As it turns out, there is a fairly large Mennonite population in Minnesota. Here, there are types of Mennonite traditions that are essentially just a Christian denomination, and then there are those who live a bit more of a cloistered and rural lifestyle that seems similar to (though not to be confused with) the Amish, at least to those on the outside looking in. In the more northerly region, where I work, the latter are pretty common.
Who knew?
Most people, probably. At least, most Minnesotans, I guess?
Anyway, on one recent day, a co-worker and I are driving the rural back roads of the reservation. We are a bit harried from a lack of sleep and the near 24/7 work it takes to engage the different groups who come to the Reservation with our non-profit service organization. Rounding a bend, we pass a traditional Mennonite couple selling various fruits and things out of the back of their truck. Intrigued, we decide to get out and support them. We have a couple minutes to spare - why not stop and see their wares?
As I approach, there is a woman who is neatly arranging baskets of raspberries. She is dressed in the unembellished clothing that marks their community - a somewhat boxy but clean-lined, monotone, and simple dress with a white prayer cap. And, I am immediately struck by how large she is, both in girth and height! She may be the largest woman I have ever seen in my life. Her hands are callous and gruff with dirt and soil embedded in their dried skin; It is the kind of dirty that doesn't just scrub off.
She embodies an aura of "farm tough."
As my coworker prods around the stand, I realize that I am not particularly interested in the raspberries she had laid out, but I feel awkward at the thought of walking away without purchasing anything. Also, I feel a bit encumbered by our size difference. So, I am a bit nervy. Nevertheless, I pluck up the courage to ask her the price at which she is selling the little baskets of fruit.
Upon hearing my voice, she freezes, and Her work-worn hands begin to tremble a little. She mumbles something in...German? I guess, some of the communities still only speak the mother tongue of the original countries from which they came - Dutch and German. I have heard of this, but I thought it was a custom that had come out of practice. Apparently not! I have no idea what she is saying. It is mutual.
Our combined nervousness somehow makes the whole interaction that much more awkward. As my mind quickly races through the different reasons for this intensity, her husband (as large a man as she is a woman) lumbers out from around their mid-sized truck with a barrel of squash in hand. He is dressed equally as humbly in a flannel shirt, overalls, and a straw hat. He pauses for a moment to spy the scene. Then, it finally dawns on me that the wife is extremely uncomfortable because she doesn't want to interact with a man who is not her husband.
The Husband drops his basket and hulks his way to the merchant's table. He points a seemingly distended and overly worked hand at the different sized baskets of raspberries, and in broken English with a German accent, he loudly says, “These... two and half! These... three and half!” My eyes widen a bit at his volume, but I gladly, though maybe sheepishly, hand him a five dollar bill and take two of the smaller containers.
I slowly say, "THANK YOU!" - they must know what that means, right? They both turn and carry on futzing about their stand. I return to the car where my coworker is already waiting - he has fewer scruples when it comes to leaving a small business empty handed.
I pause and reflect about the scene that had just occurred:
I just bought raspberries from a gargantuan and German speaking Mennonite man whose wife, being probably three times my size in (mostly likely) sheer muscle, was completely intimidated by me on a closed Indian Reservation in the middle of an intense Summer of service work. Sometimes, life is strange.
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