Under a Large Tent

Jun 29, 2023

If you’re going to go to the bother and expense of putting up a tent, you might as well leave it up. That’s what my Mennonite neighbors thought, anyway, when their daughter got married. And the Kauffman’s tent was a fancy, spanking new, white canopy tent. Not the old faded and frayed canvas tent that Menno Beachy usually brings up the road on the back of his horse-drawn wagon, his teenage sons riding along with their sledgehammers to help raise the center pole and pound the stakes into the ground.

No, the Kauffman’s new tent was bright and tight, the sun shining down through its cover, without patches or holes. Menno had placed the canopy right next to the Kauffman’s garage that had been opened, scrubbed down and filled with serving tables. More tables and chairs were placed under the tent with the bench wagon in the yard to provide the tablecloths and dishes.

So, the Kauffman’s daughter was married on Thursday, the neighborhood picnic was held on Friday, and the Kauffman family reunion took place on Saturday. All under the same tent. On Friday evening, I pulled up the lane, my coleslaw on the seat, and wedged my car in between a buggy and a cart. Then I swung into the rhythm of the neighborhood picnic, an annual event we’ve been having every summer for the past 30 years, the party rotating from farm to farm.

First, we bowed our heads for grace, then dug into the meatloaf and a variety of salads and casseroles, pickles and cheeses, rolls and buns. We were all told to bring side dishes—hot or cold. Our hosts would provide the main dish, coffee and dessert. A table under the garage window held a huge wedding cake with swirls of white icing decorating the top, a cake large enough to feed the guests from Thursday through Saturday.

Act I. We ate in two groups, men on one side, women on another. Our conversation, as it always does, turned first to current events, an odd topic for most at the table who have no news sources. The English simply interpret for the Amish and Mennonites.

“Did you ever think they’d find that submersible?” Fran asked, then turned to the rest of the table and explained the tragedy.

“They went down in something like a small submarine? Whatever for?”

“I knew they were goners,” another neighbor said.

Finally, the table agreed that the Titantic should have its privacy. The ship should be left alone, undisturbed, there at the bottom of the sea, without the English constantly trying to plunge into the sea to gape at it.

Act II. Physical ailments. Oh, Lydia’s toe was on the mend but Naomi might have to have surgery on her knee. She didn’t know when as she was still waiting for an appointment. It’s been hard to get in anywhere since the pandemic, so you might as well cope with what you’ve got.

Fran was displaying the most patience. She had fallen over her vacuum cleaner and broken her hip. She was still using a cane, but was back to work after three weeks of recuperation.

“I broke my hip, but I didn’t die. I’m still alive,” Fran said, “It could have been worse.”

“That’s the spirit!” I said.

The table broke into laughter and Donna, just arriving from a friend’s memorial, plopped down in the midst of us. Donna had told me that she would be late, but she’d hoped that she could make it to the picnic before the jokes began.

Act III. The men usually begin the jokes in the part of the evening where the two genders begin to co-mingle in a circle of chairs. Some hover over their coffee cups, and on this night, others sat in awe with their pieces of wedding cake, forks floating down through the sugary frosting. Behind us in the vast expanse of yard, the children were tossing balls and bean bags and running after each other, playing tag.

slice of cake with strawberry — Photo by Dessy Dimcheva on Unsplash

“Did you hear the one about the dog and the tree?”

“No.”

“They had a long conversation about bark.”

“What did the duck say when he bought lipstick? Put it on my bill.”

Over the course of the evening, with the hot summer sun descending toward the horizon, the whole neighborhood came together, parents and children, all clustering under the large tent on top of the hill, isolated, removed from the gaping English world.

Yes, some of us had our differences, but ultimately, we all got along. We were all accounted for, members of each family in each of the surrounding farms. We chatted and laughed and made eye contact, heads up. We were away from the 24-hour news broadcasts, the tragic tales, away from the cords, plugs, texts and messages, the blips and blinks.

The jokes got longer and funnier, one person trying to top the other. But as hard as we’d tried, no one, not in many years, has topped the joke Jacob Kauffman once told. It’s a high bar. To retell it, the children need to be occupied, the balls and bean bags whizzing through the air. We leaned back in our chairs.

There were three guys in a sauna, Jacob began.

Two English guys—one with black hair, the other blond–and an Amish guy. They were sitting there sweating, throwing water on the coals. The two English guys were talking about all the fancy things they could do on their computers and all the devices that they owned. Suddenly, they heard a buzzer go off. The Amish guy looked around trying to figure out where the noise was coming from, then the blond English guy pressed a spot on his neck, and the buzzer stopped.

–What was that? The Amish man asked.

–Oh, just my secretary trying to find me, the man said.

The three men kept sweating, then the Amish man heard the sound of a phone ringing, and ringing. The dark-haired English man pressed a spot on his wrist and began talking.

–I’m still at the office, honey, I’ll be home soon, the man said.

–Talking to your wife? The Amish man grinned.

The men kept sweating, sweating and sweating.

Suddenly, the Amish man jumped up and excused himself. He said he had to go to the restroom. After a while, he returned with some sheets of toilet paper trailing from his behind.

–What have you got there? The blond man asked.

–Oh, that’s just a fax coming in, the Amish man said.