A Season of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  The narrow road opened out into a broad yard. The house, the barns, the sheds—nothing was painted. The buildings were all bare, gray, weathered wood.

  A woman stepped out of the house onto the porch. Two boys and a small girl came running out behind her. “Leif! Knute!” Laughing, they greeted their classmates.

  A grizzled fellow came out of one of the sheds. He sported a full beard that had a few gray strands in it. His face and hands were weathered from long years outdoors.

  Rune slid down off the wagon and crossed the yard to meet him. Rune extended his hand. “Rune Carlson. You are Mr. Edmonds?”

  The fellow did not offer to shake. He spoke Norwegian, but with a heavy American accent. It was clearly not his first language. “You’re Einar Strand’s ilk, right?”

  Whatever Rune was going to say stopped halfway to his mouth. He stiffened and drew himself up straighter. “I am Einar Strand’s kin, yes. But my family and I are not his ilk. We treasure neighbors, we care about others, and we’re honest.”

  Mr. Edmonds stared at him. Rune held his eye. After a long moment, Mr. Edmonds nodded slightly. “I guess you’ll do. What brings you?”

  “Something went over a sturdy fence in our barnyard and carried off a large feeder pig. Snatched it right out of the sty. I’m told you know the local wildlife, and I’d like to learn more about it.”

  “You want to learn more about the wildlife.” Mr. Edmonds stood there looking thoughtful, so Rune forced himself to wait patiently. Finally he turned and headed back toward the shed. “Come.”

  Rune and the boys followed. What a sad legacy Einar had left behind, that no one liked him. No one. He was despised, without honor.

  They entered the shed. Mr. Edmonds struck a match and lit a lantern. “I’m a trapper and hunter. I make good money selling hides and furs.”

  “Oh, wow!” Bjorn stared around the shed.

  Rune was staring too. Long poles stretched shoulder-high from one side of the shed to the other. Over them were draped bear skins, deer skins, raccoon skins, and animal hides Rune could not identify.

  “This is probably your culprit.” Mr. Edmonds swatted the draped hide of a fawn-colored animal six feet long, with a long cat-like tail. “Puma. Cougar. Out west they call them mountain lions. This cat can clear a tall fence in a jump, and can do it while carrying a pretty big animal in its mouth.”

  Bjorn pointed to another wall. “Are these furs you will sell?”

  The wall held rows and rows of narrow shelves with strange boards propped on them. The bottoms of the boards were flat, but the tops came to a blunt, rounded point, like a bullet. Every board was covered with an animal skin stretched tight around it, the fur inside. Rune could see the dimples where the legs were.

  “Ja, they are. Muskrat here, mink—don’t find many of them anymore. Pine martens—these right here—are common, though. Hardly any wolverines, like this one, but bobcats. Plenty of bobcats. And weasels. We still have weasels.”

  Rune was disappointed that the fur was on the inside; all he could see was the ruffled fur on the edges, the mink very dark, the muskrats lighter.

  “The round pelts on this wall are beavers. You stretch beaver pelts out round. They still use them for men’s high hats.”

  Rune laid a hand on a bear skin, mostly to feel what the fur was like. It was long and coarse and rather stiff, with a soft underfur. “Would a bear take a pig?”

  “They climb trees in a heartbeat, scurry right up, but not over a fence, and usually not with a heavy load in their mouth.”

  “Wolves?”

  Mr. Edmond shook his head. “I don’t have any wolf pelts left. Sold them all. Hardly any wolves around anymore. A few up north, I hear, but I do most of my trapping locally.”

  Knute was just as wide-eyed as the others. “You mean you get muskrats and mink out of that lake where we went fishing?”

  “Ja, that one and a few other small ponds close by.”

  Ivar moved from hide to hide, studying them and gazing wistfully around the shed. “When I came to America, I was going to be a logger. Or a farmer. But now, looking at this, I want to be a trapper.”

  Bjorn nodded. “Ja, so do I.”

  Mr. Edmonds sniffed. “Well, I advise not. There’s not enough animals to trap anymore. You wouldn’t make a decent living, especially just getting started. You should have seen my sheds ten years ago—three, four times as many pelts as you see here. The place is too civilized now, the whole area. Clear-cut. These animals don’t do well on farmland. They’re forest creatures.”

