A Harvest of Hope

by Lauraine Snelling

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Patches barked, announcing company.

  Manny tore his gaze away from her to check the clock. “Might be Trygve. Samuel wouldn’t be this early.”

  “Breakfast sure smells good,” Trygve announced as he came in and hung his hat on the rack by the door.

  “You’ve not been here for breakfast in a long while.” Freda got up to refill the serving bowls.

  “Grace was in a hurry to get to the deaf school and Jonathan hasn’t gotten back from Minneapolis yet. Thorliff sent me to make sure all you need is done here too.”

  “Minneapolis?”

  Trygve nodded. “Jonathan took the train to Minneapolis to talk to an architect about the addition to the deaf school. His father recommended the firm, so now that the farm chores are slowing down, Jonathan is working on that dream.” Trygve smiled at Freda. “Thanks for cooking extra. I figured you’d want some help getting that next cheese order ready to ship.”

  “Help is always good. Manny has built a bunch of crates already.”

  “I’ll help more when I get home.”

  Manny, Ingeborg noticed, was well into his hungry stage. She also noticed that this time he didn’t suggest he should miss school in order to work in the cheese house. Whoever would have dreamed this boy could come this far so fast?

  After the kids were out the door, Ingeborg gathered up the remainder of supplies she had collected for the sewing marathon. She had sharpened her scissors the night before, something else that Haakan had always done for her. Sharpening scissors was a bit tricky, but she had persevered. So many things he had done that she had come to take for granted. She clamped her jaw against the welling tears. You will not feel sorry for yourself, she ordered. Start thanking God right now, before you get trapped. Thank you, Lord, for the fabrics provided, for good food, for Manny helping, for our warm house, for Trygve always so willing to help, for the cat that caught that mouse in the pantry, for sun and the changing seasons. Her spirits lifted as she found more to be grateful for, and soon she found herself humming.

  “You sound happy.” Freda returned from dumping the dishwater on the rosebushes by the front porch. She rinsed the dishpan and hung it on the hook behind the stove. “Good. You’ve been weepy lately.”

  “I know, but I reminded myself that praising God is a way to drive those tears away.”

  “Not easy.”

  Ingeborg heaved a sigh with a small nod. “Ja, but I like it better than the pit.” They had talked through the years of the death of Ingeborg’s first husband, Roald, and how she and Kaaren fought both the pit of despair that nearly overcame Ingeborg and the struggle of proving up the land for their children.

  The jangle of harness brought her to the window. Trygve had the team harnessed to the wagon. She stepped out onto the porch.

  He called, “I’m going over for Mor and her things, then I’ll pick you up on the way back. That way I can help haul those sewing machines into the church.”

  “Tusen takk.” She waved and turned back inside. If it didn’t warm up plenty today, they would have frost for sure overnight. It was about time. Back in the kitchen she glanced at the oaken box on the wall. “We sure got used to having telephones, didn’t we?”

  “You might bring that up while you’re sewing. I know it will be a while before a separate building will be built again, but the post office and the telephone switchboard . . .” Freda shook her head. “ What if the town rented the soda shop building for the winter as soon as that is repaired and put the post office and switchboard there?”

  “Surely someone already thought about that.”

  “I’ve not heard any such scuttlebutt. I know Daniel offered a space for the post office. Bring it up to the ladies.” Freda started peeling the potatoes for the stew. “I’ll go dig a few carrots.” At the sound of harness music, she stopped. “First I’ll help Trygve with the machine. You go ahead.”

  Ingeborg picked up several baskets, and Freda picked up the box to load in the wagon.

  Kaaren waved and called cheerily, “Gud dag.”

  “Gud dag!” Ingeborg climbed in.

  Trygve came out with the sewing machine, put it at their feet, and clambered up into the box. He flicked the reins, and the wagon lumbered off.

  “You’re awfully quiet today,” Kaaren remarked as they neared the church.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Dreading that Hildegunn might be here?”

  “Not really.” They could hear the children out for recess at the school, and when the wagon stopped at the church steps, chatter from the ladies came from inside.

