It’s mid August and I find myself cruising slowly through the heart of Amish Mennonite country in our area. Neatly attended farms abound. Modest homes all sport a long clothesline or two. On certain days, they will be filled with plain colored work clothes flapping in the sun to dry. Some homes have power lines while others do not. There will be a horse or two in the field and a buggy in the yard. Some farms have large vegetable or flower gardens, offering produce for sale on every day but Sunday. Other farms sell handmade furniture, meat, eggs, or wooden garden sheds. The signs at the farm gate all say “No Sunday Sales”. The offerings are varied. Some farms are more specialized. There is a harness maker and a sawmill.
Although daytime temperatures are warm, fall migration is well underway. Flocks of Canada geese pass overhead as they move about to feed on grain spilled in the recent harvest. The clear blue sky is filled with fluffy white clouds lined with shades of gray, promising rain in an all too dry month. Grasses are turning brown, the green deciduous tress are fading while the sun casts longer shadows. Goldenrod and Knapweed flourish, splashing vibrant yellow and purple in the ditches and fencerows. Fall is arriving and it’s no longer being subtle.
The fields in these communities are small. I expect they are the same fields the early settlers carved out initially. In those days too, everything was done manually with the assistance of horses.
I feel softness in this evening… a warm breeze rustles through the grass. The only other sounds I hear are Eastern Meadowlarks and children laughing in the distance. Bob - tailed Belgian mares graze quietly with foals at their sides. A few last of summer Eastern Bluebirds flit about readying for their long journey. Absent is the heavy droning of harvest machines, heard for seemingly endless hours in other parts of the country.
With camera in hand, I look for a vantage point to tell the story of how these grain fields are harvested by a horse drawn harvester and stooked by hand. I immediately feel like an intruder. The Amish don’t like their photos taken… a belief I have, which I’m unclear as to how I came to believe this. As with many opinions, they unknowingly come to us and are accepted by us as truth.
In the distance I see a barn engulfed by a thick haze. It resembles smoke, but it’s not quite smoke…. It’s the barn located on the sawmill property. There is no smell of smoke. My best guess is it is sawdust from the mill being backlit by the setting sun. I drive over to find the “haze” has disappeared on this side of the building. Here, several young men are on the gangway of the barn forking straw onto an elevator which moves the straw high and into the back of the loft. To the side of the gangway stands a beautiful Belgian in harness with a large wagon of straw in tow. The gentle horse stood quietly, waiting to move forward with its load after the first wagon was unloaded. I am in awe of the amount of dust scattered by the manual work. From afar even with my long lens I still feel like an intruder, so I pass on taking a photo. I was also considering I need to sharpen my storytelling skills to describe this scene. I leave and return to my initial vantage point.
Two fields over, a young boy and girl fly a kite. He in his blue shirt and wide brimmed straw hat, she in a long blue jumper, gathered at the waist. She wears a blue bonnet. They both giggle and frolic after the kite as it flutters in the sky. A form of simple play known to me from childhood, I wonder how many children still enjoy kites.
I’m struck by the simplicity and quiet joy of this pastoral scene, when the silence is eased by the distant clip clop of horseshoes on pavement. As the rig moves closer, the tinkling of harnesses and rubber tires humming on the road are the only new sounds. The driver guides his horse into the laneway of a neighbouring farm. I lower my camera and feel guilty.
Within a few moments a horse and rider are galloping full speed up the laneway towards the road. They turn in my direction. A young man is astride, his mare is still wearing her driving headstall. He is fairly young and beardless, indicating he is unmarried. He’s wearing a berry coloured shirt, blue pants and work boots. On his head is a wide brimmed, black banded straw hat. He is as an adept rider as I have ever seen, his legs quiet and firm on the horse’s saddle-less barrel. He urges her faster and I’m wondering what kind of pleasure ride this is. As they bolt down the road together, it becomes clear he’s checking on his neighbour in case of fire. I am witnessing a time before land lines and cell phones. I didn’t take a photo.
The young man soon returns at the same speed, full gallop. I step far off to the side of the road hoping the mare will not spook. It could have been disastrous, they were travelling so fast. I couldn’t resist…I took a photo, vowing to research the etiquette of photographing Amish people when I get home.
This is what I have learned. Generally, the Amish do not like to be photographed. It also is an individual preference. Some tolerate it, others do not. As border crossings and government identifications are more and more requiring photos, I’m sure their attitudes are changing.
There are however, situations and circumstances that are acceptable. Photos of buggies, wagons, farm life and interestingly enough, children are tolerated. Some will allow side profile face portraits, while frontal face portraits are not permitted. I’ll now have more confidence when photographing the Amish and sincerely hope the young man is not offended I took a photo of his most remarkable ride.
