Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  Your brother,

  Andrew

  Thorliff folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Sometimes letters carried bad news. Pictures of Paws through the years flashed through his mind. Paws as the half-grown dog with caramel ears and white feet; Paws herding the sheep and bringing in the cows; Paws dancing out his welcome when they came home from wherever they’d been. Paws climbing the ladder to the haymow and shocking them all; Paws, champion nose- and chin-licker. Thorliff could feel that lightning tongue on his damp cheeks. Paws never did like anyone to cry.

  That night Thorliff sat down and wrote to Andrew and his family, and enclosed “A Tribute to a Good Friend,” written like a eulogy.

  Mr. Rogers says he’ll run this in the paper, and then I’ll send you a copy of that. Thank you for letting me know and for being the kind of brother who cares so deeply for all living things. I’ll see you in June.

  Thorliff

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Blessing, North Dakota

  April 1894

  “Mor, can—er, may I write to Thorliff?”

  “Of course. You needn’t ask.” Ingeborg looked up from rolling out molasses cookie dough. “We will send him a package.”

  “He likes your cookies best. He said so.” Astrid snitched a bite of cookie dough and left, giggling while licking her finger. She retrieved paper and pencil from the tray in the old trunk and closed the lid, a gentle finger stroking the flowers and other rosemaling designs painted on the trunk. She knew the stories well of her mother’s ocean trip to the new world with Tante Kaaren and the Bjorklund brothers, who both died one winter. No matter how people tried to explain it to her, she still could not understand an ocean so large it took more than a week to cross. Others who came by ship earlier said the crossing under sail took much longer.

  Taking a seat at the kitchen table, she set to her letter. Goldie the cat came and jumped up in her lap, kneading her legs with his front paws before settling into a purring that vibrated clear to her ankles.

  “Should I tell him about Anji?”

  “What about Anji?”

  “Well, she came to church with that Mr. Moen from Norway.”

  Ingeborg rolled the dough a bit harder than necessary, causing a muttered “uff da” when some of the dough stuck to the rolling pin. She peeled the dough from the pin surface, patted it back in place, and dusted more flour on the rolling pin. How to tell Astrid no without making her think poorly of Anji? Not thinking poorly of the young woman whom she’d been so sure would be her daughter-in-law was taking an extra storm of prayers.

  The rift between Thorliff and Anji is none of your business, she reminded herself for more than the first time. Easier said than done. But she’d caught her mother-in-law, Bridget, giving the young woman a glare that would melt the Red River in January.

  Why should they be angry, or rather disappointed, with Anji? That man was the real problem. That man was the way she always referred to him, as if his name were of no account.

  Actually, another reminder to herself, he was of too much account. He had everything that Thorliff didn’t. According to the gossip she’d heard, that man had education, wealth, wit, and charm enough to turn any young woman’s head. He’d certainly done it with women much older and more experienced than Anji, like nearly every woman in the region of Blessing. He also had two young daughters living with their bestemor in Norway.

  “Mor?”

  Ingeborg retrieved her mind from its wanderings and, before turning to her daughter, took a deep breath and let it all out. She made sure the consternation was wiped from her face, since Haakan always told her it was easier to read her face than a book with large print, and looked Astrid in the eye.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Thorliff would be very angry to see them together, and maybe someone should tell him so he could come home or write to her or . . .” A frown creased her wide forehead. “I wish Mr. Moen would go back to Norway. That’s what I wish.” She tapped the end of the pencil against her teeth. “If Thorliff married Anji, she would be my sister. Right?”

  “Well, your sister-in-law.” Ingeborg removed a flat baking pan from the oven and slid the cookies off with a pancake turner. “Would you please sprinkle some sugar on the cookies in that pan so I can get it in the oven?”

  Astrid nodded and rose from her chair to help. While sprinkling sugar with a spoon, she picked up bits of dough left from the edges of the cookies and ate them. Finished sugaring, she returned to her letter.

  “Did you tell him how many lambs we had?”

  Ingeborg shook her head. “You might tell him about the new foal born too. He always liked Bess.” Bess was one of their older heavy mares, and Haakan feared she had not settled with the last breeding. All of them had been delighted when they learned of the imminent birth.

  “We should let Thorliff name the baby.”

  “That would be nice, but I think Andrew already did.” She slid more cookies into the oven and added wood to the firebox. “I’m going to need wood pretty soon.”

  Astrid sighed. “I’m never going to get this written at this rate.”

  “Is there a rush?”

  “I don’t know. I just had a dream about Thorliff last night, and he didn’t seem very happy. You think he likes school as much as home?”

  “You ask hard questions.”

  “I know, but I’m worried about him. Aren’t you?” Astrid reached for a cookie and nibbled on the warm edge.

  “Worried?” Ingeborg paused in cutting out more cookies. “No, not really. I know he is where he should be, and I know God can take better care of him than I can, so I leave him in God’s hands.” She stopped to study Astrid’s face. “You see, the Bible tells us not to worry and—”

  “Where does it say that?”

  “Psalm 37. ‘Fret not thyself.’ God says not to fret. Fret is another word for worry, and over and over again we are told to trust God. Now, if we are worrying, we are not trusting. You understand?”

