Sentiment And The Soil

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

print | return

Urbanite #26 August 06

By: Melissa Faye Hess In late August the corn is so high you can barely see the meetinghouse until you are right on it. In the open space around the stone building, beside the humble graveyard, men and women in separate groups talk in Pennsylvania Dutch, a German dialect that few outside of their community understand. It is not Sunday, but they are dressed neatly in the distinctive clothing that indicates to a familiar observer whether they are Amish or are from one of several Old Order Mennonite communities. A mixed gathering of these different religious sects at a Mennonite meetinghouse is somewhat rare; even rarer are the times when members of the Amish community, who worship in their homes, participate in a function inside a church building. This night is special, for it is an annual assembly of those who wish to sing the oldest songs from their common roots in sixteenth-century Europe. There is no clock or bell, but the crowd knows it is time to begin. They make their way inside the unassuming structure devoid of decoration. Rows of backless benches center around a long wooden table. Talk settles down to a low hum. Several middle-aged men pass out the thick leather-bound hymnals, light a few gas lamps, and make sure everyone has a seat. With no formal introduction, one of the men at the central table sings out one, maybe two notes, and instantly the room is flooded with sound. They know this first one by heart. Every voice sings unabashedly, full of fervor. No one keeps time; there are no instruments. As the songs continue, the slow, swelling sounds transport the uninitiated listener to another land, another time. The sun sets and the voices sing on, the sound pouring out the open window, making its way across the fields and down into the darkening valley, as it has in this quiet corner of Pennsylvania for three centuries. The adjacent watersheds of the Conestoga Creek and the Mill Creek rest on a limestone bedrock that stretches across central Pennsylvania. It is a rolling landscape of rich soils, well irrigated by numerous tributaries and springs—some of the most productive farmland on the East Coast. At night, much of this place remains a dark patch in the midst of the glowing megalopolis of the northeastern United States. Viewed from a ridge, low-twinkling clusters spread evenly across black fields, marking the farmsteads of families who use gas lighting rather than electricity. The Amish settled in this area approximately 270 years Page 1 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

ago, after fleeing from the Alsace and Palatinate regions of central Europe, where they had been persecuted for their particular religious beliefs in the violent fallout of the Protestant Reformation. They found peace, freedom, and plenty of fertile land in William Penn’s diverse and tolerant colony. Today, the Mill Creek Valley remains the heart of the oldest and largest settlement of Amish. To the north, the Conestoga Valley shelters an even older settlement of Anabaptists: Beginning in 1717, Mennonites began filling the Conestoga, and today groups of Old Order Mennonites, collectively the most conservative branches of what is now a worldwide religion, dominate this lush and slightly less-crowded valley. The contiguous network of family-owned-and-operated Amish and Mennonite farms has been divided over the generations to the point that many farms are now at the smallest size at which they can be profitable. It is a mosaic of well-tended fields, ancient stone barns, solid masonry farmhouses, frame outbuildings, and massive metal silos; a gigantic earthwork that blends man-made and natural elements, a cultural landscape that draws the curiosity of the world. My own Mennonite family traces its roots in Lancaster County back to the early eighteenth century. As members of mainstream Mennonite congregations, the majority of my relatives are no longer “plain,” in that they do not live an overtly traditional lifestyle, but they still hold to the tenets of the faith. My childhood in an old farmhouse surrounded by development, located about a mile from the Mill Creek Valley, wasn’t much different from that of my non-Mennonite peers. After college in the Midwest, I pursued a career in historic preservation, never suspecting that my first job as an architectural historian fresh out of graduate school would bring me back home. What I found upon my return is that a new landscape threatens to eclipse the rural community that the Amish and Mennonite cultures have created over three hundred years. The farm fields—which have produced an abundance of corn, tobacco, soybeans, vegetables, and feed for livestock—now sprout bumper crops of McMansion-choked cul-de-sac developments, retirement mega-villages, gated condo communities, and other near-instantaneous neighborhoods. This “Amish Country” that draws visitors from around the globe may perish in this century. As early as the 1850s, magazines like The Atlantic Monthly were touting the simple wonders of Pennsylvania Dutch Country. In 1938, National Geographic dubbed it the “land of milk and honey,” and by 2001, 8.3 million visitors were traveling through the pristine Pennsylvania countryside making tourism, with more than 29,000 employees, the second largest Page 2 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

