A Season of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Stop. Try this.” Miss Walstead handed her another book, a thinner one. “Page twenty-six. First read the ten vocabulary words there.”

  Nilda turned to the page. Who would guess that this word was “night”? It looked nothing like it sounded. And “eyes” was just as mysterious. “‘What bird is this? It is an owl. What big eyes it has. Yes, but it cannot see well by day. The owl can see best at night. Nat Pond has a pet owl.’”

  “Excellent! Nilda, you are a very quick learner. Next page.”

  Thanks to Mr. Larsson, Nilda stumbled along, swallowing the fear that tried to choke her off.

  “All right, good. Now I know where we need to start.” Miss Walstead drew two books from her satchel and handed one to Nilda. “We will begin on page twenty. I will expect you to read the pages leading up to twenty when you get better at English. Don’t worry about it now. Let us go down the lists, reading together.”

  Nilda was deeply thankful when Miss Walstead said, “I think we will stop for tea.” She reached behind her and pulled the cord to call the kitchen. After ordering tea, she stood and stretched. “We must remember to move the body more too. When you do that, your mind works better also.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Stella backed her way in with a tray. “Cook figured you would be ready about now.” She set the tray on the low table between the chairs. “Mrs. Schoenleber said to remind you that the dressmaker will be here in an hour. And, Miss Walstead, she said to remind you that the invitation to dinner still stands.”

  “Tell Gertrude that I will be delighted to stay for dinner, if I may keep working with Nilda at the same time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Walstead poured tea and handed Nilda a delicate cup. “What are you drinking, Nilda?”

  “I am drinking tea.”

  “Would you like sugar?” Miss Walstead gestured with the sugar bowl.

  “Yes, I would like sugar. Takk. I mean, thank you.”

  And so they went.

  Some time later, Charles knocked at the door and announced, “Mrs. Jones is here.”

  “Fine, we will move to the sewing room.” Miss Walstead set her book down. “Do you know where the sewing room is?”

  Nilda shook her head. “I am confused.” That was a word she knew well now.

  “Come along.”

  The English lessons continued as Mrs. Jones measured Nilda and showed her and Mrs. Schoenleber fabric samples and pictures of garments. Everyone spoke English. I am confused became the cause of many grins.

  “Are you sure?” Nilda gestured to all the paraphernalia. “I mean . . .” She sucked in a breath. “All this?”

  Mrs. Jones smiled. “Be grateful she is not insisting you wear a corset.”

  Nilda motioned to the garment of torture laid over the back of a chair. “Corset?” She rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, but I have not entirely decided against it. Just the overly tight lacing of it.” Mrs. Schoenleber motioned pulling the strings.

  “She is well muscled with not an ounce of fat,” Mrs. Jones said. “But with a ball gown, it might be wise.”

  Nilda blinked, trying to follow the conversation.

  “Speak slowly,” Miss Walstead admonished the seamstress. “I think today has about overwhelmed her.”

  “You are probably right. If I were learning another language in a rush course like this, I would be overwhelmed.”

  “Overwhelmed.” Nilda stumbled on the word. Miss Walstead explained it.

  Supper was more of the same, so when Nilda went to bed and picked up her textbook to study some more, she fell asleep with the book on her chest. When it hit the floor during the night, she woke enough to pick it up and place it on the nightstand. So much for extra study time.

  The next morning after breakfast, Mrs. Schoenleber had Nilda copy the invitation she had prepared for the social coming up in two weeks. She studied the copy when Nilda finished, nodding. “Good. Now, here is the list of names and addresses of those who attended last time and others recommended by those same people.”

  Nilda glanced down the list, her gaze stopping at the name most dreaded. Dreng Nygaard. She had hoped he’d left town. Should she tell Mrs. Schoenleber about his reputation in Norway or not?

  Chapter

  16

  The temperature dropped, staying below freezing.

  “We start butchering tomorrow,” Rune announced at breakfast on Tuesday. “We’ll sort the hogs and put four in a separate pen. That’s about what we can do in one day.”