  Ingeborg heard Hildegunn’s voice loud and clear, giving instructions, of course. “No, I think it would be better over there.” Ingeborg froze to the wagon seat. Trygve helped his mother down and waited to do the same for Ingeborg.

  She couldn’t move.

  “Tante, are you all right?”

  Ingeborg swallowed in spite of the tight feeling in her chest. She ordered herself to breathe. Answer him. I can’t. She swallowed again, but her mouth had gone dry.

  “Mor, come here.” Trygve’s whisper brought his mother from the rear of the wagon.

  “Ingeborg, what is it?” Kaaren put a foot on the wagon wheel and hauled herself up before Trygve could help her. As always in the heat of a pressure, she switched to Norwegian. “Ingeborg, can you hear me?”

  Ingeborg nodded, at least she hoped she did. Her heart raced. She closed her eyes.

  “Any pain?”

  “Let me take her to the hospital.”

  Ingeborg shook her head. Forcing herself to take a deep breath slowly and puffing it out, she squeezed the hand that had taken her own. “Nei.” This time when she breathed deep again, her shoulders settled back into their normal place. What had happened? But when she thought back to Hildegunn’s voice, she shuddered. She turned her head carefully, as if it might fall off. “I . . . I don’t want . . .” Another breath, this time easier. “Hildegunn. I cannot abide the thought of having another . . .” She searched for the word. “Argument, uh, confrontation, uh, mess with her. I think the sound of her voice— This is crazy, but I froze.” Her head wagging, she swallowed and frowned.

  “Let me take you home. You and I can sew just fine there.” Kaaren too sighed. “Maybe your mind is trying to tell you something. I mean, who in their right mind wants an argument or to be bossed around?”

  “We’ve always been able to laugh about her shenanigans. What happened now?”

  “Perhaps grief has made you more sensitive to problems, along with all the other things going on in Blessing. Or Anner.”

  Amelia Jeffers opened the door. “Do you want some help out here?”

  “I need another hand with this sewing machine.” Trygve glanced at his mother, who nodded to him.

  “Let me get one of the younger girls, then.” She disappeared back into the church.

  “What do you want to do?” Kaaren asked.

  Ingeborg took a deep breath. Another. She straightened. “I want to go right into that building with a smile on my face, counting on our Father to smooth the way. If Hildegunn gets out of line, I will come outside until I calm down, and then we will keep on sewing. Those people need warm coats.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am. A momentary problem.” She returned Kaaren’s studying gaze and nodded.

  Miriam came out, smiling.

  Ingeborg smiled back. “You had today off. How wonderful.”

  “I truly enjoy the sewing I’ve been able to do. I must say I’m glad we’re not doing all the embroidery and lace we had to do on the dresses my mother sewed. Especially tatted lace. Lovely trims, but they take far too much time.”

  Trygve picked up the heavy end of the sewing machine, the end with the flywheel.

  Miriam took the other, which was heavy enough, because the machine was housed in an oak cabinet with cast iron legs and treadle. “You forget how heavy these are.”

  “J
ust clumsy for one person to carry. Especially down stairs.” Trygve glanced behind him.

  Penny appeared, so she held the door for them. “Better you than me. And to think I used to heft these around in the store.”

  “Tante Penny, if you are saying you are getting old, I’ll bust out laughing and possibly drop the machine.”

  “I’ll be careful, then.” She picked up a box and followed them downstairs.

  “Not to worry,” Ingeborg whispered to Kaaren.

  “But you would tell me?”

  “Ja, I promise.” They both knew that Ingeborg never promised lightly.

  “Where do you want these machines?” Trygve asked.

  Penny pointed. “Under the windows for more light.” The kerosene lamps were lit all around the room already. Ever since the pews had been installed in the sanctuary, they’d held the sewing gatherings in the basement. Sawhorses held up tabletops that could thusly be taken down or moved easily. Still, hauling sewing machines up and down steps was quite a chore.

  Kaaren watched Miriam start upstairs for another load. “I’m so glad she could come. She loves to sew and is so good at it.”

