October 8, 2007
Monday

Last Tuesday marked the anniversary of the tragedy in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania. No public observances were planned. Thus there were no national news crews tramping around the corn fields, although Ann Curry did use her hushed bad news voice to note the date in her headline recap on that morning’s Today show. Last year I was pretty critical of all the tourist newspeople who clogged the narrow country roads to report the events. I suggested that it might be a good idea for them to “pack up their stuff, maybe replace the ground their equipment has torn up, and do some reflection themselves. Or at least learn how to say the name of the county.”

So I was surprised to find myself in the region last Tuesday. I’d gotten my hair cut right after I came home from Vermont, and I just counted down five weeks to make an appointment for the next. I didn’t even look at the date, just wrote “hair 2:30” in the block and went on my way. When I saw the convergence of dates I thought about postponing the haircut, but then couldn’t figure out how I could reschedule and keep things on track so I don’t have to think about my hair in Wyoming.

The hair place is about ten miles from an historic bridge I wanted to photograph. I need the shot for a project due in about two weeks, and the light and the air were just right, so after the haircut I headed south and east. The bridge is in a fairly congested area and I had to park across the street. When I was finished, it was a lot easier to turn east again, go a little way, and double back by a parallel road.

The “little way,” however, sent me right to the road one would turn on to go to the towns no one outside the region had heard of last year: Ronks, Ninepoints, Bartville, Nickel Mines. I hadn’t been back that way since early in the summer to shop for authentic Amish textiles as gifts for my hosts in Vermont. Thus did I find myself doing what I would have discouraged others from doing — riding around in the picturesque villages, slowing behind horse-drawn buggies, stopping to photograph an ancient, gnarled tree standing alone in a cornfield. I told myself it was okay, since I love the plain people and respect their culture.

It really was quiet there. I passed the site where the tragedy occurred. The building was torn down and the land has been returned to pasture. I didn’t go close to where the new school stands, nor did I seek out the cemetery where the girls who died are buried. It is said that some tour operators scout out such places looking for freshly-opened graves so that they can bring their gawking tourists by during a funeral, a practice thought to be especially disrespectful. Although it is not typical of the Amish to visit gravesites on the anniversary of a death, I did not want to risk encountering family members or others who might nevertheless be paying respects. I also passed by the cemetery where the gunman lies. There were two video trucks from a Harrisburg television station in the parking lot and a reporter I recognized standing next to her car, so I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to be the only person available for a sound bite.

I stopped at the farmstand next to my favorite quilt place, bought some molasses cookies and pepper jelly. I talked to Mrs. Esh, the proprietor, while two wagons loaded with freshly-baled something (I’m a city girl — what do I know from dark green stuff it takes a team of four to haul?) made their lumbering way up the road.

Being in that region does have a way of clearing the head. According to my notebook I was headed into a depression this time last year. This year it’s hard for me to remember what that felt like, and I rode around in Bart Township deeply aware of the amazing grace that has touched so many of us. Thank you for so much, so often, I whispered to that mysterious providence that cares for me.

And then, because really, I’m just like everybody else, just before I headed home I stopped at a crossroads and got the day’s money shot:

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