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the quiet little Mennonite town I imagined it would be,” he said, “and you are nothing like the typical Mennonite woman, are you?”
    “Heaven help us if that were so, dear.”

3
    Hernia looks nothing like Lancaster, which lies at the other end of the state. The bucolic pastures of Lancaster are reminiscent of England, albeit one peopled with Amish folks, whereas our tiny plots are squeezed between mountain ridges and highways so twisted that the mere sight of them is enough to induce colic—without the bu . Or worse. Movie stars—mainly guests staying at the PennDutch Inn—who just can’t seem to lose those extra ten pounds for that coveted role have their limo drivers race back and forth along Hertzler Road ad nauseam. In fact, this has happened so much lately that some local wag has dubbed that stretch Hurl zler Road—not that it’s caught on.
    At any rate, the town itself is almost equally divided between old historic homes and houses that are totally devoid of character. Fortunately, most of the latter are to be found clustered in one subdivision with the nonsensical name of Foxcroft. We have one main street, which is sensibly named just that, and the aforementioned four businesses. Our community gathering place is up on top of Stucky Ridge, where there is both a picnic grounds and a cemetery. Both places have lovely views.
    I already have too many strikes against me to admit to being proud of Hernia, but I really can’t imagine a finer place to raise a child. She—or he—can fish or swim in Miller’s Pond in the summer; ice skate on it in the winter; attempt to dam up Slave Creek in the spring; go on hayrides and pick apples in the fall; and play in haylofts and count stars any time of the year. And if she is a very naughty child, which mine won’t be, she can taunt the Amish as they drive by in their buggies, or fling “road apples” at the tourists and then run and hide. But she better run very fast, or else her mama will catch her, and then little Magdalena won’t be able to sit down properly for a week.
    Still, I couldn’t be happier living where I am, which is more than most folks can say. I may have gurgled softly to myself with contentment.
    Chris slammed on the brakes. “Are you all right?”
    “Why the Sam Hill did you do that?”
    “You let out this horrible groan, Miss Yoder; I thought maybe you’d gone into labor.”
    “Well, I might now, for Pete’s sake!”
    “No kidding?”
    “Kidding.”
    “Whew. Don’t string me on like that, Miss Yoder. When I was a kid I watched this movie—the one with Billy Crystal where he helps this calf be born. It was the scariest thing I ever saw. So, as much as I like you, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to help if you went into labor and needed hands-on assistance.”
    “And that’s a good thing, Chris, because if you ever did peek at what’s hiding behind my sturdy Christian underwear, your next job will involve a tin cup—not that I’m advocating violence, mind you, but I’m sure you get my drift.”
    “I hear you, ma’am.”
    “Chris, have you ever seen a town as pretty as Hernia?”
    “Yes, ma’am, plenty of them. In fact, most anyplace you look at back home in California is prettier than this.”
    Now, that got my goat. “Chris, after all this time you still refer to California as home. Is that because there are other homo sexuals there? No pun intended, dear.”
    Chris has a thick head of blond hair, a strong jawline, and teeth like Chiclets. He looks more like a movie star than most A-list actors do. When he threw back his head and laughed, I felt like I was watching a performance.
    “Would it surprise you, Miss Yoder, to learn that I’m not the only queer in Hernia?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You know, gay.”
    “Uh—well, there may be one or two in Bedford. But surely not in tiny little Hernia. And not any homegrown gays—except maybe for Willard.”
    “Miss Yoder, as we discussed when I was hired, it is not my