A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  “That’s the way it is out here,” Rose mused. “There is a tremendous gift of giving at work in many people—and instead of having less, they seem to always have more. It’s like God blesses them for blessing others.”

  Her guests were scheduled to arrive at one o’clock, late enough to have set their men’s dinners before leaving for the afternoon out. Rose dressed with care, rechecked every detail, and was in a dither of excitement before they arrived. Fiona was first, heralded by the Baron’s deep barking. She was carrying baby Sean, and Rose hugged her warmly when she stepped through the door.

  “Oohing” and “ahhing,” Fiona examined the house. She was still exclaiming over Rose’s finely crafted kitchen cupboards when Berta and Vera drove into the yard at the same time Amalie and Uli crossed the creek. The Baron ran circles around the house, baying the whole time. Rose and Fiona hugged and welcomed the other ladies while Amalie and Uli dried their feet and put on their shoes and stockings. Laughing and gay, they entered the cabin. The women spent twenty minutes admiring Rose’s home and its changes and ornaments, but nothing took their attention like the piano. Vera was spellbound.

  “Oh, Rose! How did you ever? May I play it, please?”

  The other ladies were quick to add their hopes so Vera sat down, sheer joy on her brow. The minute her fingers touched the keys, Rose realized that Vera was no dilettante on the instrument. From her hands flew Mozart, Bach, Chopin. Enchanted, the women listened on. Even Uli was transfixed.

  When Vera finished, tears stood in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I truly thought it would be years before I played again.”

  “You have a gift, Vera,” Rose stated. “And you gave it up to come out here.”

  “It’s worth it,” Vera replied.

  Rose took her hand and kissed the young woman’s cheek.

  “I salute you,” Rose whispered. Out loud she announced lunch and seated her guests. Every possible contrivance for sitting that Rose owned was at the table, including an upended crate for herself. That’s when she at last realized they were one seat long.

  “Amalie! Why, where is Sigrün?”

  Uli answered for her mother.

  “Sigrün was too busy to come today, but Mor says really it’s because it’s too hard for her to be with all the ladies. She’s sorry for the trouble.”

  “No, it’s no trouble; I’ll merely clear this setting off and now you can have the chair, and I’ll take the stool, and we’ll put this box in the corner, all right?”

  Rose poured iced tea into the glasses, garnishing each serving with ice chips and mint sprigs. Then she seated herself at the head and served the salad and passed the breads. With everyone enjoying herself, it was tremendous fun for her, too.

  “Amalie,” she remarked when an opening came in the conversation. “Mr. Thoresen worked so hard and did the most excellent work on my cupboards and porch. What a blessing it must be to have a husband so skilled. He did a wonderful job of your kitchen, too.”

  While Uli translated it became very quiet, and Rose glanced around curiously. The other women were staring at her with puzzled expressions—even Uli.

  “Well, I’m bein’ jiggered,” Fiona chuckled.

  In fact they were all beginning to laugh.

  “What is it?” Rose demanded, beginning to redden.

  “What ye said,” Fiona choked out. “Oh, ’tis rich, ’tis!”

  A gale of laughter rocked the table at that. Gradually the women recovered their decorum. Rose insisted they explain. Amalie took charge, swamping poor Uli with explanations.

  “Mor says,” Uli began seriously, “That surely you knew that Onkel is not her husband.”

  “What?” Rose was astounded, and the ladies roared in hilarity. It was several minutes before Uli could go on.

  “Mor says, didn’t you know that Onkel is my papa’s brother? Didn’t you know that, Mrs. Brownlee?” she added of her own.

  Rose shook her head dumbly.

  “But Mrs. Brownlee, how can Onkel be my papa if he is my onkel?” Uli persisted.

  Onkel. Uncle. Rose finally connected it.

  “Mor says to tell you that before I was born, my papa died. So did Onkel’s wife, Aunt Elli, and my cousin Kristen. I told you about Kristen, remember?” she added.

  The women were sober now and listened respectfully as Amalie explained and Uli translated.

