Rear Window

When I stepped up into the metal buggy, I reckoned (yes, you can use old words like this and not seem strange here in Pennsylvania Dutch Country) the carriage could be either a year old or 100 years old, so timeless it seemed. It was built like I imagined a Model T Ford—thin, flat black metal shaped into a tight, hard box.

In the front seat were the men wearing brimmed hats that worked equal time for sun in the fields and road glare. In the back were the women wearing modest bonnets in calico and black, their bodies tucked into a dark box with no emergency door or hatchback, rectangular windows the size of mail slots on either side offering a narrow view of the passing fields. There was room for four, and not a body more.

John snapped the reins and the shiny black steed shook his head once, wiggled his ears, and began a slow trot, his iron-shod hooves clip clopping on the two-lane road. The bench seats, upholstered in a surprising and plush burst of blue, squeaked and creaked as the carriage swayed. The spoked wooden wheels rolled stiffly.

The windscreen was up. It was a beautiful day; no need to keep out the rain. There was no steering wheel. No radio. No blue tooth. Just a couple of benches in a tightly fitting box tethered to a strong horse with a few leather straps.

With nothing more than we needed—a couple of shiny side view mirrors and orange reflectors the only sign of the modern world—we rolled down the lane.

We were in no hurry. We were already out of time.