Manorville

BACK COVER

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… Friday finally arrived and with great anticipation, I set out to drive the winding country lane that would lead to Noah's farm. It was dark when I arrived at the large wooden house nestled among a stand of trees, several barns to the back. Flickering lights could be seen through the curtain-less windows from the coal oil lamps. It was a throw back in time with no evidence of modern conveniences. Yet, I knew somewhere in one of those barns there was probably a gasoline powered generator that could be used whenever someone had the need for electrical power. And, Noah would have a pick-up truck neatly tucked away, as unmarried men were allowed the ways of the world until marriage and officially joining the church. The feeling of isolation was overpowering, yet I knew this was not the case, as I had passed a pay telephone about a mile back sitting quite oddly amidst the cornfields where two dirt lanes intersected.

My senses were assaulted, the darkness, the sounds, the smells. Freshly plowed fields laced with manure mixed with the bloom of an unidentified flower while a chorus of insects serenaded the night. I made my way up the path, the small beam of a flashlight guiding me as the barn dogs sounded an alarm. Then he appeared, well-scrubbed and smelling of soap.

Would you like to come in and meet my mother?

Yes, I smiled, my knees feeling a little weak as my mind savored his raw masculinity... We climbed the few steps to a large porch that wrapped around the old frame house entering a simple wooden door onto a hall. Several doors opened off the hall and a staircase led to the second floor. At the end of the hall was a large room, the kitchen. She rose when I entered. Dressed in the traditional dark dress with a white bib her hair pulled back tightly the braids covered with a sheer white cap. She stood straight, lean and tall, like her son – the same well-scrubbed look, the dim light accentuating the weathered lines of her face.

Come in, come in. Ya. Ya. You are the lady from the nursing home. Mrs. Miller, in her heavy German accent motioned me to a straight-backed cane chair with Noah disappearing into the dark recesses of the house.

We exchanged greetings and I commented on the fragrance of the drying fruit in the screened dehydrator thinking that before the evening was over I might be offered a piece of snitz pie, a marvelous concoction of dried apples in a flaky crust. I had tasted the Amish treat once, and it was an experience not to be forgotten. The pie served warm – the dark brown filling, sweet and spicy, the consistence of thick apple butter.

Mrs. Miller excused herself to check the children, explaining that Noah was the oldest of her eight with little four year old Mary the youngest. Alone in the quiet of the room, I wondered if she was happy to be past her child bearing years while the dim flickering lights, plank floor, plain wood furniture, and the warmth of the pot belly stove, evoked ancestral memories of forgotten lifetimes....

MANORVILLE

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20th CENTURY GAL MEETS 17th CENTURY GUY

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By

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SALLY HART

MANORVILLE

Published by S. J. Upperman

Wooster, Ohio

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Copyright 2014

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Also by SALLY HART

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SUGAR PIMP

MANORVILLE

MANORVILLE II

MANORVILLE III

MANORVILLE

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CHAPTER ONE

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August 1975.

It lasted seventy-one hours.

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I woke to the steady beat, a white noise grinding into my consciousness – the greyness of the morning tempting me to burrow into the down comforter and let the day pass lazily by.... Oh! I jumped up, remembering.

This is my last day at the Manors. My feet hit the cold floor a shudder running through me – free-floating anxiety it is called – a worry sucking at my soul – just the knowing that all is not well. Must be the rain.

Red. I pulled my brightest suit from the closet. Yes, red would do nicely, a rebellion against the greyness of the day and the interminable whiteness of the nursing home. Certainly, someone would treat me to cake and ice cream on my last day, so I must be ready for a party. The smile that crossed my lips faded as the rain on the roof grew louder.

Damn that rain! I dashed to my company car, a big radio equipped station wagon. Where to start? The hilltop, of course, as I carried on an internal dialogue, my thoughts drifted back to that first day on the job. Had it only been a year ago? Straight from college – believing all the textbooks, smug and confident, I was ready to save the world...and all because of that blind date.

As blind dates go, it wasn't that bad. I sat across from the portly middle-aged man wondering how my friend could do this to me. Nice guy, she had said, you'll like him – lots in common. He was at least twenty years my senior... mentally I started plotting my revenge.

Name's John Andrews, he smiled. His chins jigged – the restaurant's lighting reflecting off his shiny pate.

Paula Davis, I tried to look pleasant.

Now, you order anything you like, and we'll get acquainted – you tell me all about yourself.

The steak was good, the music soft and I started to enjoy the one-sided conversation. Yes, I had just graduated from college. Yes, I was looking for a job. And yes, thank you for the chocolate volcano and please, I can't eat another bite.

The dinner was beginning to fade from memory, when I heard from my friend, who I now considered a casual acquaintance. Talked to John, said he has a lead on a job. Some little town down in Amish country. Said you should go to the Hilltop Manor – ask for Victoria – some kind of nursing home, I think. Anyway, it's in Manorville.

I dismissed the whole idea of being a social worker in some hick town nursing home, but my job prospects were slim, well, non-existent really, and I figured I had nothing to lose so I found Manorville on the map – kind of in the middle of Ohio.

