by Ames Sheldon
Wiping his hands on his trousers, the man says, “I’m Mr. Hagman, head miller here. You must be Nathaniel Sutton.”
“Yes sir.” Nat shakes hands with Mr. Hagman. “I go by Nat.”
“All right, Nat. You won’t start work today—we’re already in the middle of the second shift. You might as well go get settled.”
“Where will I stay?”
“After Mr. Campbell called to let us know you’d be coming, the wife looked around for a room, but nothing’s available because of all the men back from the war. The colleges, Carleton and St. Olaf, are overflowing too.”
Nat starts to feel nervous.
“So Mrs. Hagman and I decided we’ll take you in. We have an extra room now that our kids moved up to the Cities for work. We’ll charge $5 a week for room and board.”
“That’s very good of you, sir.”
“Not a bit. We’ll enjoy having a young one around the house again.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Campbell said you’re a relative of his—did I get that right?”
“I think he’s a cousin of my father’s. That’s how I came to be here instead of somewhere else.”
“You’re welcome here.”
“What kind of mill is this?” Nat feels really stupid that he can’t tell. Then, considering the dust on Mr. Hagman, he asks, “Is it a flour mill?”
“No. They started milling flour on this site in the 1860s, but after the Campbell Cereal Company bought the mill twenty years ago, it was adapted for milling cereal grains.”
“I didn’t know Minnesota existed in the 1860s,” Nat says.
“Northfield was founded in 1855 and Minnesota has been a state since 1858,” Mr. Hagman replies. “My family’s been here since the beginning.”
“Is that so?” Nat responds politely.
“Yep. Well, you’d best take your gear along to the house. It’s just a few blocks up the hill.”
Mrs. Hagman calls Nat down for supper at five-thirty. Mr. Hagman is already seated at the table, which is covered with a blue-and-green plaid oilcloth and set with white dishes decorated with blue flowers and vines. Mrs. Hagman, her thin blonde hair falling out of the bun on the back of her head, carries a platter of something covered with tomato sauce, surrounded by noodles. He hears a man on the radio in the front room reporting the day’s prices for wheat, corn, and other commodities.
“I hope you like meatloaf, Nat,” she says as she places it on the table in front of her husband.
“I like meatloaf very much,” he replies truthfully, pulling out the chair Mr. Hagman indicates he should occupy.
Mrs. Hagman returns to the kitchen, so Nat hovers, thinking he shouldn’t sit until she does. She returns with a bowl filled with sliced peaches in green Jell-O, which she sets down near Nat. The Jell-O is the same color as the tiny circles all over her apron. Taking her chair, she says, “Please sit down.”
Mr. Hagman serves the meatloaf and noodles and hands the plates on to his wife.
“Jell-O salad?” she asks.
Nat says, “Yes please,” though he has never eaten Jell-O before. He picks up his fork.
Mrs. Hagman clears her throat. “We like to say grace before our meals,” she explains mildly.
Nat returns his fork to its place, folds his hands, and bows his head.
Mr. Hagman says, “Bless this food to our use and us to thy loving service. Amen.”
After Mrs. Hagman takes a bite, she says, “I hope you have some warm clothing, Nat. Earlier this week it was thirty below—broke the record for the last day of December—and the temperature’s still below zero.”
“I’ve never experienced anything like the cold you’ve got here. How can it look so warm and sunny when the air feels like we’re in Antarctica?”
She laughs. “It’s a bit nippy. But you’re in luck. There’s a sale on this week. You could buy a blanket-lined work jacket.”
Mr. Hagman says, “Good idea. Nat, do you know what Northfield is famous for?”
“No, I don’t, sir.”
“In 1876 the notorious outlaw Jesse James came to town with his gang, and they robbed the Northfield National Bank.”
“Whoa.”
“They shot and killed Joseph Lee Heywood, the bank employee who wouldn’t open the vault for them, and some of the robbers were killed or wounded during the shoot-out.”
