A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  When the water was warm enough, she soaked and soaped her dress, underthings, and apron. She carried them to the pump, rinsed them in the cold, clean stream of water, wrung them out and strung them on the line.

  Her hands were tingling from the cold water when she finished. The roof was mostly off, too, and new pieces of lumber were being nailed on beginning at the top of the pitch or ridgepole. A stack of shingles lay by the house for later.

  Rose went inside, grateful to be out of the sun, and began a batch of bread. Its warm, yeasty smell permeated her house, giving it a homey atmosphere, and she set the loaves in their pans to rise, all the while listening with satisfaction to the ring of hammers overhead.

  When the day ended, the roof was boarded. Tomorrow, Søren said, the tarpaper and shingles would go on. Rose was pleased by the way the work was going and told him so. He merely grinned and followed his father home across the creek.

  During the week while they were repairing her house, Rose drove over to see Fiona with the specific purpose of talking gardening. The end result of her visit brought Brian McKennie with his plow and mule to Rose’s next morning.

  Brian and Mr. Thoresen greeted each other as good friends. Brian’s hearty handshake was returned by Jan Thoresen’s rock-solid calm one, but rather than talk they went to work. Mr. Thoresen and Søren were finishing the interior walls today and beginning the cupboards and shelves; Brian was going to tackle the garden spot.

  The Andersons had plowed a large piece of sod for their family’s general food supply. In only two years however, the grass had entrenched itself again. It wasn’t quite as bad as virgin sod, Brian assured her, but plowing wasn’t the only work to be done.

  “Y’see, lass,” Brian began, “When I am cuttin’ an’ turnin’ t’ sod up, ye mu’ be shakin’ t’ good dirt from it an’ haulin’ t’ root pack away.”

  That seemed simple enough to Rose, who had never done a full day’s labor of that sort in her life, but she began with a will. Hoe in hand, she chopped and struck at the sod pieces until she had loosened the dirt held in their roots and then shook it out. The leftover clumps of grass she piled to the side.

  By lunchtime her back pain was reminiscent of the day of clearing brush. She prepared a meal for Brian, and they sat under the cottonwood with the Thoresens, but Rose only sipped some cold water. She knew Jan Thoresen’s steady gaze was measuring her, but she didn’t care. She just couldn’t eat right then; she would be sick if she did.

  After lunch she went back to shaking the sod. Brian finished the plowing and went home, promising Fiona would be over to help plant the garden in the morning. This threw Rose into near panic. Even though Brian had plowed only a third of what Andersons had used for their large family, Rose knew she couldn’t get her part of the job done today. She pushed herself as far as she could before lying down on the grass in defeat.

  Jan was looking over the garden plot when she opened her eyes a few minutes later. He nodded but didn’t say anything to her. Instead, he called loudly to Søren in the house.

  Rose sat up and repinned her hair. Jan spoke to Søren and pointed to the garden. Søren smiled at Rose and called, “Well, Mrs. Brownlee, would you like some help bustin’ sod’? The three of us can get it done before chore time.”

  Awkwardly regaining her feet, Rose thanked him. “I really would appreciate it—and I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “No, for the carpentry you can pay, but not for just being neighborly.”

  “Is this what ‘being neighborly’ means out here? Back where I come from it means inviting someone to tea or to join your garden club. I think this is wonderful.”

  The men were expertly removing the grass and leaving the dirt in the garden spot.

  “When you have to get your garden in or starve through the winter, you’re more willing to help your neighbors when they are in need. When you need a hand, they will help you,” Søren explained.

  By chore time the edges of the plot were piled with sod. “Take your rake now and level it all out,” Søren instructed. They were packing up to leave. “When Mrs. McKennie comes tomorrow, she’ll help you get it planted.”

  “Thank you both so much again,” Rose responded in gratitude.

  Both men smiled, friendly like, as they left.

  Fiona did acquaint Rose with the rudiments of gardening—prairie style—the next day. Rose had far more to learn about vegetables of every kind than she knew about part-time ornamental gardening. Rose struggled to remember Fiona’s directives, each with numerous bits of information for this seed or that, sun or less sun, depth, spacing, thinning, and so on.