  “But we have to go to school.” Knute stared at his far.

  “There’s plenty to do. We’ve sold three butchered hogs, so we’ll do them first. It’s cold enough to hang them in the machine shed. Good thing we got doors put on that so the meat is safe from wild animals.” Rune looked at Signe. “How about sending a note to Mr. Benson to put on the board, that we have butchered hogs for sale? We should have done that earlier.”

  “I will.”

  “We have three and a half sold, right?” Knute asked. “So we keep half of one?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we will brine the hindquarter, but what about the shoulder?”

  Rune looked to Gerd and Signe. “We can do both and the bacon. It might be good to grind some for sausage and smoke that too.”

  “I’d rather make sausage patties and put them in a crock,” Gerd suggested, then shrugged. “So many choices and all good. The pig for the Bensons will pay off our bill there, not that we’ve run up much lately.” She heaved a sigh. “The cost of feed was most of what we owe.”

  “I’ve been thinking on another idea,” Rune said. “We could increase the size of the smokehouse and besides our own, smoke for some of the people in town. I know Reverend Skarstead talked about buying half a hog, but he has no way to smoke it himself.”

  “What would you do for wood?” Signe asked.

  “You’d have to find more hardwoods. Pine is not good.” Gerd leaned forward. “Come on, Kirstin, walk over here.” She patted her hands together and held them out. “You can make it.”

  Kirstin was standing at her mor’s knees. She bobbed up and down, took one step, and bobbed some more. She waved her free hand at Gerd, took one more step, then plopped down on her rear and crawled the two feet to Gerd’s knees.

  “Now walk to me.” Leif dropped to his knees and held his hands toward her.

  The others all watched, almost holding their collective breath.

  “Come on,” Leif urged.

  Keeping her eyes on him, Kirstin took one step, then let go of Gerd and took another before falling into his hands.

  “You did it.” He waved her hands in the air. “You took a real step!” He picked her up and swung her around, making her shriek with laughter. “Kirstin walked all by herself.”

  “We better get over to our house,” Bjorn said when he came through the door. “I hitched Rosie to the cart.” Rune had sent him over to stoke the stove so the house would be warm.

  “Good thinking. Thank you, son.” Rune held Signe’s coat for her, and Bjorn held Gerd’s. With Kirstin wrapped in a quilt, they all scrambled into the cart, and Rosie trotted them over to the new house. Then Bjorn drove her back to the barn.

  After the boys went up to bed and Gerd had taken Kirstin to her room and shut the door, Rune banked the fire so he and Signe could climb the stairs to their room.

  “I’m going to plant posts in a line from the barn to this house for when the blizzards come. We need to do it before the ground freezes solid.” Rune hooked his shirt and pants over the pegs in the wall. “It would sure be handy if these houses were closer together. I’ve thought more than once about moving that one, like you said.”

  “But what about the cellar?” Signe snuggled closer to him, laying her arm across his chest.

  “I know. We’ll see how we do this winter. At least the posts will be in place, though that will take a lot of rope.” He rolled over and kissed her. “I like having our own room.”
>
  She kissed his chin. “Me too.”

  While the boys did their chores the next morning, Rune, Ivar, and Bjorn set up the tank for scalding the hogs and started the fire underneath it. Hauling the water in cream cans from the pump took more time, but all was heating when they headed to the old house for breakfast.

  “You two better leave a bit early to stop at Benson’s,” Rune told the younger boys. “Tell Joe his hog will be ready for him on Monday.”

  “It seems strange without Nilda here. Not that she’s been gone long.” Gerd set the platter of fried eggs on the table. “The thought of bacon again makes my mouth water.”

  “I want corn bread with cracklings in it.” Signe flipped the pancakes on the griddle. She smiled at Leif and Knute. “Your dinner pails are ready. Make sure you take a blanket along for Rosie.” Signe set more pancakes on the table and checked the batter. Gunlaug was busy feeding Kirstin, who liked pancakes with syrup. Since Signe was weaning her, nursing only once or twice a day, the baby had more interest in solid food. “Just think, Kirstin will be one year old next week.”

