High up on my list of things I love about where I live is what I see out of my window. For many years, I wrote either in a basement or an attic; the only things I saw out of my window were traffic or pigeons and squirrels on the roof.

Sitting in my office, in the former parlor where dead bodies were shown to mourners, and the pastor would come for tea once a week, I see something beautiful every time I look outside, and I will try to capture that on the blog.

The Amish are a gift to our town; they bring back simpler times closely tied to animals and nature. They are iconic.

This photo was taken just outside the window.  I was taking a picture of our clothesline when I saw one of the Amish horse carts trotting back and forth between our town and the growing Amish settlement up the road.

When Moise arrived, seeing an Amish cart was rare and unique. Now, the carts go by a dozen times a day, sometimes more. Moise has brought several children to the area and built houses for each.

They are a great addition, bringing farms back to life and taking great care of the land.

I decided to frame with trees and capture it for others.

The Amish prefer to avoid being photographed close up or at all. They believe it makes people egotistical and makes them feel superior to others.  Being Amish has significant meaning, but it isn’t easy.

But they have no complaints about people taking pictures of them trotting by on their property and from a distance. Even if that were true, I’d ignore it. I do make sure never to show faces.

The Amish greatly respect freedom and privacy; they don’t tell other people what to do, a value I cherish that vanishes from American life thanks to social media. It is one of my core beliefs, spurred perhaps by the epidemic of rudeness and cruelty online.

As some of you know, I have enormous trouble with people telling me what to do. When I was a young reporter, nobody except politicians wanted their photos taken; we never asked. Now, I always ask for permission, which is proper and fair.

I love this photo of a young Amish man—a boy who came back from town when I first met him  —framed by our trees and gates. He rides in horse carts now, never with a cover or roof.

He is a friend now. He always waves at me as he passes, and I wave back. He can beat me at thumb wrestling regularly and efficiently now. He knows about arthritis.