business in Lancaster. The multitude of marketing brochures promise visitors a nostalgic journey to the past. The industry thrives on what outsiders want to believe about the “plain” people —that they are living in another world and time. Tourists thrill at a horse-and-buggy sighting. Minivans slow to soak in the view, their occupants doing their best to follow what they learned at the Pennsylvania Dutch Country Welcome Center on Route 30: Don’t be too brazen with the picture-taking. Along with the tasty jellies, jams, and pies, visitors want to consume the very goodness of the plain people as they imagine it. They marvel at their meticulous handicrafts, their antiquated transportation, their peculiar clothing and head coverings, and the lush, orderly open spaces of their farms. Even more so, they are drawn by what they believe is not here: soulless shopping complexes, mind-numbing traffic, the din of cell phones, the hectic pace of modern life. They hope to connect with a better and more wholesome past. The tourists, however, soon tire of the pastoral scene and move on in search of other entertainment. A burgeoning commercial strip east of Lancaster City pushes farmland back every year to make room for the very modernity that the tourists came to escape: factory outlets, chain restaurants, amusement complexes—a little Vegas in Amish Country. You can hit the Polo outlet designed to look like a barn and go eat at a farmhousey Bob Evans. Increasingly, some tourists are deciding to buy not just the quilts and quaintness of Lancaster County, but the land itself. Consumption is Lancaster County’s true product, and it is this consumption that threatens to end Amish Country as we know it. Development is not only destroying highly productive farmland and forcing out a traditional culture, it is also creating a new landscape that brings with it a gnawing need for new infrastructure, including roads, utilities, shopping, and services. In contrast to the original landscape, which was shaped over time by the forces of a spiritually bound community and focused on the relationship between man and nature, the new landscape favors the individual. New development is merely a more permanent form of consumption. When people go seeking the country life in droves, they can destroy the very elements they sought. Paradoxically, people who move into new communities in Amish Country sometimes become very vocal opponents of further development of this landscape. Everyone wants his or her little piece of blight to be an isolated piece of blight. In 2004, in the wake of this mounting development, I returned to Lancaster to join a team of architectural historians documenting the two rural historic districts in these valleys, covering close to 48,000 acres. My firm’s work involved visits to several hundred historic Page 3 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

farmsteads, the majority of which are owned by either Amish or Old Order Mennonites. I drove north each day from my apartment in Baltimore to document some of the oldest farmsteads and cemeteries in the valleys. Our team fell into a rhythm of photographing buildings, sketching site plans, jotting notes on architectural features, and talking to owners about the history of their properties. Soon my dreams were filled with the various placements of tobacco barns, corncribs, bake ovens, summer kitchens, privies, farmhouses, and “bank” barns (so called because they are often set into a slope of hill). While patterns emerged, each farm offered something unique. In the aggregate, the integrity of the landscape was stunning, but it was clearly threatened by the intense development in and around the historic communities. A pasture we photographed one week showed the signs of coming development the next. I met with the farmers, the Amish and Mennonite families who have tilled this land for generations, and talked with them about their land and their community’s history. I visited farmsteads built by some of the pioneers to the valley. One day, I traveled a long gravel lane that led to a cluster of buildings set on a low ridge. To the right of the lane was a wide farmhouse with green shuttered windows and a porch running the full length of the facade. To the left of the lane rose a massive post-and-beam constructed Pennsylvania bank barn, a tobacco barn with adjustable vertical slats used for curing, and several makeshift greenhouses. The style of the buggy and the clothes hanging on the laundry line indicated that this family belonged to the Groffdale Conference of Mennonites, often called “Team Mennonites” because they, like the Amish, use horse and buggy for travel. A boy of about 8 or 9 approached. His younger sisters, wearing perfect long braids and calico dresses, hung back bashfully. Their homemade clothes styled after the traditional dress of their parents, their reserved manner, and the air of responsibility that comes with having chores every day made them seem like little adults, but their healthy red cheeks and shiny eyes (that never watch television) reflected an innocence rarely seen in American children. The boy led me to the lower stable level of the barn, where his father was pitching hay. The farmer listened patiently as I launched into a lengthy explanation of the purpose of my visit and my interest in the history of his farm. He simplified things for me: “You want to know what makes this place special.” We walked out of the barn and over to a one-room wide, two-story limestone building, no bigger than a tool shed. The small structure is believed to be one of the oldest dwellings in the valley, perhaps dating to the 1720s. In a field nearby, a small cemetery contains the remains of the family that built this home. Direct lineal Page 4 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