  “Onkel and my papa came to America together with their families and filed those two farms.” She pointed across the creek. “There was Onkel Jan, Aunt Elli, Søren, and Kristen, Papa, Mamma, Sigrün, and Little Karl, Arnie, and Kjell. I wasn’t born yet when the plague came. Then a lot of people got very sick and Papa, Aunt Elli, and Kristen died.”

  Rose was watching Amalie’s face as she spoke. The reality of her tale came home to Rose when she saw the sad light in Amalie’s eyes.

  “Sigrün was a little girl then, just older than me,” Uli continued. “She had the fever, too, but not really bad. Only, after Papa died she never talked anymore.”

  Amalie sighed and went on. Uli nodded in agreement. “Mor says, she thinks there’s nothing wrong with Sigrün why she can’t talk; but she just wouldn’t afterwards and hasn’t since. She’s very shy too.”

  The story was over and the ladies were quietly finishing their lunches.

  “I . . . apologize, Amalie,” Rose managed at last. “I had no idea . . .Mr. Thoresen is so good with the children and everything . . .” She still couldn’t grasp it all.

  Fiona chuckled again. “Aye, he’s bein’ a wonderful father for Karl and Amalie’s children, and Amalie has been grand for Søren. Ah, Rose. If’n ye could’ve been seein’ your face when she told ye.”

  “I guess we all just assumed you knew, Rose,” Vera put in kindly and added, “This chicken salad was delicious!”

  Gently recalled to her duties as hostess, Rose set all this new information aside and got up to brew coffee. Vera cleared the table while Rose laid the coffee service and called Uli to her.

  “Look, Uli,” whispered Rose. She lifted the corner of a linen napkin covering a footed crystal plate. The elegant assorted chocolates were arrayed temptingly underneath.

  Uli’s eyes grew large and her tiny mouth said “Ooooh!” so softly.

  “Would you like to pass these as I serve coffee?” Rose’s expression was shining at Uli’s obvious pleasure.

  “Oh, yes’m!” she whispered back.

  Uli administered her charge scrupulously, enjoying the guests’ exclamations and praise over the unaccustomed treat.

  “Frau Brünlee,” Berta uttered, savoring the melting delight, “Ist wunderschön!”

  The other accolades were sweet to Rose’s ear too. “They are a gift from my brother Tom. He was very extravagant, don’t you think? But I shall tell him how much they were enjoyed, and it will please him greatly.”

  They lingered over their coffee another half hour, sharing and chatting; not many such days of leisure could be afforded by busy farms and businesses; Rose knew her luncheon was a success.

  Chapter 21

  Summer had arrived in its fullness. The heat began early each day before the sun was fully up, driving Rose into the house by mid-morning. When that was too unbearable, she sheltered under the cottonwood trees where a hot breeze and a cold washcloth gave her an hour or two of relief.

  Now she chored as early every morning as she could get up. By watering and hoeing in the early light she did half a day’s work by eight or nine. After milking and putting Snowfoot and Prince out she had her usual washing and cleaning. At noon she fixed her large meal of the day with a little left over she could eat in the evening. The less she used the stove, the better.

  The garden grew up before her eyes, taking quantum leaps overnight it seemed. New peas were on and baby radishes, onions and carrots supplemented her diet. The squash and pumpkin blossomed and spread out. Beans and cucumbers had to be staked up, and she watered, weeded, thinned, watered, weeded, thinned. In those late afternoon
hours she rested, dozing or reading. When the sun declined, choring began again and life seemed to revive in the evening as it cooled to tolerable levels. Even then, Rose slept fitfully in the stuffy, muggy house to wake early and begin the long, hot process again.

  The Baron became more and more Rose’s companion these days. He exuberantly displayed his loyalty and affection whenever they were apart for even a few minutes and then reunited. He was fast maturing physically, too, and it was difficult for Rose to control his zeal. He was so strong and heavy! He literally knocked her over when she wasn’t expecting his onslaught of “tender” affection. This was a big problem, but there was another, too. The Baron was a great watchdog. He kept the coyotes out of the yard and discouraged the “nibblers,” but he liked to dig. Not just anywhere, mind you. Only in the garden or in her shrubs. Now that the starts and flowers were doing so well along with the green garden, she cried tears of vexation when she came upon his destruction. And she couldn’t seem to stop him.