  “Will she have a birthday cake?” Leif asked as he shrugged into his coat.

  “We might be able to work that out.” Gerd turned over the eggs for the women. “She likes sweet things.”

  “Ja, like pancakes.” Gunlaug wiped Kirstin’s face and hands. “You’re wearing almost as much as you ate.”

  “As soon as that water is hot enough, we can start.”

  “Should we make brokrub?” Gunlaug asked.

  Rune rubbed his hands together. “You grate the potatoes, we’ll save the blood.”

  Gunlaug looked wistful. “I haven’t had that for far too long. Remember when we used to make big batches for all the families? Since Thor didn’t want to raise hogs any more, we only had it when we butchered a steer. All the meat we have here . . .” She tied the baby into her rocking chair. “But no cod.”

  “We’ll make big batches today,” Signe assured her mother-in-law. “I’ll get the grinder out. We’ll need some of the side pork too.”

  “Ja, I know.” Rune motioned the other two men ahead of him. “Bjorn, what about the rifle?”

  “I took it to the barn already.” Since they’d moved into the new house, the rifle and shotgun had gone along with them, both on hooks over the kitchen door.

  Signe brought potatoes up from the cellar and scrubbed them in the sink while Gerd attached the grinder to the edge of the counter. She flinched when she heard the two rifle shots. At least Leif was not here. The killings were hard for him. After quartering the potatoes the long way, she fed them into the grinder with one hand and turned the crank with the other. By the time Bjorn brought in the bowl of blood, the mound of salted potatoes was ready for flour and the blood. Once the ingredients were well combined, the women formed the mixture into cup-sized balls around a piece of side pork and lowered them with a wooden spoon into the pot of water simmering gently on the stove.

  “We don’t have any cheesecloth to cook them in?” Selma asked.

  “Sorry, no, but this works fine too. Some fall apart, is all,” Signe said.

  By the time they finished setting two pots to simmering, Ivar arrived with the hearts and livers in a bucket. “Far said he already rinsed them well, so leave them in cold water.”

  “Will you ready for dinner at noon?”

  “We’ll be done with the first two by then. We sure could use Nilda to help scrape.”

  “I can come if you want.” Signe reached for her coat. “Has it warmed up?”

  “Not a lot. That wind bites down to the bone. Rune and Bjorn are scraping now. He said the sale hogs will not be scraped.” He shook his head. “We can manage, unless you have nothing else to do.” He ducked the dish cloth his mor threw at him. They could hear him laughing as the door closed.

  “At least if we grind the sausage for patties, we don’t have to clean out the intestines for casings.” Signe never had appreciated that stinky task, but if they wanted smoked sausages, it had to be done. The grinder had an attachment for the casings.

  The first pot of brokrub was ready for dinner when the men trooped in, this time with the leaves of fat that would become lard after being ground and rendered.

  When Gerd took her first bite, she closed her eyes and sighed. “I thought I’d never taste this again. All of this brings back memories of when I was growing up in Norway.”

  Signe nodded. “It sounds like they were good memories.”

  “Ja, they were. My family is all gone now, or at least I think so, since I never hear from them anymore. Or maybe I just quit answering. There wasn’t a lot of good news to share from here, other than how many trees were felled.”

  Gunlaug nodded. “I heard that your mor and far are gone, but I think one of your sisters is still alive. And a brother too, surely nieces and nephews. I can ask Johann to find out, if you want.”

  Gerd stared at her. “He might be able to. I never thought of that. Or perhaps I just gave up.” She passed the bowl of brokrub around again. “I’ll think about it.”

  When the men went back out, the women took turns grinding the slabs of fat and set it in low pans in the oven. They cooked the rest of the brokrub and watched over the pans in the oven, spooning out the melted lard and pouring it into one of the smaller crocks, where it cooled and turned as white as could be. Like the canning and the garden produce, they kept the crock in the cellar. They’d grind the leftover bits of pork into sausage, make patties, and pour lard over them to preserve the meat.