  Ingeborg smiled. “She would be a lovely addition to our family.”

  Kaaren laughed. “True! I think I’ll ask Trygve to take care of that.” They both laughed. A few minutes later Kaaren stopped Hildegunn on her way by. “We will open with a Bible reading and prayer, won’t we?” Kaaren asked gently.

  “Of course. Anji Moen said she’d be a bit late. And I know a few more who are coming. I thought we’d wait for them and get set up in the meantime.” Hildegunn nodded to the two front tables. “We’re sorting there.” She turned to answer another question.

  Ingeborg shook her head, inside at least. Hildegunn was back in her usual bossy form, but she was good at getting things in order. Ingeborg returned to the wagon for more. One more armful, and it was unloaded, but another wagon pulled up with more to carry in.

  The driver stepped down. Miriam began dragging boxes out of that wagon.

  “Miriam, I’m glad to see you again.”

  “I met you at the hospital.”

  “Yes, Anji Moen. I used to be a Baard. Rebecca is my baby sister.” She reached for two baskets, and the two walked in together.

  Mary Martha arrived last, bringing her house guest with her. The seamstresses settled in a circle of chairs.

  Mary Martha looked around. “I know most of you know Mrs. Sidorov here, but if you will all please say your names, she’ll get to know us better too. Her husband calls her Wren, a pet name, and she says she likes it, so let us do so as well. Mrs. Sidorov—Wren Sidorov—is one of those who lost everything.”

  “Welcome,” Amelia said to Mrs. Sidorov. “Mrs. Sidorov is coming to lessons in English and doing quite well,” she said slowly and distinctly. “So please give her time to repeat your name. And Alessandra Sorvito here, same thing. It is easier for them to understand us if we slow down some as we talk.” So all around the room, the women introduced themselves. Then Kaaren stood with her Bible and read from John, chapter fifteen, where Jesus explained the importance of remaining connected to the vine. “Shall we pray? What if we each prayed the Lord’s Prayer in our own native language?” She bowed her head, and when quiet descended, she started gently, “Our Father, which art in heaven . . .”

  Ingeborg paused her Norwegian to listen. English, Norwegian, German, Italian perhaps, and Wren Sidorov, while she could speak fair English, recited in Russian. At the amen, silence stretched.

  “I think that is what heaven will sound like—all languages speaking together, just like we did. How beautiful.” Amelia Jeffers gave a contented sigh.

  “And we shall all be able to understand one another, like when the disciples spoke on Pentecost,” Rebecca Valders added. “I never have been able to understand if the disciples spoke in all languages or those listening heard their own language. Either way, it was a miracle.” She glanced around at the women. “Kind of like we are now. That’s a good thing.”

  Bless you, Rebecca, Ingeborg thought. I’m so glad I did not go home like Kaaren suggested. Lord God, I don’t know what is happening sometimes with me, but you do and I trust you. She paused and smiled inwardly. At least I am working at it.

  “Would you mind if I sewed on your machine?” Miriam asked Ingeborg as the group scattered, everyone to her assigned job.

  “Oh, please use mine.” Kaaren stepped in beside them. “I’m doing handwork at the moment.”

  Miriam smiled brightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Knutson.”

  “For pity’s sake, child, call me Kaaren. Please. Blessing is not a community so much as it is one big family.”

  “Is that why Mrs. Landsverk prefers to be called Maisie?”

  “Exactly. Come on over to the sorting tables. We’ll pick out a project you’d like to work on.” And off they went.

  Ingeborg watched for a few moments. It took great courage for that young woman to come here today after the way Anner Valders had treated her. Surely Hildegunn would not bring up such an ugly incident here. Would she?

  Heads together, Kaaren and Miriam sifted through projects on the table, chatting the whole time. Kaaren laughed. Moments later Miriam laughed just as gaily. What a delight to watch those two hit it off so well!