  Every week Kjell or Uli would bring fresh eggs, butter, and cheese to Rose, and she would pay for them. After a particularly weary morning of replanting a bush that obviously wasn’t going to ‘make it,’ she snapped at Kjell in desperation, “Please tell Mr. Thoresen that the dog he gave me is tearing up my yard and garden. Ask him what I should do, for heaven’s sake!”

  Kjell must have delivered the message effectively, for an hour later Mr. Thoresen was knocking on Rose’s front door. The Baron growled menacingly at him.

  “Kjell say dog bad. Here.” He handed Rose a thin, resilient stick.

  “What do I do with this?” Rose inquired indignantly.

  “Come see.” Jan walked down the porch steps and around the house. There, the same poor bush victim had been dragged out of its hole and gasping its last.

  “Baron!” Jan’s voice was stern and commanding. Even Rose’s eyes grew big, and Baron skulked behind her skirts.

  “Baron, come!” he demanded again.

  When the pup refused to move, Jan reached behind Rose and took him by the collar, gently, but firmly.

  Immediately Baron snapped at him, and Jan switched him soundly on the muzzle.

  “Nei. No.”

  He dragged the struggling dog to the bush and rubbed his nose in the shrub and its roots, punctuating his actions with “No!” and a firm smack with the stick on his hindquarters every few seconds. Having thoroughly acquainted Baron with the adverse results of his hobby, Jan turned to Rose.

  “Now, Mrs. Brünlee—must do if dog bad. All times.” He was very solid on this and his inflexibility scared Rose a bit. He must have seen her shrinking back for he added gently, “See?”

  Baron was slinking repentantly toward them, baring his belly in submission and his teeth in a comical parody of a grin.

  “Must teach dog be gud.” Jan glanced around. It had been weeks since he had been to Rose’s.

  “Look nice. I see?” He didn’t wait for an answer but inspected the little shrubs and bushes, her garden and the flowers from seed just now beginning to shoot up. He even examined with interest the four fruit saplings.

  Grunting in approval he commented, “Four, five year, get fruit.”

  “Yes, I know. I . . . Just wanted to start them, to see them grow.”

  He nodded. “Garden grow gud.”

  “Isn’t it doing well? I should have beans soon, and I even have a little salad every day from the greens. It’s more than I can eat by myself, really, and with the new potatoes and peas I—”

  Holding up his hand he smiled, fleetingly. “Talk so slow, please, Mrs. Brünlee.” He seemed weary for an instant and it made Rose feel badly.

  “Mr. Thoresen,” she began again, “I’m sorry. Thank you—takk takk—for helping me with the Baron.”

  He bent his head once and turned to leave.

  “Mr. Thoresen,” Rose hesitated. “May I fix you some cool tea?”

  Shrugging, he turned back around.

  “Ja. Denk you.”

  She poured two tall glasses of sweet, cold tea, and they sat on the porch in the shade of the house looking at his cornfields, house, and barns, the brown, gold, and green fields and the prairie away beyond. She refilled his glass almost immediately.

  He seemed to be relaxed, so she ventured, “The day I had Sunday dinner with your family?”

  He nodded for her to go on.

  “At dinner we talked about the Bible.” She spoke slowly.

  “Ja?” he was interested.

  “I enjoyed that so much. Since then I’ve been studying—reading and trying to learn more.”

  “Ah, dat’s gud. I try, too.”

  “You do? I thought . . . ”

  “Hmm?”

  She searched for the right, simple words.

  “I thought you knew already.”

  He snorted and his eyes gleamed with humor. “Not all; not . . . ” he sought for the word.

  “Not possible?” Rose suggested.

  “Ja, not possible. Have Bible?”

  “Do I have a Bible? Yes, of course. Do you want me to get it?”

  He nodded and she went to bring it. Turning to Colossians 3, he pointed out verses 16 and 17.

  “Read, please.”

  Rose read slowly, with articulation:

  Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom;

  teaching and admonishing one another

  in psalms, and hymns and spiritual songs,

  singing and making melody in your hearts to the Lord.