“How many were killed?” Nat asks.
“Three died during the robbery, and others died from their wounds over the next few days. Jesse James and his brother Frank escaped, but that was the end of the James-Younger gang,” Mr. Hagman says.
Nat says, “The employee who was killed—Heywood? He was a hero.”
“He sure was. Northfield has been pretty quiet since then.”
“Thank goodness!” Mrs. Hagman adds.
Nat wonders whether to use his fork or his spoon on the Jell-O salad. He looks at each of his hosts, hoping for guidance.
Mrs. Hagman says, “You can bring your laundry to me when it needs washing. I’m happy to do it.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Hagman?”
“You betcha.”
Mr. Hagman stabs a piece of Jell-O and fruit with his fork. “What kind of church do you belong to, Nat?”
“I’m not really religious, sir. No one in my family goes to church.”
“Really?” Mrs. Hagman’s brow creases and lines cross her forehead. “Where do you turn for comfort?”
“Comfort?”
“Everyone needs comfort from time to time.”
“That’s true,” Nat agrees. He wonders where he could turn for comfort.
“You’re welcome to come along to church with us anytime you like. We belong to St. John’s Lutheran. It’s the biggest church in town.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hagman.” Nat tries the Jell-O salad. It’s surprisingly tasty. “Good meal.”
Mrs. Hagman says, “I was thinking about making château rabbit on toast for supper tomorrow night—do you like that, Nat?”
“I’ve never had château rabbit.” Nat tries to swallow the yawn that’s threatening to emerge. Standing, he puts his cutlery on his plate. “May I take my dishes to the kitchen?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hagman replies. “But that’s enough clearing. You look like you could drop in your tracks. Let me know if you need anything. There are extra towels in the bathroom and a clean glass on the sink for you.”
“Mother, that’s enough. Let the boy go to bed.”
“I think I will head up. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Hagman, and thanks for your hospitality. Good night.”
Once he is lying under the covers, Nat thinks about the Hagmans: they seem to be very nice people, but he figures he doesn’t have much in common with them. He could certainly use some comfort, though.
Two weeks ago his paternal grandmother did her best to help him. A few days before Christmas, Abba took Nat to hear the Metropolitan Opera’s matinee performance of La Bohème. The opera was sublime, but getting to spend time alone with Abba was the highlight.
During the first intermission, as they stood near the bar, Abba raised her glass of champagne and murmured, “Ah, the pleasures of civilization!”
Nat suddenly saw his grandmother with fresh eyes. Abigail was dressed in an elegant silver gown, and she wore a large diamond ring, a diamond bracelet, and a diamond pin. Nat realized he’d never seen his grandmother in anything but fancy clothing. During the war while his family worked the farm, Nat assumed that Abba hadn’t participated because she was too old. Now he understood that she was too refined to take part in that kind of labor. Nat didn’t mind if his grandmother thought she was above life on the farm—she cared about music as much as he did.
He took a sip from his champagne flute. She was watching the crowd. “Abba, did you ever play an instrument?”
She turned her attention back to him. “I studied the piano for many years, but once I was married, I stopped taking lessons.”
“I’ve never heard you
play.”
“I haven’t touched the piano in ages.”
“Then why do you have such a beautiful Steinway in your apartment?”
“I have musical friends—and a grandson who plays very well.” She smiled at him.
“Your piano sounds so bright and alive.”
“It should. I have it tuned regularly.” She brought her glass to her lips.
“Abba, what am I going to do? Father won’t let me go to music school. I love music! The summer we heard about Eddie, playing the saxophone was the only thing that kept me sane.”
Swallowing, she said, “I know you’re passionate about music, Nathaniel. I’ll speak to your father, but I must warn you, I may not be able to change his mind.”
“Really?” Nat was surprised.
“George hasn’t listened to me in years.”
“So I’m not the only one.”
