“Why can’t they have pedals?” Ellen asked. “I mean, a bike doesn’t use an engine—it’s the human making it move.”

“Is it the gears or something?” Marie asked. “The technology or machinery to make them?”

“I think it’s actually to keep them from going too far, so they don’t have contact with the English,” Thomas answered.

“It’s wrong that their parents don’t want them to be with other American kids,” Beatrice said. “They should be allowed to go where everyone else goes.”

“Yeah, but if you were trying to teach your children self-sufficiency living from the land and they come home demanding Luke Skywalker’s light saber or Malibu Barbie and wanted to spend their chore time talking on a phone to their friends, you might not let them mix either.” Marie had an answer for everything.

“Or putting safety pins in their cheeks and painting their lips black,” Thomas shot back.

“Well, we’re American, and we don’t have any of that stuff,” said Beatrice. “I’ve never even had a Barbie.”

“Yeah, but we have a mother who wishes she was Amish,” said Marie.

“I do sometimes wish I was Amish,” my mom said.

It was something she said a lot, and, looking out at the Amish world, I could see why she liked it so much, everything looked-after and ordered and simple. But she’d never farmed or gardened and hardly cooked. She ran the washing machine and the dishwasher even with only a few socks or dishes. She wasted but didn’t like waste. She was afraid of horses and loved driving. What she wanted to be and what she actually was seemed far apart. I didn’t say that an affair with maybe a married man wasn’t very Amish of her.

We ate with two retired couples from Delaware who all appeared to be wearing the same outfit, variations of blue polyester golf shirts and khaki trousers. We considered the four of them with disappointment as the waitress seated us; they watched Marie with dismay, her white powdered face, black eyeliner, black lips, vintage black dress, the pierced cheek.

“This should be interesting,” Thomas mumbled as we shuffled and shouldered each other, trying to not be the ones left sitting next to the geriatric golf team. Marie and Mom ended up next to them, the rest of us squished together at the bottom end of the table. Ceramic hens and cows hung on the walls behind us; the cloth on the table was checked red and white.

“Look.” Beatrice pointed. “That waitress is Amish.”

“Shh,” said Ellen, elbowing her.

Thomas leaned in. “She’s Mennonite. It’s not the same.”

“She’s wearing a bonnet.”

“But her dress is bright green. I think she’s Mennonite.”

I didn’t know for sure, but I thought Thomas was right. Didn’t the Amish just wear dark colors?