  Ivar snickered. “I know a puma that’s doing pretty well. It eats fresh pork.”

  Mr. Edmonds laughed. “Ja, but you won’t get much money for his hide. Not much market for big cats. There used to be thousands of fur animals. The mink and sable bring high prices, but they’re rare now. I haven’t seen a sable in years.”

  “What’s a sable, sir?” Leif asked.

  “Dark chocolate brown, very dark. About this long, over twice the size of a mink or marten, but the same family. They look like really large mink. And their fur is amazingly soft and thick. Know what I sell most of? Skunks. Skunks and rabbits. Women like their black skunk coats and stoles. Of course, skunks with narrow white stripes sell better than skunks with broad white stripes, because the furriers use the black mostly.” He blew out his lantern, so Rune led the way out into sunlight.

  “Thanks to Knute, we’ve got lots of rabbit skins.” Leif nodded. “All on the barn wall.”

  “Really? You could sell them, you know. I could show you how to get ’em ready.”

  “You would?” Knute asked, eyes wide.

  “Of course. That’s what neighbors do.” He nodded at Knute. “You come back one day after school, bring a couple with you.”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.” Knute’s eyes shone. “I trap rabbits for us to eat. We planned to make mittens out of the skins, not sell them.”

  Mr. Edmonds stopped in the middle of his yard. “I forgot to show you a lynx, a cat bigger than a bobcat but stub-tailed like a bobcat. I still have one lynx pelt left. Lynx could probably steal your pig; they’ll even take down a small deer. But there’s hardly any of those left either. Farmers will shoot a lynx on sight because they have a taste for lambs and calves.” He led them up onto the porch and into his house. “Mabel, we got company.”

  They entered the kitchen.

  “Figured. Coffee’s made.” Mrs. Edmonds’s brown hair dropped in a long heavy braid down her back. She looked humorless and stern, almost haggard.

  Rune almost gasped out loud, because she had only one hand. Her right hand was gone, and her right wrist was a round stub.

  With her left hand and that stub end, she picked up a large cookie jar and plunked it down on the table, no differently than if Signe with her two hands had moved it. “Have a seat. You youngsters get your cookies and go back outside.” The Edmonds children grabbed a treat and ran, so Leif and Knute followed.

  Bjorn licked his lips. “Ma’am, may I stay here and listen?”

  She looked at him and almost smiled. “Ja, you may.”

  “And may I too?” Ivar asked.

  “Ja. You boys are looking to become mighty hunters, I’ll wager.” Her Norwegian flowed more naturally, and Rune figured he knew where Mr. Edmonds had learned his. She poured coffee for Rune, Mr. Edmonds, and herself, then sat down and dipped into the jar for her own cookie.

  Bjorn glanced at his far, almost guiltily. Yes, that was exactly what he was thinking. Rune could tell.

  Mr. Edmonds took a bite of cookie. “I make most of my income now from fishing. Pickerel and pike, trout, walleye, whitefish. People will even buy sunfish, would you believe it? Lakes full of fish, and they buy them in a store.”

  Rune sipped his coffee. Mrs. Edmonds made good, strong coffee. “Bjorn and Ivar here are talking about keeping watch from our haymow and shooting the pig thief the next time it shows up.”

  Mr. Edmonds nodded slowly. “Might work. Got a dog?” />
  “Yes, sir,” Bjorn said. “His barking is what woke us. We’d keep him inside, though, at night. Would that puma take a dog?”

  “Sure would. But people don’t like the taste of predators. Cats especially. So if you get that puma, bring him to me, will you? I have a few places to sell the hide. The flesh is next to useless except to feed dogs.”

  The boys beamed as though he’d given them a hundred dollars.

  Rune studied his coffee for a few moments. “You say the animals are becoming rare. I see the big trees becoming rare too; so many mature forests are being logged off.” And he was having second thoughts about logging the trees left on his property and Gerd’s.

  “True. My parents came up from Ohio for exactly that reason. The forests there were all turning into farmland. We were the first white farmers in this area. Now it is happening here.”

  “I understand the value of farmland. Still, there is a great sadness to it.”