I found the town square. Was this for real? Looking like a picture postcard with a courthouse complete with a big clock and bell tower. Surrounded by a manicured expanse of lawn leading to the street, I stared in awe at the black buggy and the cinnamon brown horse, complete with blinders, tethered to the hitching post. A few vehicles were scattered about, mostly old pick-ups.

I found Hilltop Manor a couple of blocks away at the top of a hill – surprise. But it looked more like a castle than a manor – just a big old house, white with lots of black shutters, a turret and large wraparound porch. A small office sign pointed to the house next door. With trepidation, I parked on the street fully engaging my emergency brake. Hope this is worth it.

A kindly older woman greeted me at the door, I'm Mary Elizabeth. You must be Paula. Victoria is expecting you.

Oh, I didn't know I was expected.

Right this way.

We navigated the warren like old house to a small room just off a noisy kitchen.

You're late! a voice came from the mohair sofa. A tiny round woman looked me up and down, You'll do, she muttered under her breath. Emerging from a garish homemade afghan, Victoria slipped a hand into her pocket and put something in her mouth. My God I thought. Are those her teeth?

Smiling a bright white smile, she said, Want you to meet my son, Ronald.

I followed this diminutive woman in her seersucker brunch-coat thinking, she can't be the CEO – looks more like a patient.

Ron, what do you think? Wants to be our new social worker.

Ron flashed a smile his chubby face just like his mother's with a soft round body, but standing a good foot taller. Sure could use some help around here – what with all the intake interviews and the families wanting attention.

I waited for the usual questions about my work history and my college coursework and grades; instead, I got a history of Hilltop Manor.

You know about deinstitutionalization, Victoria looked at me. It wasn't a question, but a statement.

I vaguely nodded with my mind going into overdrive. Yes, I thought. In 1955, with the advent of anti-psychotic drugs, the big state hospitals began shrinking and by 1965 when Medicaid and Medicare took effect, the floodgates opened pushing the patients out into the community, many to end up on the street or in jail. The lucky ones to find a home at places like the Manors.

Well, when the old Merle State Hospital opened its doors, we took a lot of their patients, Victoria said.

Ron interrupted, Get more all the time. Don't need real chains when you got chemical ones, he chuckled. Thorazine.

It was 1975 and things were changing. I was beginning to understand.

Victoria continued, We're a mild mental facility – have three other buildings scattered around the town. Started the Manors about twenty years ago – real nice place to work, you can take your meals in the kitchen and Ron will find you a nice apartment.

I tried to absorb this avalanche of information, but all I could think of was, Wow! What a strange bunch of people, in a strange little town with a bunch of strange patients. "It sounds very interesting, I calmly replied. John Andrews must have given me a good recommendation."

Who? Victoria and Ron looked at me questioningly, but made no further comment, then Ron started discussing salary.

It was always a mystery to me how I ended up at the Manors. But right then and there, I decided what an adventure I would give it a year, save my earnings, then off to graduate school. I thanked Ron and Victoria for the job opportunity never mentioning that I only intended to stay a year. Oh, by the way, I said in parting. Isn’t it great to have a whole town named after your nursing homes?

Sure is, Ron smiled. "Most people think the town was named after our nursing homes, but it's the other way around – only the old timers know the difference. The story they tell is how Elmer an early settler needed a bride. Now, his livery and little general store sat right on the cross roads where the courthouse sits today. He was so excited about getting a mail order bride, he wanted to impress her. So he built the best privy he could think of. Fresh lumber, a shingled roof, and a cut out window in the shape of a heart. But it was the inside that caught everyone’s attention. The walls were covered in a flowered patterned wallpaper. It was on page 189 of his new Sears and Roebuck catalog that a riot of red roses caught his eye, and he immediately placed an order. With the walls covered in roses, he draped the window with lace and hung a full size poster of Jenny Lind, the Swedish nightingale, inside the door. On the wooden bench next to its cutout hole, Jake placed his precious catalog. In its place of honor, not only did it serve as reading material, it also served as wiping material since toilet paper was yet to enter the popular cultural.

Now I don't know if you have ever been in a country outhouse? Ron asked. But, smelly affairs, a hole in the ground enclosed with whatever wood scraps the farmer has laying around – and the favorite place for all the local spiders. I grimaced as Ron continued the tale. Seems some Englishman passing through remarked, 'bloody English manor house.' So, the farmer who mostly spoke Low German thought he was being paid a great compliment and began calling his privy the Manor. Now everyone who came to his store would always go to the Manor – think they just wanted to see Jenny Lind, Ron chuckled. Never did hear if ole Elmer got his bride.

Smiling, I wondered at the local folk lore, didn't matter if it was true, just the idea of a town being named for an outhouse made me love Manorville already.

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After remembering how it was that I ended up at Manorville, I finished dressing complete with a plastic poncho and sturdy loafers and headed to the Hilltop Manor where it all began.

Heard it's your last day, Marjorie Troyer took my umbrella as I struggled through the heavy door.

Sure is... I've been your social worker for a whole year now and it's time to move on.

Marjorie nodded as I reached down pulling off my