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"A university student visits a Mennonite home for the first time and finds that God is for everyone but a particular culture is not."Moody Monthly
"Eric, a college student, visits the home of his Mennonite buddies in Lancaster, Pa.... Describes the Mennonite community, his conversion and eventual disillusionment. Well, written and perceptive."Campus Life
"A hip, twentieth-century young man finds spiritual answers in a peaceful Mennonite community of Pennsylvania."Christian Review
"... the Mennonite way of life offers appeal because of its peacefulness and simplicity.... Through Eric we grapple with the problem of simple faith in God as an answer to the problems of modern-day life."Mount Joy Bulletin
"... a book for all Christian groups... who have not learned how to relate to those of other cultures, who make their peace too easily with worldly standards of success, who easily pigeon-hole people, who try to cover up their worldliness with a seeming preoccupation with 'evangelism,' who have trouble in assessing their own inconsistencies, and who have developed a religious pride."Melvin Gingerich in Provident Book Finder
"A story to provide new insights into the meaning of real faith."Bookstore Journal
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Hazel's People
(Original Title: Happy As the Grass Was Green)
Merle Good
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The paper used in this publication is recycled and meets the minimum reqiurements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
HAZEL'S PEOPLE Copyright 1971 by I. Merle Good, paperback edition first released in 1973. Published simultaneously in Canada by Herald Press, Waterloo, Ont. N2L 6H7. All rights reserved. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-158174 International Standard Book Number: 0-8361-1773-5 Printed in the United States of America
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63,600 copies in print
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1
The things they say about the trains not really wanting passengers are true. If the trains are running, they're likely to be running late. Late, noisy, and dirty. And smelly. Half-empty cups of soft drink that travelers paid a fortune for and left abandoned among the luggage, crumpled newspapers, and broken seats. The railroad's going out of business.
Jim and I sit alone, staring at the late afternoon New Jersey countryside as the train hurries toward Pennsylvania. Neither of us has spoken since the train crawled from the dark station hours ago. Jim never talks much. Today he speaks not a word. A shadow of death hangs in the filthy car about us and Jim watches it with narrow eyes. Suspiciously. His jaw is set and his fingers dig into each other as he sees the world go by. His ruffled charcoal hair falls down all over his dirty face.
Jim doesn't move. He doesn't speak. I wonder if he's even breathing. It's as though his heart has frozen in mid-beat and Jim's whole young life is standing mute.
I offer him a cigarette. He doesn't notice. So I light one myself. I haven't smoked so much tobacco since I entered college. But the smoke is good. It's like a friend on a cold late bloody October afternoon.
Big John is dead. I know that's far out, but it's true. Jim's own twin brotherdead. Killed by the cops last night. And Jim and I are going home to bury him.
I get up and go back to the men's room in the next car. The place is freezing and the toilet's broken, the frosted glass cracked and dirty. I stand watching the blur of New Jersey's flat fields and wonder why in the world I volunteered to come along with Jim. I haven't been to Pennsylvania for years, not since Grandmom died in Philadelphia. I'm not very good at mixing with
Page 6
the Establishment types either, especially not at funerals. I should have stayed in New York to help the Revolution. Now that three students are dead, the place has got to burn. The cops aren't going to get away with this. They act as though human life has a negotiable price tag. Wow.
So why'd I come with Jim? I don't quite know. I always liked Big John. He was a little kid, much smaller than his twin. Little kid with a big nose. Big nose and big voice. You could hear Big John at every demonstration, shouting at the cops and keeping up the morale when things got tough. I remember once when we stood in the cold rain for three days and nights, protesting that nuclear installation on the upper campusit was Big John who kept us there with his big voice, singing and shouting. And now his voice is gone.
I think that's why I've come. I want to make sure they bury Big John right. He would appreciate it.
Jim says his folks are Mennonite farmers. Big John a Mennonite! That is far out. I don't know anything about Mennonites except they drive horse and buggies and they live in something like monasteries. And to think that's where Big John grew up! And that's where they'll bury him.
I admit I'm a little scared. Closing down the administration building for eight days. And then in the middle of the night they turn the cops loose. Without warning. It's the scene we prepared for all these months. But it's bad. Very bad. Kids waking up with broken skulls, beat in as they lay there. Screaming to hit the fire escapes and throw back the tear gas. My girl kicks a cop in the stomach and sends him flying down the stairs. And then I hear Big John. His voice fills the room with the shout of battle. "The Revolution has come, brothers and sisters," he roars. And to the cops, "Good morning, pigs. Thought you'd catch us by surprise, did you? Well, let it be said for one and all that we are the people and the
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