Years ago, I spent the Fourth of July at a bed and breakfast in Paradise, PA.  Located in Amish country, Paradise is near the towns of Bird in Hand and Intercourse.  Um, Intercourse means community fellowship, in case anyone’s wondering.  Back to Paradise.  Wink.  It’s an idyllic spot; think homemade lemonade, shoofly pie and rolling green hills.  The innkeepers drew maps (this was before GPS) so we could stay way off the beaten path, away from tourists.  But we wouldn’t be tourists for long.  

We drove through the dusty back roads and stopped at roadside stands for homemade root beer and freshly-made pretzels, still warm from the oven.  On a country lane, we saw a hand-lettered sign for wooden butter churns.  Why might I need a butter churn, you ask?  I can’t actually answer that question.  I usually buy my butter at the grocery store, and my power doesn’t go out that often.  

In my defense, I was going through that country rooster curtains/calico flowers/mauve and country blue phase and bought my home decor at craft shows. No judgment, please.  Some of you might have had wallpaper borders or sponge-painted walls, just saying.  So, we stopped at the farm, bought the authentically Amish butter churn, and left the money in a box on a table.  The honor system.  Then someone called out to us.  It was a young Amish man leaning against the barn, straw hat and suspenders.  You know the look.  Cue the Hallmark movie music.  

After a short conversation, the young man said, “I know Ma will want to meet you.”  Ma?  He led us to the house and there was “Ma” and an assortment of other Amish relatives.  They offered us a delicious lunch, and we settled in with our new friends.  They were great hosts; curious about us “English.”  The movie “Witness”  captures the vibe.  In very dim lighting or to the visually impaired, I might resemble a young Kelly McGillis.  Sadly, no Harrison Ford hanging around that day.

Before the homemade ice cream, we realized that a) it was sweltering in the house and b) it was time to go. We were given a buggy ride, in the intense heat, sitting behind a horse who kept dropping presents that steamed as they hit the ground.  Back at the farm, the family patriarch called out to us.  “If you folks would be so kind as to take us into town, we’d sure appreciate it.  It’s a long buggy ride in this heat.”  

That’s how we found ourselves in our Chevy Blazer, loading the grandmother, her wheelchair and family members into the truck.  They all enjoyed the air conditioning, but weren’t allowed to listen to the radio.  We enjoyed the fact that none of them had used deodorant.  Au naturel.  

At the dentist’s office, we were told their appointments (plural) wouldn’t take long.  The place was straight out of the 1950s – instead of magazines there were old high school yearbooks.  At one point, the dentist brought grandma back and sang out, “no cavities.”  We loaded her back into her wheelchair, and got everyone home so the kids could throw a baseball around before dark.  

We had clocked a six-hour day with the Amish, and we needed a shower almost as much as they did.  The next morning, our innkeepers said the Amish often try to get rides into town.  Well played, Amish friends, well played.  

That Fourth of July we met some good people, and enjoyed the kindness of strangers.  More of that is needed in our busy world.  More of us should stop and smell the er, apple pie.  And I think you know this story did not end with bubbly.  The Amish don’t drink.  There’s something to be said about living a simpler life.  Not for me, though.  The next year, I went to the beach.  Red, white and rosé all the way.