Even though she was picking up logs off the road, her age couldn’t have been more than three.
People assume I live in a peaceful neighborhood because most of my neighbors identify as Amish, but that’s not the case. The crowing of their rooster in the morning is what wakes you up. More times than I can count, my partner has chased their calves out of my rose bushes and vegetable garden, and just last year, we had to chase away horses that were eating the modern pears off our apple tree. When this happens, I feel so bad that I forget how kind most people are. At 6 a.m., I’ve gotten deliveries of fresh spate bread and eggs that were still warm from the hen. When in need, they seek out my friend and I, and we can always count on them to help us out. Where my friend and I were is the only place I could ever see myself calling home. A young girl and her mother were riding down the hill in a buggy last year. Even though she was picking up logs off the road, her age couldn’t have been more than three. Upon noticing her shivering, I found myself wondering if their buggies were equipped with boilers. I felt terrible about leaving the baby in the cold, so I went and got her a thermos of hot chocolate and checked to see if the stroller was heated. The interior of the buggy was toasty warm thanks to a tiny boiler installed under the floor. I would have offered them a hot can of soda or a warm cup of chocolate if it weren’t so warm inside, but I doubted they would have accepted.