  “So is thinking about Thorliff the same as worrying?”

  “No, not at all. Worrying is . . .” Ingeborg shook her head. “Sometimes I think you and Andrew must get together and figure out ways to confuse your mor. Some things I can explain better in Norwegian.”

  “But we speak English. How come our language is called English instead of American?”

  “Because it was spoken in England first.” Stirring the pot of soup simmering on the back of the stove, Ingeborg enjoyed the relief stealing up from her middle. How to answer all this child’s questions without quelling her curiosity. “I’m thinking you should look some of your words up in the dictionary at school.”

  “Like worry?”

  “Ja, for sure.”

  “Thorliff would know.”

  “Perhaps. Now, no more cookies until after supper, or we won’t have enough to mail to Thorliff. Why don’t you get out the popcorn, and we’ll pop plenty to fill his box.”

  “That way the cookies won’t break. Right?” A grin flashed across her face. “Or at least, we won’t worry about them breaking.”

  Ingeborg smiled back. “And with that you better put on your shawl and bring in enough wood to fill the woodbox.”

  “Are Andrew and Hamre still over helping Onkel Lars?”

  “Ja. Getting the machinery ready for spring fieldwork.”

  “Do they want us to milk tonight?” Astrid paused before darting out the door.

  “No, they didn’t say that.” Ingeborg scraped the leftover flour from rolling the cookies into her hand and dumped it into a bowl on the shelf above the warming oven to be used later for gravy. While Astrid brought in load after load of wood, Ingeborg picked up where she had left off on the spinning. With Bridget knitting hats, mittens, and sweaters to sell in Penny’s store, spinning was always needed.

  “There, I’m done.” Astrid found her mother in the parlor at the spinning wheel. She glanced over to the basket of carded wool and shook her head. “A
nd here I thought I could read for a while. Can I finish Thorliff ’s letter before I start carding?”

  Ingeborg nodded. “If you don’t take too long.”

  But Astrid’s question about Anji stayed with Ingeborg until bedtime. She sat on the edge of the bed brushing her one hundred strokes, and the more she thought about the new man in town, the faster she pulled the brush through her hair. What was normally relaxing turned into a race.

  “You planning on brushing it all out or something?” Haakan lay back on the pillows as he watched her, his hands clasped behind his head.

  “No, why?”

  “You look more like you are pulling that lovely hair out than brushing it.”

  Her brushing arm dropped to her side, then she clasped her hands in her lap, rubbing one thumb with the other. How to say it. Quit stumbling over your thoughts and just ask. She cleared her throat.

  “Do you think . . .” She paused, sighed, and started again, not looking at him for fear he would see the heat creeping up her neck. “Astrid asked me . . .” Just get on with it. “She asked me if she should tell Thorliff that Anji attended church on Sunday with Mr. Moen. The man from Norway.”

  “I know who he is, and so do you, since he’s visited here several times.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see Haakan’s mouth quirk in a slight smile.

  “Ja, I s’pose you do. And he’s only been here twice.”

  “He is a fine man.”

  “Ja.” So, that is not the point. What is the point? Her silent questions demanded answers that could be heard. And shared.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think you should come to bed and let those young ones work out their own problems without our interference.”

  “I wasn’t going to interfere.” Her words snapped on the still air like a whip cracking above the oxen backs.

  “Oh?”

  She clenched her teeth and turned, sending a glare intended to burn flesh. “If you can’t help me, then don’t hinder.”

  “Oh.” Haakan raised one hand as if to block the barb, then used that same hand to pull the covers back on her side of the bed.

  Ingeborg laid the brush down and, with rapid motions, divided her long hair into three parts and braided it, snagging some on a fingernail. “Uff da!” She ripped the offending sliver of nail off with her teeth and finished braiding, tying off the end with a slim strip of cloth from the dress she’d been sewing. Flinging her braid over her shoulder, she climbed into bed, flopped on her back, and pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chin. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the ceiling. So was she worrying about Thorliff after all? After answering Astrid so glibly this afternoon, she could hear herself, “I know he is where he should be, and I know God can take better care of him than I can, so I leave him in God’s hands.” It sounded good.

  Haakan reached up and blew out the kerosene lamp, the smell of smoke pervading the room. He turned on his side and reached an arm over his wife to pull her close.

  She pushed his hand away and humphed. She glanced to the side when a puffing noise indicated Haakan was already drifting asleep. Sure, and he couldn’t stay awake three minutes to help her. Men! She flounced over on her side, taking half of the covers with her.

  His snore deepened.

  Ingeborg thought back to the Sunday afternoon Mr. Moen had stopped by after church to talk with her about what she remembered of the trip to America and the years after, when she and her family had first arrived in the new land. They’d been sitting in the parlor with Andrew and Astrid sitting cross-legged on the floor, always ready to hear the stories of the early days.

  “Do you mind if we speak Norwegian?” Mr. Moen had asked as he took out a pad of paper and a pencil. “I can take notes faster that way.”

  “Not at all,” Ingeborg answered in Norwegian. “When I came, I knew not one word of English.”

  “Did you come by sail or steamship?”

