A Season of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  Bjorn clapped Leif on the shoulder and nodded. “More chores.”

  “I don’t mind.” With all of them at the pigpen, Leif opened the gate to let his brothers and Ivar into the pen. “Far, please pour that bucket of mash and sour milk in the trough. We’ll each grab a pair of back legs and wheelbarrow the pig into the wagon.”

  Rune grinned both inside and out. His young boy had figured out how to load the pigs without even asking for help.

  “You see any you like?” Leif asked Mr. Wilson.

  “You already cut ’em, I see. Did you leave any of the males intact?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Well, I want two gilts for sure. That one with the black spot looks good.”

  As soon as the pigs lined up at the trough, Leif pointed one out for Bjorn. “Grab her quick and hang on.”

  Bjorn rolled his eyes. Rune knew he was thinking that they’d caught hogs before and usually much bigger than these. Bjorn guided his hog up the ramp and grabbed the board Rune handed him to help keep the pig in the wagon. Ivar followed with the gilt of Mr. Wilson’s choice, but she squealed and tried to twist away.

  “Hang on!” Mr. Wilson said around a snort.

  Knute grabbed a pair of legs but ended up on his rear when another pig banged into the backs of his knees. “Ugh! Pigs smell bad.”

  “You keep these in, and I’ll get another,” Ivar said. Bjorn stuck the board in front of an escaping pig’s snout just in time. While they changed places, Ivar grabbed a third, looked for the buyer’s agreement, and drove that gilt up in the wagon, where the two men were helping Knute keep the others from escaping back to the melee in the pen, as the trough was already empty.

  “One more. Your turn, Bjorn.”

  “See that one over in that corner?” Mr. Wilson said. “He looks real good, not that they all don’t.”

  The four boys formed a line and let the other pigs go, keeping their attention on the chosen one—who got by in spite of them. Amused snorts from the two men encouraged the catchers.

  “Just get whichever one you can,” Mr. Wilson called. “They all look good.”

  “You wanted that one, you get that one,” Bjorn said.

  The pig got by them again. And again.

  “Get what you can before these get loose,” Mr. Wilson said.

  “It’s getting pretty hot out here too,” Rune called.

  Ivar finally managed to grab one that tried to dart by him, and with the line of boys keeping the others in the wagon, they loaded the last pig and slammed the gate into place.

  Mr. Wilson shook hands with all of them. “You did a fine job, boys. Now to get these critters into some shade. I’ll do like you did, Leif, and make a mudhole to help them stay cool. My missus is more excited about these hogs than I am. Sheep for shoats. What a good trade.”

  “Shoats?” Leif glanced at the pigs. “That’s a different name.”

  “An old English word for young pigs. My grandpa always called them that. He came to America from England when he was a young man.” Mr. Wilson stepped up the wagon wheel and settled into the seat. “Good doing business with you. You going to be selling those others come cold weather? I could tell some of my neighbors.”

  Rune nodded. “That would be good of you. If we could sell them local, we’d be pleased. By the way, do you know anyone who has a milk cow or bred heifer for sale?”

  “Not right off, but I’ll keep my eyes open. The bulletin board at Benson’s is the best place to look, and some people advertise in the Blackduck paper.” Mr. Wilson clucked his team forward. “Thanks again.”

  Rune and his crew stood watching the dust kick up from the wagon going down the lane. “Anyone else in need of a cold drink or a sluicing from the bucket by the pump?”

  They all stared at Knute, who looked down at his dirt-crusted pants with a frown, then brushed at his legs, earning snickers from the others.

  “Leif, you grab the buttermilk crock from the well house while these others clean off at the pump. Surely everyone could use some time to sit down about now.” Rune pumped water as the boys stuck their legs and bare feet under the running water and then doused Knute from the waist down. “We probably should just throw your pants in the wash, since that’s the big thing for today.”

  Knute wrinkled his nose. “Pigs stink.”

  “Well, their pens do, especially when wet and stirred up.” Rune had a hard time keeping from laughing at the frown on Knute’s face. “At least your feet are clean.”

  “And cold. Maybe we should just stick our heads under the pump to cool off.”

