The breeze was cooler, and the shadows of the tall trees beyond the lawn began to fold over the sunshine on the grass. It was quiet now. The blackbirds had flown away.
One day I asked Patt why she was going to college. She had a good job: checking out food in the Ortonville grocery store. When she was paid, she’d always buy us something. We have lettuce even in winter now; before that, it was only cabbage, picked from our garden and stored down in the cellar. Sometimes she brought home bananas or grapes, and once, close to Christmas, she brought a pineapple, saying it was all the way from Hawaii.
Another time, Patt carried a small brown bag with the top twisted tight. I thought it was candy. I took it from her, started to open it, but she stopped me. Then she pulled the top apart just a crack. When I looked in, I saw a horrible brown bug with skinny legs and long, thin feelers pointing at me. My stomach turned, and I tasted something icky in my mouth.
“That’s a cockroach. They come in fruit crates. Always wash fruit before you eat it.”
For a long time, I only ate apples from the trees in our garden.
When I asked Patt why she was going, she looked at me and said, “I have to go to college. When you’re my age, you do, too. I must get through college. Then I’m going to do so much—pan for gold in Alaska, look for black diamonds in the Amazon, dig up old cities in the Arabian desert!”
When she talked like that, I believed her.
Back in the house, Patt sprinkled each blouse and each skirt with water, her hand flying above them in little jerks, spreading dark blotches where the droplets hit. Then she rolled the clothes up in neat logs so they would be just right for ironing.
Patt set up the board and began ironing while Mother folded. Patt was quiet. I missed her talking. She always told stories of what she’d heard in town. And Mother didn’t hum her bits of opera, either. I could hear the clock ticking and tried to think of a question to ask, but this time I couldn’t.
So it was quiet while Mother took each blouse, laid it front down on the table, folded a little over on each side, and then, marking a place with her hand on the sleeve, folded that back, and then back again. She brought the bottom half of the blouse up and, with a fast motion, turned the blouse right side up and placed it on the growing stack, each blouse the same crisp shape.
While they worked, Mother suggested that I make a sewing kit for Patt to take with her. I brought Mother’s sewing basket from the dresser in her bedroom. Spools of different colors wound round and round its circle, and in the center a red tomato pin cushion, with its attached baby strawberry, sat spiky with needles and pins. I found an empty spool. Then I worked to find thread to match Patt’s clothes. Carefully, I wrapped a little of the thread around the spool, making sure the different colors didn’t run together. At the end, just for fun, I added a bright blue, my favorite color.
We helped Patt load the car. Father was helping Heinie bring in the last of his field corn, so John would get to drive Patt to Brookings. Bill would go along to keep John company on the return trip. Bob and I would have to stay home.
Then, when all the packing and hauling was done and we came out to give a last wave, there, between Patt and two boxes in the backseat, was Bob! I stuck out my tongue at him and he put his thumbs in his ears, grinned a silly grin, and waggled his fingers.
Mother and I stood by the house as the car went down the driveway. Just as it turned the curve near the old cottonwood tree, John gave three short beeps on the horn and I saw Patt’s hand waving out the window.
As my older siblings left the farm, I became increasingly restless. At age eleven, I’d not yet had a chance to travel. So I was excited, and more than a little nervous, when Helen invited me to visit her in Minneapolis. There, she took me to the top of the twenty-nine-story Foshay Tower, where I viewed a city for the first time, and to the famous department stores, Dayton’s and Donaldson’s. More awe-inspiring was lunch at the Chinese Palace, where I was equally enthralled by the abundance of scarlet brocade and the intricately carved chairs and tables. Less so by the chow mein and egg drop soup.
UP THE WHETSTONE RIVER, SLOWLY
The summer preceding our senior year of high school, my friend Josie and I were feeling stifled by the expectations and restrictions imposed upon us. We felt constrained by the mold we’d been placed into: good girls who excel at school.
“Let’s do something exceptional,” I told her. “Something no one will expect from us.”
“What would that be?” she replied.
We discussed possibilities. A few days later, we’d come up with a plan. On an August morning, we packed a lunch and a thermos of water and slipped out of Josie’s house to the shore of Big Stone Lake, where her family’s canoe was moored at the dock.
Our plan was to paddle to the mouth of the lake, then up the Whetstone River, where, after a few hours of easy paddling, we’d pull up, triumphant, at the Big Rock on the river near our house.
The sky was cloudless, the lake clear. As we settled into the rhythm of paddling, startled ducks flapped into the air, leaving bluish-green streaks on the water.
I began to sing, “Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream …”
“You know we aren’t rowing, right?” Josie said with a smile. Then she joined in and we sang as we paddled.
After an hour or so, the flow of water diminished. Our leisurely pace ended as we were forced to maneuver the canoe away from shallow water to avoid becoming grounded. The sun rose higher and beat down upon us. Then we came to a long tumble of rocks.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“We’ll have to carry it over the rocks,” Josie replied matter-of-factly.
But the canoe was heavy, and we had to drag it.
The river narrowed. Trees on the banks drooped over the water, but their shade offered no relief. Without sunlight, the humidity increased. Mosquitoes began to attack our ankles and arms.