  By noon the seeds were in. Fiona’s last charge was to “Be waterin’ ’em deep, boot nae washin’ ’em away.”

  Rose lost track of hauling buckets of water. Each one would give life to part of her garden, so she kept at it, stopping for lunch with Søren and Mr. Thoresen, continuing afterwards. The men were making good progress in the kitchen and she rested a few minutes to examine their work. Finally, she felt the watering was done, but a feeling of dismay was on her. Would she be hauling water to the garden all summer? Rose knew she wouldn’t stand up to it.

  “Søren,” she questioned. “The garden is about how far from the pump?”

  He went to the back door and measured with his eye.

  “‘Bout 100 foot? Somewhere’s close.”

  “Would there be an easier way to get water to the garden than carry it by bucket?”

  He looked from the pump to the garden. His father joined him and they conversed a few minutes. “My father says if he put a hole in your trough, with a ‘gate’ on it, then dug a channel to the garden, you could control the flow of water and divert it into the rows two at a time. What do you think?”

  “You mean, dig little ‘creeks’ in the garden for the water to run down? Would it work?”

  “Sure. Just have to do a lot of digging at first and then keep the furrows cleaned out during growing season.”

  “Oh, yes! Let’s do it!”

  “Let’s? Do you want us to help?”

  “Oh! Well, I would need your father to drill the hole in the trough of course, and make the ‘gate’ did you call it? Would he do that?”

  Søren asked him. Putting down his tools, Mr. Thoresen went to inspect the trough and the garden. He spoke to Søren and Søren translated to Rose.

  “This may put us behind on the house a little, but we figure on being done early next week anyway. He will work on the trough, I will dig the channel to the garden, and you are to dig the furrows in the seedbed. I’ll show you how.”

  Rose spent the remainder of the afternoon spading out the ruts between the planted rows. Because she had watered so well, she stood in and hauled away mud as the irrigation system took shape.

  “Great!” Rose muttered. Her shoes were soaked and her dress mud-stained. Søren’s digging was only a third of the way to the garden, but he had to cut through sod to make the canal.

  “Why don’t you take your shoes off and stand barefoot in the mud, Mrs. Brownlee?” he called. “Your shoes must be getting ruined.”

  She felt so foolish. Never had she been allowed to go barefoot as a child; she wouldn’t have dreamed of it. She pulled her shoes off and wiped the thick mud from them. Walking gingerly to the pump where Mr. Thoresen was fashioning the water gate she washed them thoroughly and sat them in the sun to dry.

  “Nei,” he spoke up emphatically. “There.”

  Obviously he thought they should go in the shade rather than the sun. She picked them up and moved them obediently, coming back to examine his work. He had fastened some flat metal strips to the end of the trough, bending the strips lengthwise in half. A fairly thin board was fitted into the space between the strips so that it would slide up and down but still fit snugly against the trough.

  Now he was using his auger to drill holes in the trough. They trough was built of solid planks that had baked as hard as iron in the sun making each hole quite time consuming. She
saw how the pattern of holes was circular, each hole within an eighth of an inch of the next. Since she had plenty of furrows to dig still, she padded barefoot back to the garden.

  At four o’clock, Søren put aside his shovel. Rose was glad for an excuse to stop too. They both walked back to the trough. Mr. Thoresen had completed drilling the holes. Now he was holding a very thin chisel and his hammer.

  Placing the chisel just between the holes, he struck it with the hammer. It broke the space between the holes. Over and over he re-positioned the chisel and hit it. Finally, one blow more and the entire circle of wood fell out of the trough and a stream of water cascaded into Søren’s canal. Quickly, Mr. Thoresen shoved the gate into place and the water ceased.

  Rose clapped her hands exuberantly. “Well done, Mr. Thoresen, well done!”

  He gave a gallant bow and smiled; Søren clapped him on the back.

  “I’ll finish the furrow to the garden tomorrow, Mrs. Brownlee,” Søren said confidently. “If the rows are done, you’ll be watering with ease by tomorrow evening!”

