know that my nose is not
unique."
"Ach, it isn't just me who speaks of Big Magdalena."
"What? You mean the entire community gossips about my shnoz?"
He removed his hat, revealing strubbly hair. "But there are six Magdalena Yoders in Bedford County, and nine in Somerset. It
is only a name, Big Magdalena."
"Don't call me that!" I snapped.
He twirled the straw hat on his left index finger. "You are angry with me now, yah?"
I remembered the eggs. "Merely miffed, dear. So, Strubbly Sam, what is it you have on your mind?"
He gazed at my new bread-maker, a machine Freni refuses to use. "You are having guests, yah?"
"That's what an inn is all about, dear. But I hate to disappoint you if you think you're going to get a glimpse of Hollywood. For
one thing, no one has arrived yet, and for another, this is not a Hollywood crowd."
"Soldiers, yah?"
"Why, that gossipy little Freni! And they're not soldiers-they're veterans."
"But veterans of a war, yah. Is that such a good idea?"
"Not you too !" I wailed.
"Big Magdalena - " I glared at him.
"Ach, Magdalena, our people are committed to peace."
"Quite true, dear, but these are elderly men converging to reminisce. They're not going to be waging war on the countryside."
"Yah, but - "
I held up a quieting hand. "And if they do, you can take refuge in my basement."
Strubbly Sam smiled sadly. "What does Lustige Freni have to say about this?"
"Merry Freni? Boy, do you have a wrong number!"
He frowned, obviously confused.
"That woman is as merry as a mule with a burr under its saddle," I said kindly.
"So she's against it, yah?"
"Is that what you think? Well, she's coming in to work today," I said smugly. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
The threat of a chance encounter with Merry Freni sent Strubbly Sam speedily on his way. In fact he left so quickly he left
behind his wire basket.
Samantha Burk and her husband, John, were the first guests to arrive. I was amazed at how tiny Samantha was-even her
hair was short. I couldn't imagine how such tiny hands, barely larger than cat paws, could span an octave under any
circumstances. But I was downright taken aback by her striking resemblance to an acquaintance of mine.
"Say, you wouldn't happen to be related to Abigail Timberlake?" I asked as I wrote down their license plate number.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Feisty little southern gal, owns an antique store called the Den of Antiquity?"
"Never heard of her."
"Hmm. You're the spitting image of Abby - well, except that you have almond-shaped eyes and are a good ten years older."
Samantha smiled. "The 'almond' eyes, as you so nicely put it, are the result of one too many facelifts."
I clamped a hand over my mouth, lest my other foot try to get in as well. I should have known better, of course. I've seen
movie stars whose eyelids close automatically whenever they open their mouths. The Good Lord only gave us so much skin to
play around with, for heaven's sake.
"Oh, that's all right," Samantha said quickly. "I'm not at all embarrassed by the subject. I had a face lift so I could look
younger for my public. Many people don't realize it, but concert pianists are celebrities. We have fans. We have images to
uphold."
I must say that I had never thought about concert pianists being celebrities. No doubt she was right, however; the mountain
of luggage her husband had piled next to the front desk confirmed her celebrity status. I made a mental note to be nicer to
Vladimer next time he called asking to reserve a room.
A car door slammed outside. Then another. Then the sound of raised voices, possibly even an argument.
"It seems like the next batch of guests has arrived," I said brightly.
"Please, miss," John Burk said, reaching for the as yet unproffered key. "Could we hurry this along a bit?"
Those were the first words the man had said. I was beginning to think his was a forced retirement from the history
department at Duquesne. Mute professors have got to be a liability.
I stared at him. He was taller than me, and I'm five-ten. He was a good fifty pounds overweight, something I cannot be
accused of being, and had scarcely any hair. Trust me, I have plenty of that, and in all the right places. But there was something
ominous about him, something I can only describe metaphorically. John Burk looked like he walked around with a little rain cloud,
not much larger than a powder puff, suspended above his head.
"What a charming accent," I finally said. "Are you originally from Minnesota?"
For a split second he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. "You have an excellent ear, Miss Yoder. I was
indeed born in Minnesota."
"Minneapolis?"
"New Bedford - a tiny little town on the Canadian border. I'm sure you've never heard of it. Anyway, I consider myself a
Pennsylvanian now."
"Welcome to Pennsylvania, dear."
He grimaced. "I've lived here for fifty years. No doubt that's longer than you have."
I wrinkled my considerable nose. "No doubt, dear."
"Miss Yoder, is there any way to hurry this along? I have a migraine headache and would really like to lie down."
"Hold your horses," I said sweetly, "your credit card company has me on hold."
The diminutive Samantha put a comforting hand on if her husband's arm. "You go on up to the room, dear. I'll finish up down
here."
He gave her a quick kiss that seemed stiff and unnatural, and snatched the key from my hand.
"Well, I never!"
He strode off without as much as a grunt of apology.
"Third room on the right," I yelled at his back, "and be careful going up those impossibly steep stairs. I'm not liable if you take
a tumble."
Actually, I probably am. I don't know what possessed me to have the same wickedly steep stairs rebuilt in my new inn -
although I did have them carpeted to make them less slippery. A woman had fallen to her death on the old stairs, for crying out
loud. Perhaps it was nostalgia - not for the corpse, mind you - but for life as it used to be. Before the inn blew down, before I
married Aaron Miller, who was already married, thereby consigning myself to the rank of unwitting adulteress.
"What an evil man," I muttered.