descendants still live here and on the surrounding farmstead. The farmer knows it’s special and understands my fascination, but as most farmers, he’s practical; for him, the building is still functional storage space. Nearby, I sat down with another Amish farmer in his modest kitchen. He poured me a cup of strong coffee and our conversation turned to the history of his land and the surrounding area. His hands around his cup were massive, something he shares with other farmers who work without the aid of modern machinery. I could not guess his age because of the health and strength that radiated from every part of him. We walked to his barn where a colossal hand-hewn beam ran unbroken across the entire interior length of the structure. His ancestors knew by looking at the size of the trees what fertile soil they had found. The beam represents a communal effort of labor; the barn was built with countless future generations in mind. Barn raisings continue to this day, although there are no new beams of this magnitude. The sense of mutual care and cooperation of his community are what matter most. He could not stress enough the value of a good neighbor, be they Amish, Mennonite, or English (as the Amish call everyone who is not plain). These men and their families understand the importance of the past, feel keenly the pressure of the moment, and wonder about the future of this distinctive place. Many members of the Amish and Mennonite communities accept the changes. They’ve started cottage industries and other businesses that take advantage of the endless flow of people to their homeland. More and more young men are entering the building trades, as farming is just not an option. Others of the plain people refuse to adapt. They choose to leave their ancestral homelands. There are patterns: Old Order Mennonites are more apt to move than Amish; younger people who want to pursue farming rather than pick up a trade are more apt to move; families that are more conservative are also likely to leave because of greater discomfort with the changes in Lancaster County. “We all want to move,” a young Amish woman told me. When I asked why, she said that it was too crowded and too noisy. How can people leave a place they have inhabited for three hundred years? When I asked about the migration, I heard several responses. For some, it was simple arithmetic. The escalating sale price of an acre of soil in Lancaster can purchase several acres in the Midwest, providing a farming life for multiple generations. Perhaps an even more thought-provoking answer to the question is that they are choosing a way of life over Page 5 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

a physical place. A retired Mennonite farmer told me, emphatically, “We will live our history.” This challenges, even stuns, a sentimental preservationist who by inclination and training reveres historic settings. How can they leave? But what right would we have to ask them not to go? As a preservationist, I was easily swept up in gloom and woe over these changes. Looking back now, I see that my response wasn’t that far away from those timetraveling tourists I found so silly. My sadness was just nostalgia in disguise. Unable to accept change in a culture and a place that was not even fully my own, I fell into an emotional funk. A Mennonite preacher and a well-known historian of the Lancaster County Mennonites ultimately pulled me out of that funk. When I was at my most blue, he startled me by saying, “We have to get past sentimentality.” And that’s when it hit me. I realized that as I sat and talked with Amish and Mennonites facing wrenching changes in their homeland, I encountered very little sentimentality. Whether they plan to adapt or to leave, what they all value more than the land of their ancestors are their living ties to one another. Though there is little sentimentality, there is pain and anger in the staying and in the going. A segment of this community strongly wants to see their homeland preserved and works steadily and quietly to that end. It can be difficult for outsiders to understand why Old Order communities are not more vocal, but their faith calls them to peace and nonresistance. Change, ultimately, loses much of its sting among a people tuned to acceptance and guided by faith. Those who choose to leave are not unattached to their homeland. They would stay if they could. I learned the phrase die heimat. I was told that it does not translate well into English, but essentially it means, “It gives a feeling of home,” or “It homes me.” One man described it as that feeling when you enter a place and your knees melt. The phrase speaks to places that resonate in your soul. But without the community, the land itself is pointless. When the believers go, buildings and memories may remain but the place will be gone. That pioneer dwelling will lose its function, becoming a monument, a relic, sitting, perhaps, among a cluster of condos. The piecemeal development of the Mill Creek and Conestoga valleys is creating permanent alterations to provide quick construction for transient populations. The communalism that treasured the land will succumb to the individualized commercialism that now consumes it. What the believers’ way of life can teach us is that to Page 6 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

