Meeting LuAnne

I was in the fourth grade and it was my first day at this school.

So far I had silently taken a long ride on a bus full of strangers, navigated up stairwells and through unfamiliar hallways, and found my classroom in a building I’d never been in before.

I was barely inside the room when I heard someone say, “There she is.”

Before I took two more steps, I was surrounded.

“What’s your name?” A boy asked.

I told him.

“What kind of last name is that, anyway?” The boy wrinkled his nose, looking me dead in the eye.

“The only one I got.” An unfamiliar knot formed in my stomach. I’d been to new schools before, but this one seemed awfully unfriendly.

A girl with a kind face, braided pigtails, and some sort of small bonnet covering her head stood at the outer edge of the group of boys, watching.

A boy moved his head, blocking my view of the girl. “Frank said you ride on his bus.”

I wondered who Frank was.

“He said your dad ain’t a farmer. Everybody round here owns or works farms.”

I shrugged.

“Well?” Another boy asked.

“My dad works in D.C. and drives back and forth.”

“D.C?” The boy mocked.

The squeals of laughter made the teacher glance up from his desk. “Settle down. You have three minutes before you need to take your seats. Make sure you have pencil and paper ready.”

“So,” the boy lowered his voice and moved in even closer, “Why’d your dad buy all that land with barns and fences if he don’t intend to farm?”

“I think he said something about a hobby farm.”

The whispery scoffing spoke a lot louder than the boys’ dared to. “Every one of us has been up since four this morning doing chores. Farming ain’t no hobby.”

The girl with the bonnet pressed forward and the group parted, much like I’d imagined the Red Sea had all those years before. “I think you guys are coming on a bit strong, no?” The girl took me by the hand and led me to the back of the room where it was quiet. The boys kept a wary eye on us as they walked to their desks. She kept her blues eyes fastened on my lunch bag. “They don’t mean to sound so rude.” She slowly lifted her eyes to mine. “That’s what my Mom says anyway.”

I remember the kindness in her eyes, the oddity of her speech patterns, and how easily she brought peace to those around her. I met LuAnne that day, a blonde-haired, soft spoken girl, whose bonnet was a prayer kapp. She was a Plain Mennonite, who was comfortable with not fitting in with those around her.

Her father wasn’t a dairy farmer either ;-)