  And whatsoever ye do in word or deed,

  do all in the name of the Lord Jesus,

  giving thanks to God and the Father by him.

  “See?” he gestured in approval. “God’s word ‘dwell’—stay, live here.” He pointed to his chest. “Keep try to learn. Here. Not here.” He indicated his head.

  “I see! Yes. Thank you.” She marked the passage so she could come back to it.

  Draining the last of his tea and setting the glass down he stood.

  “Go now, Mrs. Brünlee. You make dog gud.”

  Reminded of what he expected her to do with Baron, she grimaced but agreed.

  “Proverbs 13:24,” he quoted succinctly and swung off the porch.

  Rose leafed through her Bible until she found it.

  He that spareth his rod hateth his son;

  but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.

  “For my dog?” Rose burst out laughing. Quiet, solid, reserved patriarch of his clan, Mr. Thoresen, had a sense of humor!

  She had an opportunity to try his method out on Baron soon. The following morning while she was watering, he was excavating the marigolds from around the trumpet vine. Now, nothing could have been better designed to raise her ire than an attack on her favorite vine, so with a determination fueled by her anger she called Baron to her.

  Maybe the dim light of understanding flickered somewhere in his small brain for as he came bounding toward her, tongue lolling, ready to fawn and lick her hand, he took note of the flowers scattered by her feet and the switch in her hand. Suddenly, he wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic about seeing her so she strode to him and using all her might and main pulled him to the scene of the crime. It was ludicrous, really. Rose couldn’t force his nose down to the ground, so she held him and thrust the flowers up into his face while shouting “No! Bad dog!” then dropped them and picked the switch up to use on his rear. In a contest of strength, Baron would win “hands down,” but due to his loyalty to her, and the fact that she had never struck him before, he was submissive and abject for several minutes.

  Then after lunch she caught him in the very act of demolishing a lilac. Stick in hand, and vengeance in her eye, she descended on him. It was easier for her to do a thorough job this time, and Baron’s yelps of surprise and pain didn’t deter her.

  Several sessions more followed in the week and then “miraculously”—it seemed to work. Baron took his excavation projects elsewhere, and Rose’s garden and yard endured a season of pe
ace.

  As summer drifted by, Rose bought a used saddle and copied Fiona by riding Prince on short trips although she feared she would never be a graceful horsewoman. Just mounting Prince required the use of her front porch and patience on both parts. Of an evening she might ride across her unused fields behind the house the three miles to McKennies’ farm. Their family made room for her like a favored relative and often Rose would bring a treat or game for the children and a book for Brian while she and Fiona talked and worked or occasionally visited another neighbor.

  Through Fiona Rose met several other families in the area. A few miles opposite McKennies was the Gardiner farm. They had come from Tennessee five years before and had just “proved up” their claim that spring, one that had previously been filed on and abandoned when the former owners failed. They had a grown daughter, Sally, who was engaged to be married in the fall, and two sons still in school who farmed with their father. Beyond them lived the Bruntrüllsens, a Swedish family whose only son, Ivan, was Søren’s best friend.

  Sundays and spending Sunday dinner and the afternoon with friends, either as guest or hostess, was the high point of every week for Rose. The whole McKennie family, including Meg, or Jacob and Vera Medford, all the Thoresens, the Schmidts, and the Gardiners had been her guests. When delivering the promised bulbs to Mrs. Bailey she had asked them to come, but Mrs. Bailey amiably declined, and Rose continued to pray for them and to try to express God’s love in some tangible way. They had not come to church as yet.

  She remembered the soddy one Sunday when McKennies were visiting and asked Brian about it. He agreed to open it up and take a look. Rose had a small collection of tools bought one or two at a time when she needed them. They were stored in the stable and Rose showed them to Brian who selected a crowbar and a mallet before they made their way through the dry, overgrown prairie grass disguising the soddy against the hillock.

  Brian felt for the edges of the door and used the end of the crowbar to scrape through the dirt and grass grown around it. He pulled and fussed a few minutes before it came open.