care about a place means to care about the people with whom you share that place. When we make places that don’t foster our ties to each other, we are building places that may never be worth saving. The opening song in the hymnal used today by mainstream Mennonites is titled, “What Is This Place?” The words are just a few decades old, but the music was written in Holland in 1626. The gist of the song is that place is ephemeral, but the bonds of the congregation are eternal. The message of the song is more powerful than centuries. Change is always coming. All things must pass and this landscape will one day not exist, but the community will survive, because community is eternal. Of the infinite responses to change, the Old Order Mennonite and Amish community chooses itself. What is this place where we are meeting? / Only a house, the earth its floor, / walls and a roof sheltering people, / windows for light, an open door. / Yet it becomes a body that lives when we are gathered here / and know our God is near. Words from afar, stars that are falling, / sparks that are sown in us like seed / names for our God, dreams, signs, and wonders / sent from the past are what we need. / We in this place remember and speak again what we have heard, / God’s free redeeming word. And we accept bread at his table, / broken and shared, a living sign. / Here in this world, dying and living, / we are each other’s bread and wine. / This is the place where we can receive what we need to increase: / God’s justice and God’s peace.

Going Dutch: Understanding Amish Country Anabaptism—A sixteenth-century offshoot of the Protestant Reformation. Persecuted for their beliefs, including the re-baptism of adults, the group spread from southern Germany and Switzerland into northern Germany, Holland, and North America. Anabaptist groups include the Mennonite Church, Old Order Amish, Old Order Mennonites, Brethren, Hutterites, and others. Amish—Following Swiss leader Jacob Amman, they split from the Mennonites in 1693. Amish eschew telephones, television, and electricity, use horse-andbuggy transportation, and worship in their homes because the “church” is the community of believers, not a building. Mennonites—Named for Menno Simons, a sixteenthcentury Dutch Anabaptist leader. Today, approximately two hundred Mennonite groups worship in sixty-five countries around the world. The majority of North Page 7 of 8

http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/includes/print.cfm?sectionID=4&IssueID=38&ArticleID=436&print=1

1/30/09 5:55 PM

American Mennonites have assimilated into mainstream society. The Old Order Mennonites are often mistaken for Amish because of their appearance, but unlike the Amish they worship in meetinghouses and use electricity and phones. Some groups travel by horse and buggy; others allow cars. Plain—A term to describe those Anabaptist groups that practice separation from the outside world; often refers to their simple dress. Old Order—Anabaptist communities that have resisted acculturation and most forms of modernization. Pennsylvania Dutch (or Pennsylvania German)—A German dialect spoken by many Old Order Amish and Mennonites. English—A term used by Amish to denote a non-Amish person; someone from the outside. Nonresistance—The Mennonite Confession of Faith calls members to live the Sermon on the Mount, absorbing malice and leaving vengeance up to God. The concept goes beyond pacifism in war to include complete rejection of all violence and conflict, even litigation. Nonconformity—A pattern of living based on the biblical teaching, “Be not conformed to the world.” Though the strict community dress code would appear to be conformity, it is actually a rejection of the larger society’s trend of dressing for individual expression. Copyright 2007 Urbanite Baltimore // [email protected] Created & Powered by Mission Media

Page 8 of 8