“I’m afraid not, dear.”
January 3, 1947
A little before seven the next morning as Nat prepares to leave, Mrs. Hagman hands him a pair of earmuffs. “For the cold?” he asks. “It’s for the noise. The machines are really loud when they get going. You’ll want to wear the muffs while you work.”
As Nat and Mr. Hagman approach the huge four-story structure built of sturdy timbers on a limestone foundation, Mr. Hagman says, “I’ll show you around first.”
They start on the fourth floor. “This mill operates in the traditional way, from top to bottom, using gravity to move the wheat and malt from one point down to the next. The product moves through big tubes that go through the floor. First we sterilize the grain, and then the rollers start breaking up the wheat kernels, which go through the purifier and then back through finer rollers until you get down to farina.”
Surrounded by individual machines that are at least five feet tall by three feet wide, Nat is daunted by their size and number. He can’t see into the machines, which are made of pale yellow-grained wood, so he has trouble visualizing what they do. “Farina?”
“Farina is fine meal. Since we’re making breakfast cereals here, we stop grinding the wheat once it reaches the consistency of farina instead of taking the wheat all the way down to flour.”
On the next floor they encounter the sifters, large machines as well, suspended from the ceiling by flexible hickory rods; the sifters are shaking from side to side. Shouting over the racket made by the machinery, Mr. Hagman says, “When we grind the malted barley, it goes through the sifter, and then it’s ground some more and sifted again—it keeps making that loop. We sell the dust off as animal feed.”
Nat sneezes several times.
“You have to be careful, Nat. This is a dangerous place. You must move cautiously around all the turning wheels and pulleys and spinning belts. Make sure your shirtsleeves and fingers don’t get caught.”
On the ground floor, Nat watches the cam-driven packaging machine insert a pour spout into a box, glue the bottom, then drop the cereal in and close and seal the box before it moves along the belt. Mr. Hagman says, “In the next room the boxes are wrapped with paper, packed into cases, and then rolled out for loading onto the freight cars outside.”
“Wow. It’s amazing that the whole process, from raw wheat to boxes of cereal, is completed right here in this one building.”
“It’s efficient.” Turning to him, Mr. Hagman says, “Your part in this is very important. It’s up to you to sweep the floors and make sure to remove all the dust.”
“That’s it? I’m going to be sweeping?”
“That’s right—all day, every day. You must make sure we don’t have a disaster. Flour dust is fifty times more explosive than gunpowder. This mill, with its wooden walls and machinery, would burn faster than you can imagine. All the men working here rely on you to keep us safe.”
“I understand. This is a serious job.”
The work is more monotonous than anything he has ever done. After four hours, he’s amazed to see how much dust he accumulated sweeping the floors. He keeps sneezing every few minutes, and he’s afraid he’s going to have an asthma attack; he tries to breathe shallowly so he doesn’t take all the dust into his lungs.
He finds it hard not to feel humiliated by the mind-numbing labor he’s been assigned. He can’t even talk to anyone because the rollers, grinders, and sifters make so much noise. By the end of his first day his arms are shaking. He worked on the family’s Victory Farm, but somehow sweeping turns out to be much more tiring, perhaps because it’s so repetitive. He feels as if he already knows every slat in the wooden floors by heart.
Over supper that night, he asks Mrs. Hagman if she has a large handkerchief he can borrow to wear over his mouth while he’s working.
“If you’re bothered by the dust, we’d better get you several kerchiefs so you have a fresh one every day. I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”
“That would be awfully kind of you, Mrs. Hagman. I can reimburse you right away.”
“Oh, for gosh sake. I’ll just tack the charge onto your bill for room and board.”
