Along with a sack of carefully screened Amish romances, mysteries, and cookbooks, Maria and I set out this afternoon for the first run of the Bookman.

The first place I stopped was the closest – two young women, two boys. The girls had a stand-out on the road selling donuts and pies and jewelry; the boys were riding their draft horses up and down the hauling, hauling some heavy objects out of the field.

When showing up on an Amish farm, all the children come out to welcome me and try to figure me out as is customary. Lena and Delilah took the romance books, and I gave Jo and Jonas the Amish mysteries collection.

The Hardy Boy books I ordered will be coming next week; each of the boys said they liked reading them and blinked politely when I told them they were my favorite books when I was their age.

I did find it more than a little strange that these sweet Amish kids on the top of a farm hill a short way from our farm wanted the same books I read a half-century ago in Providence, Rhode Island.

Life is full of crisis and mystery.

I told the boys the books would be coming soon. They offered to pay for the books in donuts and cookies; we politely but firmly declined. “He gives books to people,” said Maria, “it’s just what he does.” It’s true, I said, and I don’t ever take money for them.

I didn’t say that no one had ever offered to pay me for them before, certainly no child. The girls invited us to come up to the farmhouse to meet their mother, but we said we had too many places to go; we’d come back next week when the Hardy  Boy books came.

I could tell these children were fascinated by the books and happy to have them; they couldn’t keep their eyes off of them and showed them to one another. I sensed they had their own system for deciding who gets what first.

I made plans to visit next week.

Then we drove to the other side of town to give Susie her Amish romance stories.

A mixed-breed dog, quiet and calm came over to sniff my legs.

The children said they took him in after he got a paw sawed off by mistake on a farm upstate. They said he was doing well, I don’t recall his name. He followed them wherever they went, waiting patiently by the barn when the boys took the horses out.

Wherever I go, the kids know my name, and they know where Maria and I live, and they know I am a writer, and that she makes quilts, and we have donkeys and sheep and dogs.

When we got to Susie’s, her giant brother built an impressive shed (for selling the things they make) that he put up overnight. Susie’s mother and sister came out to meet us. They were friendly and funny; we all joked about things.

I could hardly believe that the brother put up the roof and walls overnight, even though he was a giant.

These families are settling in, figuring things out, helping each other get settled. I think more are on the way.

Susie also tried to force some fresh donuts on us in exchange for the book; we paid for that $4 for four; they were the best donuts either of us had ever tasted.

I continue to be struck by the courtesy, openness, and gentleness of these families. I’ll check back to see who liked what books and what, if any books; they might want next.

I wanted to move slowly and carefully; I don’t want to be showing up with bags of books; I sense they might find that overwhelming; there seems to be no excess of any kind in their lives.

I know the books will be read carefully and perhaps distributed to other families.

But I sense the books are important, every one of the kids I met told me they love to read. It’s my job to figure out what and to get some books to them, slowly and carefully.

The Amish are not unlike the refugee children in some way, they are religious, uncomplaining. I asked Jonas how he learned to manage those two huge draft horses I see him riding on the road. He shrugged as if he had never been asked the question before:  “you just do it,” he said.

I talked to an older man for a while, but he didn’t say who he was, and I didn’t ask. We talked a bit about Amish values.

Tomorrow is Church, he said, every week, services are held at a different farm. The services take from two to three hours and afterward, everyone shares a meal together.

These families welcome friends and neighbors.

They are not secretive or wary in any way I can see. There seems to be no anger or judgment in them, at least to outsiders They all speak of a quiet, simple life.

They are all preparing to make things to sell – carts, donuts, pies, cakes, cookies, potholders, jewelry, and also wooden sheds and carts for other families using horse-drawn carriages.

They each support one another. I ask the older man what two things did the Amish most care about. He said “family and God.”