  They bid her good night and left.

  When Rose climbed out of bed the following morning, her muscles were more sore than she’d ever felt them. Groaning, she stumbled to the back door to get the water bucket.

  “Bucket, bucket, let’s see, I left it right out on the step—ugh!”

  Her shiny new bucket had been the target of a particularly messy magpie. With a grimace she wiped the pail on the sod and limped to the pump. After her first cup of coffee she was ready to at least consider digging more ditches in the garden. The Thoresens arrived after she’d dressed and breakfasted. Mr. Thoresen continued his work in the house, while Søren and Rose dug. And dug.

  Søren grinned wryly at Rose. His channel was getting close to the garden, but it was hard work cutting the thick sod. Her work would be done soon, she hoped. By lunchtime they were very close to finishing. Rose’s muscles were warmed again: it wasn’t as painful to dig, and she and Søren were carrying on a lively conversation.

  He had innumerable questions about her city and what life was like in the east. She was happy to describe it to him. She liked Søren. He was bright, cheerful and had dreams, too, dreams he was willing to work for. When Rose ventured to ask if he had a special girl to go with those plans he shook his head and grinned.

  “No, not yet. We Thoresens don’t marry young. Most Norwegian men marry between twenty-five and thirty, when they have their affairs well in hand. Father married Mother when he was twenty-eight. They were set pretty well when we came to America and had more to start with than those who came because they had no future in Norway.”

  “And Norway is part of Sweden right now, you know. Father wanted to come to America where he would have more freedom. Someday, perhaps soon, Norway will be its own nation again.”

  He paused. “There is a girl I admire. But she has plans too, and won’t want to marry for quite a while. Besides, she isn’t old enough yet, really. So who knows? I trust it to God to give me the wife I want and need.”

  Rose immediately thought of Meg but didn’t say anything. Yes, Meg was still young, only sixteen. Would they make a good couple? Rose smiled approval to herself.

  About two o’clock, Rose opened the water gate. Cold water gushed out into the canal and went racing to the garden. It slowed but continued until it reached the furrow across the top of the plot. A board in the furrow stopped the onward flow and forced it down the first two rows. The water soaked slowly into the beds.

  Triumphantly, she called, “It works! Look!”

  She ran back to the trough and pumped it full, while Søren and Jan watched the water flow. She was jubilant and they were happy for her, chuckling at her excitement.

  Jan stood at the head of the garden and moved the board down another two rows. The water shot down to it and then into the dry furrows.

  For the next hour, Rose moved boards and pumped but enjoyed it immensely. At four Søren and Jan left and promised to see her at church in the morning.

  Another week gone, Rose thought in amazement.

  Inside her house, the walls were done, the interior wall constructed and half her cabinets built. The roof was new and snug, (the outhouse roof too!), the stable repaired, and even a real clothesline strung—all in seven days of labor. Only the cupboards remained to be finished, and (Rose’s smile widened) her porch! They might have time to get to it.

  Rose went through her long routine of bathing and washing her hair for Sunday and sighed deeply when she finally crawled into bed.

  Chapter 17

  Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it rained, tempestuous intermittent showers preceded by hot hours while the cloud cover built up. Søren and Mr. Thoresen finished the last of the cabinets by Wednesday afternoon and Rose was anticipating cleaning up after them and really moving in.

  Then, with only the porch left to build, Mr. Thoresen dismissed Søren to work at home again, and carefully laid out the plans himself.

  Søren assured Rose, “My father is much better at making pretty things like this stoop you want than anyone else around. I don’t have the patience, and never cared to learn beyond basic carpentry. Father is a skilled craftsman from the old country.” He laughed, too. “They have a lot of wood in Norway for learning on and you notice we don’t here! He will do it right and you’ll like it fine.”