Before bed, Nat sits in the living room awhile with the Hagmans, listening to the dance music that plays on the radio and exploring the local newspaper. From the front page of the Northfield News, he learns that rail traffic on the Milwaukee and Rock Island lines through town was stopped all day when a freight train derailed at the south entrance to the yards. That’s news? The paper’s eight pages also contain articles announcing lectures at Carleton and St. Olaf colleges. He wonders why there are two colleges in one small town. He sees announcements of weddings, christenings, and engagements, births at the hospital, obituaries, church notices, legal notices, advertisements for sales, reports on the high and low temperatures over the previous week, summaries of the movies showing at the Grand and the West Theaters, and classified ads. The contrast between the Northfield News and the New York Times reminds Nat all over again just how far from home he is.
He’s very grateful to have a room of his own. After closing the door behind him, he sits on the bed. Other than the howling of the wind, the house is quiet; there’s nothing to distract him from his thoughts. It’s beginning to dawn on him that when he flunked out, he ended up hurting himself more than his father. His father said this experience in the mill would be good for him. Really? What is this job as a sweeper going to do to him over time? If his lungs or his hands or his ears are injured, impacting his ability to play the sax or the piano, he will never forgive himself.
He has never felt so alone.
The next day the temperature is twenty below, and a bitter wind blows while Nat and Mr. Hagman walk to work. Nat hunches his shoulders and clenches his whole body against the cold that cuts through his clothing. The air is so frigid he feels as if he can’t inhale. Then he notices that Mr. Hagman has tied his scarf around his face in such a way that only his eyes are exposed. Nat pulls his own scarf out from around his neck and rewraps it to cover his nose and mouth. Breathing through the wool helps a lot.
At the mill Nat keeps his head down and sweeps, hour after hour. Midmorning, when he is working next to one of the dust collectors, he discovers that wheat dust is drifting down from the machine onto the floor as fast as he can remove it.
“This is futile!”
A guy passing by shouts, “There’s always new dust. That’s what they told me when I was a sweeper.”
Nat looks up. “You had this job?”
“Yeah, everyone starts sweeping. It’s the lowest paid job. You work your way up from there. I’m a loader now, and the money’s a lot better, but I have to work outdoors.”
“In this weather?”
“Doesn’t matter what the weather is—blizzards or lightning storms, we still have to keep loading the boxes into the railcars.”
“I guess I should be grateful that I work indoors.”
Nat wears a red neckerchief from Mrs. Hagman over his mouth and nose, but he still sneezes constantly. He figures he must be allergic to the grain dust—even his eyes itch. By no
on Nat’s neckerchief is sodden, and he doesn’t have another with which to dry his upper lip, so it quickly chafes and becomes raw. By the end of his second day of work, he’s miserable. In the bathroom mirror at the Hagmans’, he sees that his juicy red nose and watering eyes make him look pathetic.
Sunday morning, when Mrs. Hagman reiterates her invitation to attend church, Nat says, “Thank you anyway. It’s much too cold to go outdoors if you don’t have to.” He’s too tired and discouraged to have to smile at strangers.
While the Hagmans are at St. John’s, he reads the newspaper more closely. There’s a lecture next week at Carleton that he’d like to hear, but it’ll be held Friday morning when he’s at work. Then he spots an ad from Eide Radio & Appliance: “New records 35 cents. We have purchased the Leigh Studio’s complete record stock.” Feeling a spurt of excitement, he wonders whether he could buy a record player for his room here. He has some money: his father gave him $50 for expenses, and his mother sneaked an additional $50 into his suitcase along with a note. Before long he’ll receive his first paycheck too. Of course he’d have to promise not to play his music too loudly. Then he realizes that right now he can make all the noise he wants; the house is empty, the windows and doors shut tight.
Dashing up to his room, he pulls out his saxophone for the first time since he landed in Minnesota. As he plays “Comfort Ye, My People” from Handel’s Messiah, his heart feels less heavy. Once he sets the saxophone down, he thinks about writing a letter to Peter, his best friend from Andover, who’s at Cornell University now, and he should write Harry after he checks with Mr. Hagman about the work schedule for Easter weekend.
