As the World Churns Read Online Free Page A

is. I’m Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, your hostess with the mostess, except that today it’s closer to leastess due to unforeseen circumstances. But one thing I am not , is listless, so not to worry, you will have the bestest stay this side of the Poconos.”
        “Are you sure?” Jane asked.
        “Forsooth, I tell the truth. Of course, I can’t give you a written guarantee that you’ll enjoy your stay, but for only one hundred dollars more a day-”
        “No. What I mean is, are you sure that you’re Magdalena Yoder?”
         “Pretty sure. Although Papa used to joke that I was a petunia he found in the onion patch. But of course if that was true, then my parents would have named me Magdalena Petunia Yoder, and not Portulaca.”
        “Honey,” Jane whispered, “the brochure said she was Mennonite. This woman is anything but.”
        Dick Pearlmutter, who was dressed in expensive togs and had neatly combed hair, gave me the quick once-over. “Well, she is awfully pretty.”
        “Not only that, but she’s not dressed like that woman on the brochure.”
        Just a year ago I would have taken offense at the word pretty , believing that it had been uttered with utmost sarcasm. Then one day I ran into an old classmate of mine who’d become a plastic surgeon. To make a long story slightly shorter, I learned that for nearly half a century I’d been suffering from body dysmorphic syndrome. The ugly duckling I’d thought I was, had long since turned into a gorgeous swan-minus the feathers, of course. And the beak. And at least one of the webbed feet.
        I cocked my head, which really does reside at the end of a long, graceful neck. “The woman in the brochure is Amish. She’s my cook, Freni. And indeed, dears, I am a Mennonite, born and bred. Well, not bred like a dairy cow-I certainly haven’t produced any calves-but you know what I mean.”
        Plain Jane had the chutzpah to circle me, like I was a statue in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. “Where’s your costume?” she demanded.
         “My costume ? Halloween is still many months away. But if by costume you mean clothing that identifies me as a Mennonite, take another gander. Observe that my broadcloth dress extends below my knees and that it has sleeves which are long enough to hide unsightly underarm flab-not that I have any, mind you. A quick glance should confirm that my bosom-as fair as any fawn King Solomon ever laid eyes on-is appropriately covered. Then gaze longingly at my lovely size eleven feet, and see that they are sensibly shod in sturdy black brogans, which were machine-made from second-rate leather somewhere on the subcontinent. Now lift up your heads, O ye gates-I mean, O ye Pearlmutters-and appreciate the work that went into my two braids, which wrap around the back of my head like a pair of coiled garter snakes, although perhaps my white organza prayer cap obscures them somewhat. That said , I must impress on you that only a small number of Mennonites still dress the way I do. The vast majority dress like everyone else. Capiche?”
        By the end of my delightful monologue, Jane Pearlmutter was shaking in her flip-flops, and had practically climbed into her husband’s arms. “That woman is crazy!”
        “Aren’t we all, dear?”
        “Dick, I want to go home.”
        “You do realize that you’ve paid in full, and that none of it is refundable-don’t you?”
        “I don’t care!”
        “And of course you would be forfeiting the competition for best Holstein, seeing as how it will be impossible to find alternative lodging for you and your cows.”
        “Sweetie,” Dick said, his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders, “we did read somewhere that this is poised to be the number-one event of its kind in the world.”
        Plain Jane wrenched herself free. “We read that in her stupid brochure!”
        I gestured towards the