Magnetic Fields

From the bedroom window, the Pennsylvania farmland is a sight to behold.

The early morning sunlight splashes over the checkerboard farms, which undulate from the flatlands onto the rolling hills like a living quilt, reaching all the way to the horizon.

The light chases an early autumn breeze through an open window and into the bedroom.

The room is stark. A kerosene lamp sits on a nightstand next to the bed. Worn, black work boots lie next to a closet. Inside the small closet, a pair of black pants and several white, short-sleeved shirts hang neatly on wire hangers.

A young man, age twenty-two, sits on a bare, hardwood floor with his back up against the wooden frame of his bed. His genetic heritage may explain his apparent indifference to the coldness of his bedroom.

He looks intently through the window for a moment, and then looks down, then up, then down; his eyes moving in and out of the light. In his fingers, a small paint brush is dancing on a small canvas. The canvas is leaning up against the legs of a straight-backed wooden chair. His brushstrokes are precise and sure as he recreates, on the canvas, the landscape seen in the distance beyond his window.

A knock on his door startles him. He jumps up, walks over to the door, and opens it. A tall, gray-haired man with a full-length beard stands at the doorway.

“I wanted to make sure that you were awake, Jonathan,” his father, Paul, says.

Jonathan’s father, like himself, is tall and lean, with hard muscles and chiseled, symmetrical features. The physical differences between them are what one might expect, considering their twenty-five-year age difference. The father wears a beard with no mustache.

Upon marriage, Amish men are obligated to grow out their beards. And although beards are mandatory for married men, mustaches are strictly forbidden. The rationale for this rather odd rule is that, from their earliest origins in Europe in the1600s, the Amish have associated mustaches with soldiers, and therefore, the military. And because they are strict pacifists, the Amish shun military service, which they associate with violence, or the potential for violence; and so the early Amish did not want their men resembling soldiers in any way. Therefore, a policy of no mustaches in married men was established more than three centuries ago, and still holds strong to this day.

Jonathan’s father speaks with a subtle German accent, as do most members of his generation. Jonathan talks less formally, and with no German accent.

“Dad, I’ll be right down,” Jonathan replies. “I just have to get my boots on.”

“I will see you in the kitchen, son. We have much work to do today.”

“Yes, father, just like every day.”

“Yes, son, just like every day. But it is this work which keeps us strong. It is the glue that binds our family and our people.”

“Oh really? I thought it was the cow dung and the pig slobber that glued us together,” Jonathan mutters to himself.

Paul stops and turns around. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t hear what you said.”

“It was nothing, Dad. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

Jonathan sits down on the wooden chair and slowly begins putting on his boots. The long day has only just begun, and he already looks tired. When he finishes lacing up his boots, he gets up and walks over to the closet. He removes a wide-brimmed straw hat from a hook in the closet, takes a deep breath, and slowly walks out of the bedroom.

The Schaeffer family members are sitting around the kitchen table and eating as if they have not had a morsel of food for days. Jonathan’s mother, Elizabeth, is standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a loaf of homemade bread, still warm from the oven.

His father looks up from his plate.

Jonathan walks over to the table and takes a couple of thick slices of still-warm bread off the large serving dish. With a large spoon, he places a mound of scrambled eggs on top of one slice of bread, and then slaps another slice of bread on top of that.

He takes a big bite from the egg sandwich while walking towards the back door.

He stops at the door. “I’ll see you guys out at the barn,” he says over his shoulder, just before opening and walking out the door.

“That’s not enough … food,” Paul utters, just before the screen door slams shut. He puts his fork down, and through the kitchen window, he watches Jonathan walking towards the barn. He then looks over at Elizabeth, who is also watching their oldest son.

Paul looks at the plates of the other children sitting at the table. “You kids seem quite finished. Let’s get about our chores, children. We have much work to do today.”

The two younger boys scramble out of their chairs and scurry out to the barn to join their older brother, Jonathan. Their sister, Mary, age seventeen, hurries outside to start the day’s laundry chores. Two-year-old Rebecca remains in her high chair, busily adding to her mess on the floor.

After the screen door closes behind Mary, Elizabeth turns to Paul. “I know