  Mr. Edmonds smiled. “Mr. Carlson, indeed you are not like Einar Strand. Not at all. I hope we become good friends.”

  The boys could have raced the horses on the way home. Bjorn clucked the team into a trot, still shaking his head. “I want to talk with him again. Just think, he offered to help Knute with all those rabbit skins.”

  “I’m not sure the oldest ones are still any good, but we will see,” Rune said. “You just never know what good thing God is going to bring your way. The Garborgs took you boys fishing. Mr. Edmonds wants the puma.”

  “If he comes back, we will get him. I wonder what one would do with a puma skin?”

  Rune shrugged. “Make a rug, I guess. There are bear rugs, and all kinds of animal hides are used for clothes and furniture, rugs, you name it.”

  “I want a bear hide rug on our parlor floor.”

  “Or by your bed,” Ivar suggested. “Or on your bed. Might smell some, though.”

  “Far, we could use the steer hide for making a chair. Farfar had a leather chair, but one with the hair still on it, that would be really fine. Maybe we could use the hog hides too. And we got those deer hides. I need to learn to tan hides.” Bjorn shook his head. “So much I never thought of.”

  When his son mentioned Farfar, Rune’s heart wept a little. Thor, gone. He snapped himself out of it and slapped his son on the shoulder. “You have a whole life ahead, son. I’m glad to see you thinking on new things. Ja, who would have thought of all this?” A sigh slipped by him. What would Thor Carlson say about my fading eyesight? I wonder, will I be able to tan hides when I am blind?

  Chapter

  9

  I can’t go to a social like that,” Nilda said with a deep sigh.

  “Whyever not?” Signe sometimes wondered about Nilda’s ideas.

  “You haven’t seen her house, the way she dresses. Mrs. Schoenleber has a staff, not just household help. Meaning a cook, maid, butler, and driver, and those are just the ones I know of. She is very wealthy, and from what I’ve heard, quite the society matron.”

  “So? She obviously likes you and Ivar and made a special point to invite you, sending a private messenger, even.” Signe went back to pulling rutabagas. She broke off the tops, tossed the tubers in the wheelbarrow, and left the tops in the row. “We should have dug these when the ground was wetter so the dirt clung better.” She looked around the fading garden, shaking her head. “We should make it bigger next year. It will take some work to fill that bin. And we need more jars to can these.” She studied Nilda. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have anything fit to wear.”

  “Oh. You have your dark skirt and—”

  “And the one waist I have is looking worn. The lace is even falling apart.”

  “So we mend it very carefully.”

  “Signe! You know what I mean.”

  “Ja, I do, and I have nothing suitable you can wear either. We can brush the skirt and make it presentable but . . .” She rocked back on her heels, ignoring the dirt stuck to her apron. “I-I wonder if Gerd could sew you one? After all, you have more than a week.” She stood and shook out her apron, brushing more dirt off the faded shift that hung below it. “And if she can sew you one, does Mrs. Benson carry finer fabrics there, or only flannels and such? I’ve not looked through her fabrics much.”

  “You really think we can do that?” Nilda reached down to grab Kirstin before she stuck a fistful of dirt in her mouth. “No, baby, you don’t want to eat that. Ishta.” She brushed Kirstin’s hands together to get the dirt off and earned giggles and reaching fingers. “You sure do like playing in the dirty wagon.” They had set some rocks and pine cones inside for her to play with, but everything went in her mouth. “You need a bath.”

  Signe grabbed the barrow handles and pushed the load of rutabagas up to the cellar door. “Uff da, that was heavy.” She wiped her brow with her apron. “Here I thought it was cooling off.”

  “Mrs. Benson called this Indian Summer, one frost and then a few weeks of days like this. She said winter will probably come one night when we least expect it.” She untangled baby fingers from the hair that had escaped her bun. “I should know better than to leave my hair unbraided. I’ll be right back to help you, as soon as Gerd agrees to set her in the sink and bathe her.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a bath myself. Remember the creek at home where we went to clean up in the summer? Not that the water ever got warm, but it sure left us clean.”

  “The boys talked about digging a spot in the creek out in the woods to swim in, but there just hasn’t been time.”

