blood lines

Sometimes, I mean often, I am certain that I am more like a woman of centuries past masquerading as those roles mentioned in my profile. I go to a community meeting, in my black skirt and wool coat with the fur collar to “wax eloquent” about a neighborhood crime problem. Then I go home and secretly can tomatoes like a pioneer woman or swing a sledge hammer at a wall I don’t want there anymore.

My former roommates called me crazy. My current roommate calls me wonder woman. Sometimes I don’t know who to believe. Occasionally, I develop a bit of a complex about my dual identity and I find myself hiding certain innate habits.

I like Dorcas’ little stories because they remind me of why I am who I am—like this one about canning. http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/10/canning.html . I also find refuge in Hajar’s stories http://neo-gioconda.blogspot.com/ . And then there are the relief workers I run into now and again, who talk about them sturdy Mennonites, who would do things no one else would do, and go places no other group of people would go. Then last night at a party, I ran into someone who has a friend who lives here in the Twin Cities, who used to be Amish before he had a conversion experience. I’m certain I made a fool of myself as my eyes turned into saucers and the blood rushed to my face as I nearly leaped out of my chair in my eagerness to get a phone number and meet this person. What is this thing called tradition that runs in ones bones, which is as thick as life itself?