There were almost no signs of civilization, only a few strands of barbed wire attached to rotting fence posts that a flood had dislodged long ago.
“How much farther is your farm?” Josie asked.
“Oh, it can’t be far,” I said, but in truth I’d never been to this part of the river and I had no idea how much farther we had to go.
Even though Josie must have found this information unsettling, she didn’t complain or blame me. We both had thought this was a great idea. We continued on. Now we were pulling the canoe more often than paddling it. Our feet became scratched from the rocks; our arms began to turn red.
Then, around a curve, we were dismayed to see a large oak toppled across the river. There was no way we could lift the canoe over the tree’s trunk and its tangled branches.
“What do we do now?” we asked in unison.
“I think we have to give up,” Josie said.
“Oh no! My brothers will laugh at us!”
“And how will I get the canoe back before my father comes home from work?” Josie said.
Dispiritedly, we dragged the canoe up onto the bank and placed it on a relatively flat spot.
“Okay, I’ll lead the way,” I said.
With Josie following me, I struggled through weeds and around bushes. Eyes ever alert for poison ivy, we trudged on.
As soon as we reached the spot on the river where the white bridge had once stood, we heard Coal’s excited yipping. By the time we reached the cool shade of the cottonwood tree at the beginning of the drive, he was already there, with his wet nose and wagging tail, to greet us. We’d made it.
When we entered the kitchen after what seemed like hours, we probably looked like amateur explorers who’d been lost and just staggered out of a jungle. I know we looked really bad, because my brothers held their teasing in check.
“We need help,” I told them. And then, as best I could, I described where we’d abandoned the canoe. Bill and Bob hitched a trailer to the Ford tractor. They drove to the neighbor’s, and while Bill drove along the edge of the field, Bob walke
d on the slope of the bank so he could view the river’s edge. When he spied the canoe, the two of them hauled it to the top and secured it with rope to the trailer.
When they returned to our yard, Bill yelled at me, “Get in the car! Follow us to town.”
With Josie as passenger, I drove our car behind the tractor and its unusual load to Josie’s.
On the way, Josie turned to me and said, “Canoeing up the river wasn’t a good idea.”
“Correction,” I replied. “It was just plain dumb.”
When school began a few days later, I wrote about the episode and titled it “Canoodling Up the River.” My English teacher gave me an A plus.
That wasn’t the first time I’d made a foolish decision. There had been the previous winter, when my friend Flo and I had responded to Dick Bonn’s request. He was the star athlete at our high school, and my first crush. He had a job delivering milk to the families in town before school each morning, but he had to be away for a week because of a basketball tournament. He’d already asked his boss for time off a few times before.
“I think I’ll lose my job if I ask again,” he told Flo and me. “And I need the money. Will the two of you fill in for me?”
We couldn’t resist the offer. Flo devised a reason to tell her parents why she had to stay with me that week, and I came up with one for mine. Dick told us where to pick up the milk and scribbled out a list of customers.
The night before our first run, Flo and I planned. Then we looked at each other in dismay. After we’d factored in the time it would take to drive from my place to town, pick up the milk, and deliver it, all before eight, we realized we’d have to get up at three-thirty in the morning!
When we set out on that first cold, dark morning, I felt that same eerie sensation I’d had as a little girl when all of us piled into the car to go to Mass while the stars were still bright in the sky.
I’d driven my father’s two-ton truck plenty of times before, so I became the designated driver. This open-sided milk truck took a little getting used to because it was top-heavy. By the third day, we’d found our rhythm. I’d pull up to a house and keep the motor idling while Flo grabbed the wire carrier, hopped down, dashed to the doorstep, dropped off the milk, grabbed the empty bottles, ran back, and slid into the truck. Then I’d shift gears and let up on the clutch, and off we’d go to the next home.
On the fourth morning when we stepped out of my house, Flo and I saw that everything was coated in ice. I had to drive much more slowly. Flo couldn’t dash but instead had to place each foot just so—these were glass bottles she was carrying.
As we approached the last house on our route, we were congratulating ourselves on having had no accidents, no broken bottles, until, that is, we remembered the dog. The house sat on a steep slope, with twenty or so steps leading up to the front door. This dog didn’t just have a threatening bark—it bit! On the first days, Flo had enough time before the dog could reach her to dash through the snow. That was faster than going down the steps. But that day, as everything was covered in ice, running was out of the question. In the truck, we considered our problem and made a mutual decision. The Hansens didn’t get their milk that morning.
THE SOCIAL WORKER
Being the youngest (and a girl) was definitely a disadvantage. Once my sisters had left, I was the perfect target for my brothers—verbally and physically. John is honest. He tells with pride how he hit a bull’s eye on a running target with his slingshot. That target was me. I still remember the surprise of his ambush and the sting of that stone on my shoulder.
I’ve always hated being labeled as the “baby of the family.” I still wear that mantle. Milestone ages for others have been celebrated with fanfare—fifty, sixty, seventy. But when I reached those birthdays, honoring those years had become a ho-hum affair.