  “At home we’d go jump in the creek,” Bjorn said.

  Knute shivered at the memory. “The water there was always cold. You know that creek where I water the horses out in the big timber?” Rune nodded. “Maybe we should dig a hole in it for swimming. There’s sort of a deeper place already. I waded in it last summer.”

  Rune studied his soaking son. “Now would be the best time to do such a thing. Unless it is spring fed. How about we go find the source on Sunday? We can look for trees to cut for stove wood at the same time and find out where the survey markers are, get an idea how many big trees are still out there.” He nodded slowly as he spoke. “What a fine way to spend a Sunday afternoon.” The thought of really looking over the land made him nod again. He wondered if Gerd had ever walked the property lines. Surely Einar had before he bought it.

  Knute perked up. “Onkel Einar said there is a lake out there somewhere. Maybe we could go fishing.”

  Rune strolled to the house along with his workers.

  Gerd was hanging clothes on the line, and Signe and Nilda were at the washing machine. Kirstin lay on her belly, jabbering at the cat seeking safety under the rocking chair.

  “Can you use a buttermilk break?” Rune asked. “It’s hot out here.”

  Signe wiped her forehead with her apron. “Ja, we can do that. I think there might even be cookies in the jar.” She looked at their wet pant legs. “You sit here on the steps, and we’ll bring it out to you.”

  Basket on her hip, Gerd wrinkled her nose as she climbed the porch steps. “It’s easy to forget how pig manure smells.”

  “Mr. Wilson really likes his pigs.” Leif handed Nilda the buttermilk crock. “I really like the sheep. We need names for them.”

  “Loading pigs is a mess.” Knute looked at Rune. “Will we have to haul all those others in a wagon to sell them? And we’re only keeping four? That’s a lot of pigs to load.”

  Gerd sat in the rocker and lifted Kirstin onto her lap. “We might use some of the others to trade like Leif did.”

  “Mr. Wilson said he would bring what wool he could to church on Sunday,” Leif told her.

  “How kind of him.”

  “He also said he didn’t know of anyone with a cow or heifer for sale, but he’ll keep an eye out.” Rune swallowed half his glass of buttermilk in one long drink. He held the cool glass to his forehead with a sigh. “What a morning. You missed all the excitement.”

  “Are you saying doing the wash is not exciting?” Signe passed the plate of cookies. She sipped at her buttermilk and nibbled on a cookie. “It seems you didn’t invite us to share the excitement, but you are kind enough to share the stink of it all.”

  Leif snorted, spraying buttermilk out of his nose.

  Rune patted him on the back, chuckling with the others. They had come so far since laughter had been forbidden. Thank you. Lord God. We never realized what we were missing, and now you have given us this. Please remind me to be thankful all the time, like your Word says. Praise in all things. He sipped his buttermilk this time. Today is easy. But I’m sure there will be times again where thankfulness does not come easy, or even come at all. He finished his buttermilk and rested his elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Lord, how do I be thankful for my failing eyesight? And the pain?

  Chapter

  5

  We all have real beds.”

  Signe smiled at Rune and then at each of h
is helpers. “We need a celebration.”

  “Like with a pie?” Leif’s eyes widened.

  “For breakfast?” Knute nudged his brother, giving him a disgusted look.

  “Dinner perhaps?” Leif asked.

  “Maybe supper.” Nilda shook her head. “How come you like pie better than cookies?”

  Leif screwed up his face, then shrugged. “Don’t know, it just popped out.” He grinned at Signe. “You need to come meet the ladies—well, and Mr. Ram too. They really like oats. They came up to me and ate right out of my hand. And they only got here yesterday. I think Mrs. Wilson liked her sheep a lot.”

  “‘The ladies’?” Bjorn cocked one eyebrow and shook his head. “They are sheep, not people.”

  “They are people to me. So are Rosie and the cows and the big pigs. They all have names.”

  “Rufus has a name—does that make him human too?”

  “They aren’t human, like we are, just people. There’s a difference.” Leif mopped the egg yolk off his plate with the last of his biscuit as if the others were not staring at him.