  By the time the boys came home from school, three dressed carcasses were hanging in the machine shop to age for the next two or three days before they would start brining the haunches and cutting up the rest of the meat. Bjorn and Ivar were still scraping the bristles off the fourth.

  “I’m hauling the innards out to dump in the woods. Do you want to come?” Rune asked the younger boys.

  Knute slid to the ground. “I do. Should I hitch up the new team?”

  “Ja. Rosie did her work today. Get something to eat first. We’re not in a big hurry.”

  “I’ll milk.” Leif paused. “Get me a cookie too, would you, please?”

  Knute laughed and ran to the house. He turned and hollered, “Maybe even two if you’re nice.”

  “We’ll be hearing the coyotes sing tonight,” Rune announced as he sat down at the supper table that night. “They’ve got enough offal out there to feed a few of them.”

  “Just so they don’t get the idea to come near the barn.” Signe set the big bowl of brokrub in the middle of the table. “Heated in cream, just the way you like it.”

  “There will probably be more fighting than singing.” Ivar inhaled the steam rising from the bowl. “This will be even better tomorrow. That’s what Mor always says.”

  “Only because it is so.” Gunlaug took her place beside Gerd at the table.

  “Kirstin walked from Tante Gerd to me when I came in from school. You should have seen her, she was so excited.” Leif spread his arms wide. “At least this far.”

  “Leif?” Eric tugged on his sleeve.

  “What?”

  “I went to see the kittens today. Mor took me. When they get older, can we take one to Olaf and Katie? They need a kitten.”

  “You sure can, but it will be a while. Probably a month.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Thirty days.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  Listening to their conversation, Signe smiled. Eric was stringing more words together every day. She’d almost been afraid that he’d be quiet for the rest of his life. Or at least the foreseeable future. And perhaps, by the end of a month, he and Selma would be living with the Kielunds. Perhaps they needed to start planning a wedding. After all, it was bound to happen, although she hoped sooner rather than later.

  “Leif, do you have homework tonight?” she asked.

  “Not much. I got it done at school.” He looked at Selma on the other side of Eric.
“Do you want an English lesson? Eric can learn too.” His smile included Ivar. “We could have a party if someone brought cookies.”

  “I get the hint,” Tante Gerd said. “Good thing we have some made. The oven is still busy rendering lard. You boys did a good job with those pigs. Maybe we should build a bigger pig house too.”

  Rune rolled his eyes. “Keep this up, and we’ll spend all our time building instead of felling trees.”

  “Will the skis be ready for when it snows?” Gerd asked.

  Rune nodded. “I just need to attach the bindings and finish the poles.”

  Signe caught his sigh. At least this winter, Onkel Einar would not be yelling at them to hurry up. The thought was not nice but so very true.

  Chapter

  17

  I saw him,” Nilda whispered when she slipped into the pew next to Signe in church on Sunday.

  “Saw who?” Mouth open, Signe shook her head. “Not Dreng.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Dreng Nygaard, big as life.” And just as evil. He’d had the nerve to tip his hat to her and mouth I’ll get you as George drove past him, taking Nilda out to the church in Benson’s Corner. And there was a sneer in his smile. George did not seem to notice, but Dreng made sure to make eye contact with Nilda. His smile, even the tip of his hat, had sent a chill down her back.

  The organ moved into the prelude, and she forced herself to sit back and concentrate on being here, in church, safe, where Dreng wasn’t. All through the service, she had to keep jerking her mind back to the moment. Pay attention, she ordered herself repeatedly, but the vision kept popping back in. How could evil be so handsome? Wait. Didn’t the Bible say Satan disguised himself as an angel of light? How apt.

  Lord, help me. I can’t stand this.

  Just as the organ music had ushered them in, now it ushered them out as the service ended. Mr. Larsson played so beautifully, Nilda thought, he really ought to be playing for some huge church or a cathedral, not this tiny rural church. The music ended.