I hate how traffic starts to crawl long before the airport exit. I hate the techno-
knowledge needed to make a machine process my ticket before I stand in line to take
off my shoes and belt. I hate being felt up while my pants sag. I hate that they
confiscate my penknife, and throw away my toothpaste, the tube too big despite its
flattened state.
I hate the clutch in my chest as I watch my laptop and wallet roll out of sight. Will
I find them before someone mistakenly (or not so mistakenly) scoops them up? Will I
even remember to retrieve them while I hold up my pants and hop foot to foot putting
on shoes before the next person in line bumps me out of the way?
Yes, Iโm the crotchety old bag in line in front of you; the one who juggles her
laptop, belt, book, and the shoe she canโt manage to slip on (the other one untied and
threatening to trip her) while she runs for the gate thatโs closing at the far end of
the concourse.
I prefer to travel in the calm of my loft. There, I can change time zones without
jetlag, even change time periods, going back to the mid-1800s without worrying I might
lose my breakfast in the lap of the man sitting next to me. You see, Iโm doing a
public service by not traveling on conventional airlines.
In my loft, I can write myself to anywhere. The favored place is back on my childhood
farm. When Iโm there I gather details: plows, harrows, pitchforks, methods of milking
and gardening, shoeing a horse while the sun on the back of my neck runs sweat into my
collar.
Often I take the details even farther back in time, to my grandfatherโs childhood on a
Pennsylvania farm, the setting for my novel
STONES IN THE ROAD. Thereโs no need to limit the number
of implements I carry (no size or weight restrictions in this kind of travel).
Of course, once Iโm on location, itโs clear that longing for the days of old when life
moved more slowly is a crock. Even though my ancestors had a wealth of cows and
horses, orchards hung with apples, peaches, and pears, dinners full of laughter with
helpful neighbors, their lives were not a low-tech piece of heaven.
For my grandfather (I call him Joshua in my book), at age eleven, life on the farm did
have moments of joy. They centered mostly on his mother and sisters. But those times
came mixed with fear that his father, Abraham, the respected Deacon of their Amish
fold, would finally go beyond beating him. He might kill Joshua.
On a candlelit night, this fear came to a head during one of Abrahamโs drunken and
decidedly secret rages. He dragged Joshua from bed to the woodshed, but before he
could beat him, the candle fell and ignited the building. Joshua barely escaped.
Wearing only his tattered nightshirt, he ran barefoot into the woods.
Here his ten-year journey began with burns and starvation, making my current travel
woes look like Easy Street.
During those ten years Joshua crossed the continent twice, the brutal world of the
โEnglishโ eating at the person he wanted to be, while at home on the farm his mother,
Miriam, rejected his father's claim, โThe boy most likely died of his burns.โ
Suspicion of Abrahamโs part in their son's disappearance grew as Miriam worked to
uncover details of Joshuaโs last night at home. With each secret exposed, the fabric
of their lives shredded further, until Joshuaโs unexpected return. To his shame, he
came back to the farm with another manโs blood on his hands. He planned to reclaim his
innocent roots, but when he faced his father, the impulse toward violence returned.
Iโve been inclined to avoid violence myself, leaving the roads to those with more rage
than sense, though it made me feel guilty. Lately, a kind person who read my first
book,
An UNSEEMLY
WIFE, suggested I came to this travel aversion through no fault of my own, that it
was probably handed down by my great-grandmother after her deadly trip west in a
Conestoga wagon. So now, without guilt, I yield to dread and stay in my loft, tracking
ancestral disasters from the comfort of my wingchair.
E. B. Moore grew up in a Pennsylvania on a Noahโs ark farm, the red barn
stabling animals two-by-two, along with a herd of Cheviot sheep.
Her first novel, AN UNSEEMLY WIFE, based on stories handed down by her Amish
grandmother, follows the family as they attempt westward migration in a covered wagon,
risking both body and soul as they struggle to survive close contact with the
"English." Stones in the Road, her second novel, is based her grandfatherโs early
life. As a runaway at eleven, he is presumed dead by his secretly abusive father, but
his mother fights what sheโs told is Godโs will and her growing suspicion of her
husbandโs hand in her sonโs disappearance. This novel comes out 10/6/15.
E. B. received full fellowships to The Vermont Studio Center and Yaddo. She is the
mother of three, the grandmother of five, and lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
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A young Amish boy ventures from Pennsylvania to California in this richly
imagined historical novel from the author of AN UNSEEMLY WIFE.
1867. Growing up among the Pennsylvania Amish, eleven-year-old Joshua knows that his
father is a respected church deacon who has the ear of God. But heโs also seen his
fatherโs weakness for drink, and borne the brunt of his violent rages. In the
aftermath of a disastrous fire, Joshua fears his fatherโs reprimand enough to run away
from home. Having never experienced the ways of the English, Joshua now embarks on a
decade-long journey to California, where heโs heard itโs always summer.
His mother, Miriam, is forced to take on the unusual role of head of the family when
her husband is unable to recover physically, emotionally, or spiritually from the
fire. As mother and son each find themselves in uncharted territory, they must draw on
strength and forgiveness from within. Urged by everyone to accept her sonโs death,
Miriam never gives up hope of seeing Joshua again. But even as her prayers are
answered so many years later, Joshuaโs reunion will require him to face his father
once againโฆ
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