  “Steam, but even big as that ship was, the waves threw it around like a rowboat. So many people were violently ill, and some died. Kaaren’s baby daughter was born not long before we steamed into the New York harbor. Kaaren was so weak, we were terrified she would be turned back by the government officials. But thanks be to God, they let us all come into the new land. We took the train to Fargo, and Roald and Carl worked on the railroad to help earn money for a wagon and the oxen. I worked in a hotel, and Kaaren took care of the children in two rooms in a boardinghouse. When spring came Roald and Carl rode horses north to find a homestead and then came back for the rest of us.”

  “What advice would you give to those who want to emigrate?”

  “Learn the new language before you come. Things will go much easier for them. Oh, and bring warm clothes. No matter how cold the weather in Norway, the wind blows here much worse.”

  “What do you remember of your first winter here?”

  “Ah, we built those soddies you see outside—one for all of us, that was two men, two women, a small boy, and a baby, and the other for the barn. That was built first. We are still using them. One thing you’ll most likely hear from others is that after my husband died in the blizzard and Carl and his two little girls died from the influenza, I discarded my skirts and went about in britches, since I was doing the work of a man and my skirts were a hindrance. I also hunted—was quite a good shot actually—and did anything I had to do to keep from losing the land we worked so hard to break and plant. Kaaren took care of the house and my two boys while the oxen and I busted sod. Ah, so many stories I could tell you. One of them you can read in Harper’s Magazine, written by my son Thorliff. He is away at school in Minnesota, at St. Olaf College, and plans on being a writer.”

  “You will like Thorliff. He tells good stories.” Andrew stretched his legs out in front of him. “Tell him about Metiz, Mor.”

  “Please do.”

  Ingeborg picked up her knitting needles. “When we came here, we found an old Indian woman who lived along the Red River. The only word we understood was Metiz, so that is what we called her. Metiz are actually a group of Sioux Indians with French Canadian blood. She taught us about living off the richness of this land, for example, the value of herbs for medicinal purposes, and she became a wonderful friend, along with her grandson Baptiste. She made our lives easier than they would have been without her.”

  “Metiz makes the best knives with deer-horn handles and vests and mittens out of rabbit skins. She sells them in Tante Penny’s store.” Astrid looked up from stroking the cat that lay curled in her lap.

  “You have made a fine farm here.” Mr. Moen glanced around the parlor.

  “Ja, God has been so very good to us. The land is rich, and we are close to water, but that is why Roald chose this area. He knew what we needed, and this land was still available. Some gave up and went back East or returned to Norway.”

  “What made you start the cheese house?”

  “My mor taught me to make cheese, so when we had extra milk, I made cheese, and it was good, so the business grew. People like good cheese. When the railroad came we had to keep making a bigger cheese house.”

  Mr. Moen closed his paper pad. “I think I could write forever just about your family. Could you perhaps give me Thorliff ’s address? I would like to send a copy of his story to my paper in Norway. I think they would like to publish it too. If they like it, maybe they would take more.”

  Ingeborg brought her memory back to the present, but by the time she finally fell asleep, she was no nearer to an answer about Thorliff and Anji. Other than this was none of her business, and she had to admit she had enjoyed visiting with Mr. Moen. Just like Haakan had said. Sometimes she wanted to take Thorliff by the ears and shake him, along with Anji.

  “But do we know what God’s will is in this matter, besides what you— we want?” Kaaren refilled Ingeborg’s coffee cup the next morning.

  “You think they are perfect for each other too, don’t you?”

  “You mea
n Thorliff and Anji?”

  “Of course.” Ingeborg tightened her jaw, then at the concern in Kaaren’s eyes, she sighed and shook her head. “Forgive me. I know I must not let this bother me. How am I to know God’s will in a matter like this? I just know what I think, and when even a child sees what is happening, I . . .” Her words trailed off as she raised the cup with both hands and sipped her coffee. The rocking chair creaked as she set it in motion. Kaaren settled into the other chair with a sigh, propping her elbows on the arms of the chair and inhaling the steaming aroma.

  “Do you think Thorliff is aware of what is happening?”

  “How could he be unless someone writes and tells him?”

  “Are he and Anji writing to each other?”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t been over in weeks, months perhaps. And I wrote to him about this earlier and mentioned it when he was home at Christmas, so seems to me I’ve done all I should.” Ingeborg looked over the rim of her cup. “Not all that I want, you can be sure, but what I should. According to Haakan this is none of my business. But Thorliff is my son, and I want the best for him.”

  “So—what if the best isn’t Anji?” The question lay between them like a sunbaked clod of black dirt.

  Ingeborg rocked and sipped, the song of the rocker comforting in the silence. Ja, what if God has something or someone else in mind? How to know the mind of God? Thorliff struggled with those questions all last summer.

  “I know the answer is to trust that God knows best. I know the Bible verses, and one would think by now that I would not struggle with such a thing as this. ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.’ ”

  Now it was Kaaren’s turn to nod. “Ja, that says it all.”

  “Saying is easier than doing.”

  The two shared the kind of smiles that only those who have gone through the muck and mire of life’s hard times together can share.