  Signe pushed the wheelbarrow over the lip and down the ramp to the earthen floor of the cellar. Wheeling it to the bin set aside for this crop, she dumped the barrow on the mound already started and spread them out by hand, being careful not to step on any. One more layer, and she’d cover it with dirt and start the next. Then they only had carrots and potatoes to go.

  Even in the dimness of the cellar, the shelves of canned goods seemed to glow. So much work, but the thrill of seeing the results like this made up for the hours. Her family would not go hungry this winter. And to think, Rune’s mor would soon be here to see this. It would mean more mouths to feed, but they were ready for that.

  She pushed the wheelbarrow back up the ramp and out into the sunshine. Mashed rutabagas sounded good for supper. I wonder if grated rutabaga could be substituted for potatoes for pancakes? She snagged a basket off the porch and went back to the garden for more rutabagas for the house. It had been a while since she’d tried something new like this. But then, perhaps it was not new at all.

  Gerd had Kirstin in the sink, splashing water all over, her giggles making Gerd laugh too.

  “I never thought I would hear you laugh like that.” The words slipped out before Signe could catch them.

  Gerd sobered some and nodded. “Nor did I.” Turning back to the baby, she splashed water up on her belly.

  Nilda and Signe grinned at each other. The whole kitchen laughed with them.

  Gerd wrapped Kirstin in a sheet and drained the water. “Now we have a sweet-smelling baby who needs a diaper and a shift so she can get down on the floor and get all dirty again.” She carried Kirstin off to be dressed.

  Signe asked, “Nilda? Can you beat those eggs and add the cream for the squash pie? These crusts are about ready.” She had two pie pans lined with crust and one waiting. Within minutes the pies were in the oven, more wood was in the stove, and the coffeepot had been pulled forward.

  “Good thing the boys will be home any minute. The woodbox is calling,” Signe said.

  “Let’s take the little princess out on the porch and have our coffee out there. Everyone says there might not be many more times we get to do that this fall.” Nilda set cookies on a plate, poured glasses of milk for the boys to go along with chunks of corn bread and jam, and set the tray on the porch table. Gerd and Kirstin sank into the rocker. When Rufus leaped off the porch and tore down the lane, they knew the boys were home.

  “He’s be
tter than an alarm bell.” Nilda settled on the floor against the porch post, while Signe took the bench and leaned her back against the wall. Sighs and sips signaled their contentment.

  “Are they out in the woods?” Knute called as he pulled Rosie to a stop for Leif to slide off.

  “No, over at the house,” Signe said. “Food is ready for you.”

  “Now, let’s talk about the waist you want.” Gerd rocked gently, Kirstin nodding off against her shoulder. “I can do the machine sewing, but I don’t have any fabrics like that, and the one waist I do have would never fit you.”

  “But does Mrs. Benson have the materials and a pattern?” Nilda tipped her head back against the post. “What if I rode Rosie to Benson’s right now, hopefully to return with all we need?” She looked at Gerd. “Do you really think we can do this? It’s not like this is necessary.”

  Gerd and Signe both nodded.

  Nilda stood. “I’ll get Rosie. Do we need anything else from the store?”

  Supper was on the table when Nilda returned. “She had lawn and a pattern.” She held up a brown wrapped package.

  “Lace?” asked Gerd.

  “Not enough, so she’ll order it. She said she could send it home with the boys in a couple of days. We can at least get started.”

  “All this because you want to look—” Ivar cut off his comment at a look from Rune.

  Nilda finished it for him. “Acceptable? Yes.”

  The next morning Signe laid Nilda’s worn waist on the table with the pattern and compared the two. “I hope you bought plenty of lawn. All these tucks down the front . . . I’ve never done something this intricate. What about you, Gerd?”

  “Nei, but I can learn. I know how to do tucks. They’re easy on the sewing machine. It’s going to need a lot of ironing as we go. The flatirons are in the trunk. I haven’t used them in a long time. You need to make sure there is no rust on them.” She smoothed the pattern out, all the while shaking her head.

  Signe held Kirstin on her hip. Could this really happen?

  Life went on around her while Gerd studied the finished waist, the pattern, the cut pieces of lawn, and the instructions. Day three, she needed the lace. The boys brought it home after school, along with a letter from Norway.