  Bjorn shook his head again. “Maybe you should ask Mr. Larsson about that.”

  Leif shrugged and drained his glass. “Can I be excused? I have work to do.”

  “If you like.” Signe looked at Rune, who was fighting off a smile. She watched her youngest son go out the door without a backward glance.

  Leif called back. “I’m going to take some corn suckers out to the ladies, and we are going for a walk out in the pasture.”

  “And what will the rest of you be doing?” Nilda asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Well, I hope someone will be baking a pie.” Rune pushed his chair back. “Ivar and I are going to work at the house. Knute and Bjorn will saw branches down at the big tree piles for firewood. Leif will help them when he finishes his chores. Any other suggestions?”

  “I wonder what kind of pie I should make,” Signe said.

  “How about one custard and one chocolate?” Rune took his hat off the hook. “Come on, guys, before they find something else for us to do around here.” He stopped on the porch. “Could you send Leif out with dinner so we can keep on working? It’ll be good when we have the cookstove in. Just think—we ordered it out of the Sears Roebuck catalog. Who would have ever dreamed such a thing?”

  “Only in America,” Nilda mumbled. “And to think, we will get a catalog of our own with the stove when it comes.”

  “Catalogs work good in the outhouse, I heard once.” Gerd started on the dishes. “Are you baking bread today or tomorrow? I think we should leave a full row of the beans for drying now, along with others later. I’ll go out in the garden and see how the carrots are doing. I’ve been wanting carrots.” She plucked the baby’s sunbonnet from a hook on the wall and leaned over to pick up Kirstin. “You come with me, K. You like the garden as much as I do.” Gerd flinched as she straightened.

  Signe saw it. “Gerd, that baby is too heavy for you to pick up anymore.”

  “We manage. I’ll be more careful. She likes riding in the wagon.”

  Signe shook her head as Gerd and Kirstin went out the door. “Stubborn.”

  “Runs in the family.” Nilda got out the yeast and other ingredients for bread. “There’s enough cream to churn again. How about going early for class tomorrow and taking butter and eggs to the Bensons? I have a letter to mail. Do you?” She stared out the window. “How I can ever feel homesick, busy as we are, is beyond me.”

  “I did and still do at times, just not so much since you and Ivar arrived. And while I hate to say it, life is so much more, more . . .” She searched for the right word.

  “Happy?”

  Signe nodded. “I kept hoping Einar would change, would be . . .”

  “Polite? Kind? Perhaps not kind, but not mean either. It seems to me he deliberately worked to make others miserable.” Nilda paused. “You know how Reverend Skarstead talks about forgiving others? I can’t forgive Einar. Not for hurting me, but for the way he treated you. And the boys.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “When he says that, I agree with him, but then I think, he really did not know Einar. You know where Jesus says for those who hurt these little ones, better that a millstone be hanged around their neck? Some things in the Bible are confusing.” Signe measured lard for the piecrust into a bowl with flour and salt and then crumbled it together before adding water. “Maybe sometime I will ask him.”

  When a cool breeze lifted the curtains, Signe glanced out the window. Sure enough, the sky was graying over and turning black on the horizon. Distant lightning stabbed the darkness. The thought of her boys working down in the big trees brought back painful memories of Bjorn and the lightning strike that took his hearing—only for a time, but certainly a frightening time—and broke his arm.

  She cut the dough in two and patted it into two rounds before dusting off her hands and going to help Gerd bring Kirstin back inside. Stepping out on the porch, she inhaled the cooling dampness.

  “We’re coming,” Gerd called. “This feels like a bit of heaven.” The first sprinkles pocked the dust as she reached the steps.

  Signe met them and lifted her daughter. “Feel that, little one. Rain, blessed rain. Our garden will soon be dancing for joy. All the plants and trees will be.” She spun in a circle, making her daughter chortle and squeal. “We should dance too.” She hustled up the steps and called, “Come on out here. We can dance in the rain.”

  “Almost done with the bread dough,” Nilda called back. “I’ll get the eggs and towel.”

  “You’re going to wash your hair?” Gerd asked from the rocking chair, where Kirstin now sat on her lap.