  She also noticed that Hildegunn frowned in disapproval a lot. She frowned at Wren Sidorov and Alessandra Sorvito, as if they should not be there, and she seemed to save her severest scowls for Miriam. Did she really believe, as Anner did, that you had to be Norwegian to live in Blessing?

  And what was their disapproval going to do to the delicate fabric of Blessing?

  Chapter 29

  I wish I had not come. That woman makes me want to scream.

  Miriam knew she’d not scream. Her mother had taught her that one only screamed, and then at the top of her lungs, if she were being attacked. This attack was mental, not physical. She kept her attention on the child’s coat she was sewing. But it seemed every time she looked up, she caught Mrs. Valders looking at her disapprovingly.

  The buzz in the rest of the room sounded friendly, women having a good time working together, communicating even if their languages didn’t match. After all, a needle, thread, and wool coating fit any language. Two of the tables were being used for cutting and another for sorting and pinning, and the four sewing machines thumped like kettledrums, only not in unison.

  Ingeborg stopped at her shoulder. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “I can get it.”

  “I know, but I am up and you are in the middle of a seam. Cream or sugar? And a cookie?”

  Miriam laughed. “That would be lovely.”

  Miriam watched her leave. Now, if everyone were as gracious as Mrs. Bjorklund—oops, not Mrs. Bjorklund, but rather Ingeborg—life in Blessing would be pretty close to ideal.

  Miriam Knutson . . . Instead of rejecting the thought the moment it popped up, she paused for the first time to consider it. Her grandparents, both in various parts of England, had married persons their parents chose for them, arranged marriages. They were, her mum had said, as happy as anyone else. But her mother and father had married against everyone’s wishes, and her mother’s marriage was just as happy. Perhaps even more so. Her father had abandoned the Catholic church and embraced the Anglican tradition, so he was considered a disgrace by his parents, even without the marriage issue.

  What if Trygve had to give up his religion for her? Would he? Surely so. What if Miriam should have to give up her religion to marry him? She didn’t have a religion anymore. Give up something else very important. Her family. Her nursing. Would she?

  “Ouch!” She caught the very edge of her finger with the needle. That could have been worse, she thought as she sucked the blood out of the needle stab. At least she didn’t break the needle when she yanked her hand away.

  “Do you need a bandage?” Ingeborg asked as she set down the cup and a napkin holding two cookies.

  “No, thank you.
It will stop. Teach me to keep my mind on what I am doing.” She pressed another finger against the hole. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “You’re welcome. I have no idea how many times I have done that.” Ingeborg went back to her work.

  Idly, Miriam picked up a cookie. She nibbled. Sugar cookie with a hint of almond. As far as she could tell, there was not a bad cook in all of Blessing.

  One thing for sure: She had to return to Chicago next fall to complete her training. Then what? She had already been offered a job at the hospital in Chicago when she was done training, but there were lots of staff there. And here? They needed help so badly. Since the bleeding had stopped, she returned to her machine with a strong reminder to keep her mind on what she was doing.

  Back to the question. If she had to give up something precious in order to marry Trygve, would she? Pumping that treadle and pushing the fabric through, she stopped cold. Yes, she probably would. No, she definitely would. She thought of his warm hands pressing the sides of her face, his spontaneous kiss on her forehead. If anyone else had done that, she most likely would have pasted them one. She laughed inside. She had a recent history of doing just that. But Trygve?

  More important, however, much more important, was that everyone else admired him. Even the conductor on the train when she came back from Chicago.

  Yes. But did she truly love him? Enough to give up nursing and become a housewife?

  Hearing new voices, she stopped the treadle and looked to see Thelma and Freda bringing crocks and bowls down the stairs and setting them on the table with the food others had brought. Her stomach rumbled at the thought.

  “Stew is here,” Mrs. Valders announced. “We’ll have grace first and then serve ourselves at the table. Mary Martha, will you lead the grace?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Solberg answered. She waited a short bit with her head bowed and then began, “Our Father in heaven, thank you for being with us today. Thank you for all these willing hands and the garments we are making. Please bless this food and those who prepared it. Give us too thy peace.” Several women joined her in the amen.