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Unusual passengers turn into easy riders
(by Hertha Binder - February 25, 2010)
OF KIDS AND NATURE, BY HERTHA BINDER
Unusual passengers turn into easy riders
On a snowy day, Mr. Williams (the name has been changed) was in our office for his regular eye checkup. He was the principal of our local elementary school, which had been attended by all our kids. Kenny, the youngest, was still in fourth grade. After his exam, Williams looked into our back yard, where Kenny was having fun with the snowmobile. "It's nice that you have so much space here," he said.
"We like it." I knew that he lived in a suburb of Cleveland where the lots are small.
"He's quite good with that snowmobile." Williams kept watching Kenny.
"Yeah," I said. "He likes to take a friend for a ride to the woods."
Williams had a wistful smile. "You think I'd qualify as a friend?"
"Ah ... well, sure! He'll be glad to." I went to the back door. "Kenny, come in! Mr. Williams is here."
Ken turned pale. "What did I do wrong?"
I laughed. "Nothing. He wants you to give him a ride on the snowmobile."
"That's all? Nothing bad?" Kenny breathed a deep sigh. "Sure. Why not?"
We found a pair of boots for Mr. Williams, and I handed him a woolen scarf. "Take this. The wind is cold."
Obediently, Williams bundled up and stomped out. I watched from the kitchen. Apparently, Kenny showed him where to put his feet and how to hold on to the driver's waist. Both waved at me when they took off.
Busy in the office, I forgot about them for awhile. Then I checked a clock. They were gone for almost half an hour. For heaven's sake, was anything wrong? Just then Jeff came in.
"Jeff, Kenny took the snowmobile with Mr. Williams ..."
"... our Mr. Williams?"
"Yes. And they are still out. Go, look! Maybe there's some trouble."
Jeff went to the rise in our land and then came back laughing. "They are going up and down, left and right in our field, and Mr. Williams is driving."
Awhile later they returned, Williams on the back seat like a good little kid, Ken exuberant.
While Mr. Williams took off scarf and boots, he said, "That was the most fun I had all winter. Thanks, everybody, thanks, Ken. You are a great driver, but you'll still have to do your homework. Right?"
One summer many years earlier, we built an addition to our house for office space. An Amish carpenter was hired, Roy Byler (not his real name), who came to work with his crew. There were about seven of them: an old grandpa, two or three teenagers and some grown men, cousins of Byler's, we were told. The helpers weren't the same every day.
Byler, calm and soft-spoken, kept his men busy in an unhurried way. He was reliable. If he promised something for next week, you could be sure he'd have it done within a month. For lunch, they found a grassy spot under a tree. That's when Jeff, then 3 years old, regularly joined them. He wouldn't budge when I called him into the house, and Byler said he was welcome to share their meal.
"What did you eat?" I asked.
"A bologna sandwich."
When I later thanked Mr. Byler for feeding my kid, he said, "Yah, he has a good appetite."
For me, Jeff had been a picky eater who hated bologna.
Jeff's brother, Pete, then 9 years old, wasn't much interested in the Amish. He had at that time a go-cart, a four-wheel thing close to the ground with a gasoline engine. He drove it for hours round and round the parking lot and was eagerly waiting for a larger area to be paved.
One Saturday while Pete was vrooming it up on the "Parking Lot 500," I heard a "clip-clop" sound outside, and the engine stopped. Just then the phone rang, and when I got off, I looked out. What a scene!
On the grass, tied to a tree, was a horse and Amish buggy. Pete was driving his cart as fast as it would go, and his passenger was -- Roy Byler. With one hand he was grabbing the back of the driver's seat, with the other holding down his wide-brimmed hat. I quickly took my camera and got a picture. After a few more laps, Pete stopped in front of me, grinning from one ear to the other with a "Now what do you say?" expression.
Roy Byler, with a serenely happy face, stroked his long beard. After quite awhile, he said, "I've come to check on those rafters ..." Then he chuckled. "Just don't show your pictures to the bishop."
"Want to ride some more?" Pete asked.
"Why not?" The man pushed his hat down. "As long as I don't own that thing, I can ride it, I s'pose."
Later, the horse whinnied when they clip-clopped out again.
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