  “Yes, what a shame to waste the falling rain. You come too. We’ll tie her in the chair.”

  “I-I—no, I don’t think so.”

  “Have you ever washed your hair in the rain?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  Nilda brought out the eggs and towels. “Come on, Tante Gerd. There’s nothing like it.”

  “I use the water from the rain barrel after it heats in the reservoir.”

  “Of course, but this is far better. We’ll help you. We’ll get our dresses clean too.” Nilda held up a bar of soap.

  Thunder rumbled closer.

  “Hurry, or it will be too late.” Signe and Nilda ran down the steps. “Come on, Gerd.”

  Shaking her head, Gerd did as they insisted.

  As the rain drenched the earth, it soaked them all, streaming down faces and over shoulders. Signe cracked an egg on Nilda’s head and vice versa. Then she looked Gerd in the eyes, smiled, and broke the egg, then with both hands rubbed the egg into Gerd’s streaming hair. The three of them laughed and scrubbed their heads, the egg frothing like a bar of soap. As the rain rinsed their hair, they shared the soap and rubbed the spots from their faded dresses and aprons. Thunder rumbled around them, and the rain blessed them in sheets as they stood with their faces lifted skyward and water puddling around their bare feet.

  When the shivering sent them back in the house, they stripped to the skin, rubbed themselves dry, and donned clothes just washed the day before and still smelling fresh from the sun. After they wrapped their hair in towels, Signe brought Kirstin in from the porch, and Gerd fed the fire and pulled the coffeepot to the heating part, all the while shaking her head.

  “Come on, admit it,” Signe said. “You enjoyed yourself out there, just like we did.”

  “Ja, at least I am clean again.” Gerd hung her rain-washed dress on a hook behind the stove along with her underthings and the apron. “Easier than running the washing machine and wringer.” She unwrapped her hair and used her fingers to comb out tangles and fluff it dry in the heat.

  “Here, use this.” Nilda handed her a big-toothed comb. “Ivar made that for me one Christmas. It works good on wet hair like this. I’ve used it ever since.” She stuck her fingers in her hair and gave it a shake. “Good thing the guys were not here. Some things are better women-
only.”

  Signe twisted her long hair and wrapped it around her head, tucking the ends underneath the heavy coil. “Oh, I hope the hairpins are still on the porch.” With one hand holding her hair in place, she pushed open the screen door. “Right where we left them.”

  Inserting the pins, she stared out across the garden and fields. The horses and cows had not bothered to seek shelter and were still out grazing, probably enjoying the rain beating on them as much as she had. She shivered as the breeze scattered the remaining raindrops.

  “I sure hope Rune thought to shut all the windows. Good thing you did that here, Gerd, or we would have a lot of mopping to do.” Handing off the rest of the pins, Signe slid a clean apron over her head and returned to her pie dough. While she finished that, Nilda beat up the eggs for the custard, and Gerd handed her the pitcher of milk. Signe slid the custard pie in the oven to join the other crust. The chocolate pudding would go in a baked pie shell. “Just think, perhaps one of these years we will have apple pie filling canned.”

  “And strawberries for jam and canning,” Gerd added. “Those few raspberries we planted this year will yield plenty next.”

  “We need strawberry starts. I’ll ask Mrs. Benson if there are wild strawberries somewhere around here.”

  “Chokecherries will be ripe soon,” Gerd said. “First of August or so. I picked them over by Chippewa River a couple of years ago. Someone mentioned juneberries. All these things grow up after the big trees are cleared away. Some you find in natural clearings. The Indians really know all the wild things we can eat. They’ve been living on them for centuries.” She paused. “Einar never had a good word to say about Indians. As far as he was concerned, they’re lazy, shiftless, and dirty. Drunkards too. I never saw it, though. We are not too far from several of the reservations, Red Lake especially.”

  Signe and Nilda both looked at her and then at each other. Gerd never talked this much.

  “My pie crust!” Signe jerked open the oven door and, using her apron as a hot pad, pulled the pan out. “Pretty brown.”

  “But not burned.” Gerd set a hot pad on the table. “You want me to make the chocolate pudding?”