But long before that, when I returned to the farm on college breaks, my lowly spot proved to be a gift. There were times then when I had Mother all to myself. I’d help her with the chores, and then, because her workload had lessened, she’d feel free to take a break.
“Let’s go for a ride,” I’d say.
“Oh, that sounds nice,” she’d reply.
My mother never learned to drive. Doing so, with those first automobiles, required a balletic set of movements—juggling the choke, the gas, the gears, and, of course, the brakes, all at the same time. My mother wanted to drive, but when, during her first lesson with my father, she backed into a field and leveled a portion of the oats crop, she never tried again.
Happy with my invitation, my mother would change her dress and put on a dab of lipstick, and the two of us would climb into our ’49 Ford. Off we’d go. My father would be in the yard, making repairs to some farm machine. Now my mother was the one going to town! With a smile, she’d wave goodbye to him as I accelerated toward the cottonwood tree and the turn up the hill.
We headed to Ortonville, parked, and walked by Mamee’s, a small dress shop. The owner carried the latest fashions. We paused for a few moments to admire the styles in the windows. Then we continued on to Penney’s, where we browsed the aisles. Depending on the season, I may have taken time to search for a formal dress to wear to a campus ball.
The prices were right. One time I found an amazing evening dress that I could afford. Only three dollars! A sapphire-blue satin sheath with spaghetti straps and a chiffon top of the same color to cover up, for that time, too much bare skin. I wish I’d kept that dress.
After that, we walked to the café on the next block and ordered coffee and cookies. Cookies someone else had baked—a pleasure for my mother.
I know that I did more than my share of talking, confiding in my mother, voicing my concern over this or that. I seem always to have been the worrying type. I tell myself that if I worry enough about something, it won’t happen. In my experience, it’s what I don’t anticipate that turns out to be the most damaging.
A few times, when circumstances allowed us to be away from the farm for a substantial amount of time, we drove up the Minnesota side of Big Stone Lake on a narrow, twisty, tarred road that ridged the side of the cliff. The lack of a shoulder made the long drop to the rocky shore below all too apparent. I had to be alert for oncoming cars and trucks rounding the curves. But Mother was free to enjoy glimpses of the lake between tall evergreens and oaks. With the windows down, we breathed in the scent of the trees and heard the water lapping against the shore.
It was a point in her life when my mother finally had time to reflect, and I was there to listen, and so it was that I heard the story of the inspection.
Mother had been working in the kitchen when she heard a knock. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see a stranger—a stern-looking woman wearing a suit, hat, and gloves and carrying a satchel.
“I’d like to come in,” the woman said, even before she’d introduced herself.
Mother was mortified. The kitchen was steamy and smelly from the weekly chore of doing the laundry. She didn’t want anyone to see her home looking this way, certainly not a stranger. But she had no choice.
“Please come in,” she said.
“I understand you have a child here who is not normal.”
My mother was shocked; she could only nod her head.
“Well, I’m from the county. I’m here to check your home,” she said.
And before my mother had time to react, the woman strode through the kitchen and into the dining room.
A triumphant “Aha!” was followed by “Well, here’s the poor creature!”
My mother was unable to speak. The woman pulled a sheaf of papers from her satchel and began to ask questions. “How often do you feed her? What do you feed her?”
After three or four of these kinds of questions, Mother outlined the care she gave Dorothy every day.
“Well,” the woman said, “we may have to remove her.”
With that, my mother took over. She spoke in short, clipped sentences. Not her way at all.
“Th
at’s it! I give Dorothy the best care. You will never take her. No one will ever take her from me! Dorothy is staying right here!”
And then, for the first and only time, my mother escorted a visitor to the door without offering a cup of coffee.
It was not that day but during that same period of time that she told me something that happened years later. This, too, must have been haunting her all those years.
“The sisters asked us to come up,” she said. “Dorothy was crying out, obviously in great pain. Her screams were disturbing patients on another floor. The nuns said they could no longer keep her. We told them we couldn’t take her back. Roy couldn’t work if he wasn’t able to sleep. And, she continued, “All of you needed your rest, or you wouldn’t be able to do your schoolwork. We were so grateful when they found a place for her. Even if it was in the basement.”
My parents became accustomed to saying goodbye, though perhaps the finality of that gesture reminded my mother of the pain of saying goodbye to Dorothy.
In turn, John, Bill, and Bob set out. My mother baked and packed cookies to send to South Korea, where John was stationed as a helicopter pilot. The armistice had been declared, but bombs were still exploding where his battalion was located. She did the same for Bill, though she probably didn’t worry quite as much. He was stationed in Germany, on a familiar continent, and with adequate supplies of all necessities.
Bob stayed closer to home—Minnesota, North Dakota, Indiana—and thus was able to visit my parents more often. He’d call before his arrival, alerting my mother that he’d be there in time for the evening meal.
And then I, the youngest, left.
THE NIGHT THE BARN BURNED
It took less than a minute from the scratch of the match, its first leap of flame, to follow the rough splatter of gasoline through bits and pieces of dried alfalfa across the floor to the remaining store of last summer’s hay, there to explode, making a huge ball of fire and with it enough light to announce its awful presence.
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