  Mr. Thoresen had only three days of the agreed upon two weeks to do the job, and Rose was unsure it could be finished in that time. Thursday morning, bright and early, through the fledgling cornfields he strode to work. Rose was both surprised and delighted to see Uli with him, half running to keep up with his long strides. She carried the familiar lunch pail and something Rose couldn’t see from that distance, while he toted the tools and saw. Uli’s golden curls and healthy frame were a joy for Rose to observe. How much more enjoyable the day’s work would be because of Uli’s company.

  Now that they were crossing the creek, Rose saw that Uli was holding a rope in her hand . . . a little goat!

  Whatever? Rose wondered.

  Uli proudly marched up to Rose and handed her the line. Bleating and pulling fearfully, her small brown and white charge danced at the end of the leash.

  “Mr. Thoresen, what is this?” Rose inquired, itching to comfort the distraught little creature.

  “Goat,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “I mean, why is she here? I don’t understand.”

  Uli tugged her sleeve. “She’s a present, Mrs. Brownlee!” she lisped. “ For you! Isn’t she just beautiful?”

  Rose was so overcome that she didn’t say anything. The ewe’s delicate face studied Rose nervously while trembling at the end of her tether. All four of her dainty feet were pure white just above the tiny hooves while her body was varying degrees of brown and tan highlighted by a flash of white on her face.

  “I’m to show you how to milk her,” Uli continued, “So you can have milk every day like we do. You can even make gjetost.”

  Rose lifted her hand slowly to pat the little animal. Still quavering, the goat tolerated it and then pushed her head into Rose’s hand and settled.

  “Oh, my,” Rose whispered.

  Uli beamed. “I knew you would like her. I helped pick her out for you. Her name is Snøfot—Snowfoot. Isn’t she beautiful?” This last was an anxious repetition.

  “Oh, Yes! Beautiful indeed!” Rose hugged Uli. “I am thrilled with her, sweetheart. Thank you so much.”

  “Oh, the goats are Onkel’s. They are his favorites because he grew up taking the goats into the mountains above their fiord every summer in Norway. He tells us about it sometimes, where our Grandpa still lives. They would stay all summer in the mountains—even sleeping there. Do you suppose there are any mountains in America?”

  Laughing, Rose answered, “Uli, there are more and bigger mountains in America than anywhere in Norway, but unfortunately we live a long ways from them. Perhaps someday you will ride on a train like I did and see them.”

/>   Leading the goat with them, Rose approached Mr. Thoresen. Her porch diagram was tacked on the outside of the door and scribbled notes and figures covered the margins. He was measuring the distance from the wall to what would be the outer edge of the porch.

  “Mr. Thoresen,” Rose interrupted, “I want to thank you.”

  He didn’t lift his eyes from his tape measure, but asked mildly. “You like?” and drove a stake into the dirt with a blunt hammer.

  “Yes. Yes I do. I don’t have any idea how to take care of her, but she is the loveliest creature I’ve ever owned.”

  “Uli teach.” He gestured at the yard, still concentrating on his figures. “Snøfot eat grass, all here. Make gud milk.”

  He turned to her now and said deliberately, “You get fat, ja?”

  This time Rose wouldn’t allow herself to be offended. “The Thoresens have proven themselves to be genuinely concerned about my well being, and I have been both foolish in not taking advice given in the spirit of friendship and very nearly rude in return,” she repented silently.

  Out loud she responded, “I will try. Thank you, really.” She offered her hand.

  He nodded and shook it, then turned back to his chore.

  Uli was anxious to show her everything about caring for Snowfoot.

  “First, Onkel says her home is to be in the stable by your horse. He says your horse is very gentle and won’t mind. Also, Onkel fixed it up just for Snowfoot last week before you knew she was coming.”

  “He did? Well! You two have thought of everything!” Rose took Uli by the hand and they showed Snowfoot to her new domicile together. The recent repairs weren’t news to Rose, but now she understood why the feed box had been lowered. Uli tied Snowfoot’s rope to a new tethering ring in the wall.

  “We need a bucket now, Mrs. Brownlee,” she announced. “It has to be a good, clean one.”

  “All right, Uli. I’ll get one.” Rose fetched a pail from a hook inside her house and scrubbed it thoroughly, rinsing it with hot water from the teakettle.