by Janette Oke
After Willie left I tried to get back to work in the field, but it was hard. Seeing my best friend riding off down the road, knowing that he would soon be on his way to Bible school, gave me an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Besides, Willie’s news that Camellia had already left on the train for New York without my having the chance to tell her goodbye didn’t do much to cheer me up. I had never felt so lonesome in all my life.
It wasn’t long until Willie’s first letter arrived. He was so full of excitement that he wrote pages and pages. I read it over and over, trying to get the feel of how it would be to be away from home.
I wasn’t expecting any letter from Camellia, though I would have welcomed one. I did take a bit of a walk one Sunday while the rest of the family lingered over another cup of coffee after Aunt Lou’s dinner. I went by the Foggelsons’, hoping that I might accidentally meet Camellia’s mother. It took quite a while and quite a few trips past their place, but eventually I did see her. She was watering her marigolds and I tipped my hat and greeted her like a mannerly boy was supposed to do. Then I casually asked her about Camellia.
Tears came to her eyes and she fought to control them. It frightened me. For a moment I was afraid that something dreadful had happened to Camellia, but when she spoke I realized that it was just the loneliness of a mother for her child.
She tried to smile.
“She is very excited about—about being on her own and the city and her classes and new friends.” Then she added thoughtfully, “She—she hasn’t said so, but even though she sounds cheerful, I think she has been just a bit lonesome.”
The tears came again and Mrs. Foggelson attempted to smile in spite of them.
“I hope she is,” she said wistfully, as though to herself. “I am.”
I waited for a minute and then asked the question that I had really come to ask.
“Will she be home for Christmas?”
“No. Her father decided that she needs to make the adjustment to being on her own, away from family. It’s much too far to travel, he says. I suppose he is right, but—Oh, my! How I dread the thought of Christmas without her!”
I was surprised somewhat that Mr. Foggelson, who doted on his only daughter, could consider Christmas without Camellia.
Mrs. Foggelson continued. “Mr. Foggelson needs to make a business trip east the last week of November. He will travel on to New York and take Camellia’s gifts, and check to see how she is doing. He says that’s quite enough.”
My feelings for Mr. Foggelson hit an all time low. He had always felt that Camellia was his individual possession, but how could he do this to the girl’s mother? And her friends? And how could he do it to Camellia? If she was really homesick, did he think that the sight of “dear old dad” was all she needed?
I couldn’t even speak for a few moments. The angry thoughts were churning around inside of me. I looked away from the tears in Mrs. Foggelson’s eyes and studied the distant maple tree, its bare arms empty as they reached upward against the gray autumn sky.
At last I found my voice. I even managed a smile. I guess I felt more compassion for Mrs. Foggelson at that moment than I had ever felt before. This man, her husband, had robbed her of so much—her faith, her self-esteem, and now her only child. I wondered just what kind of account he would give before God on the Judgment Day.
I smiled and touched my hat again. “I’ll keep in touch,” I promised, and then stammered, “If that’s all right.”
“I’d love to see you, Josh. I need someone to talk to, and one of Camellia’s friends would—”
She didn’t finish, but I thought I understood. And her words, “one of Camellia’s friends,” echoed in my mind as I tipped my hat again and started back down the sidewalk toward home. “Josh,” Mrs. Foggelson’s soft voice called after me.
I turned to look back at her.
“Keep praying—please,” she almost pleaded.
I nodded solemnly and swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure if she meant to pray for Camellia, or for herself, or that she would soon see Camellia again—or all three, but I’d pray. I’d pray lots and often. Living with a man like Mr. Foggelson, I felt that she really needed prayer.
I still hadn’t controlled my anger toward Mr. Foggelson by the time I reached Aunt Lou’s. I thought of walking right on by and spending some more time alone with my thoughts, but the realization that I didn’t have too long until I’d need to go home for choring prompted me to turn into the yard.
Baby Sarah had just been fed when I reentered the house. She was in a happy mood, and Aunt Lou passed her to me, knowing that I would soon be asking for her if she didn’t. She gurgled and cooed and even tried to giggle. Then she did the unforgivable. She spit up all over my Sunday shirt.
Aunt Lou jumped to run for a wet cloth, and Uncle Nat reached out to quickly rescue Sarah. I loved Sarah, but I sure did hate the feel and the smell of being spit up on. I guess I made some faces to show my disgust, and they laughed at me and ribbed me a lot.
Aunt Lou cleaned me up the best that she could, apologizing for the mess. She offered to wash my shirt, but I didn’t have anything else along to wear and I figured I ought to be man enough to put up with a little bit of baby spit-up.
The need for laundering brought our thoughts back to Uncle Charlie and his washing machine.
Uncle Nat agreed to order the machine, and Grandpa and I both felt good about that. Now laundry wouldn’t be quite so hard for Uncle Charlie—especially after my Sundays with little Sarah!
After a while I unobtrusively left the dining room and wandered down to the room that had been mine for so many years. The door was open, and it sure looked different. Aunt Lou had everything so neat and tidy, with new curtains on the window—white and frilly, not the kind of curtains a boy would have enjoyed. I had preferred my old tan ones, but these did look real nice. Little throw cushions were propped up against the pillows, too. I would have found them to be a nuisance.
I stood there for a few minutes looking around me and thinking back over the years; then I reached out with a toe and pushed the door shut. I knelt by the bed. “Father,” I began, “you know how I feel about Camellia, and how sorry I am for Mrs. Foggelson. Well, I’m too angry right now to pray for Mr. Foggelson, but I do want to ask you to take care of Camellia and bring her into a relationship with Jesus… .”
As I prayed for Camellia and her mother, my anger began to subside, and I began to realize how wrong my own attitude had been.
“Lord, Mr. Foggelson is a possessive and selfish man, and he’s done some terrible things to his family. But I guess he needs you about as much as anyone I know. Help him find you too, Lord—and help me forgive him.”
By the time I finished praying, I could think of the Foggelsons without feeling that turmoil of anger inside.
I rose and left the room, peeking into Aunt Lou and Uncle Nat’s bedroom, where little Sarah now slept peacefully in her crib. She looked sweet, one little hand clutching the edge of her blanket and the other curled up into a tiny fist by her cheek. Her soft lashes against the pinkness of her skin looked so long and thick. Her hair, a little damp, curled closely to her tiny round head. It was getting lighter in color all the time; eventually it might be the same color as Aunt Lou’s.
I reached down and smoothed out her blankets, then stroked the top of her head. She didn’t even move. When Sarah slept, she really slept. Aunt Lou was thankful for that. There were many interruptions in the parsonage, and if the child had been a light sleeper, she might have never gotten a decent rest.
I heard stirring in the kitchen then and I knew that Grandpa and Uncle Charlie were preparing to leave for home. I whispered a few words to the sleeping baby and went out to get the team while they said their goodbyes.
CHAPTER 9
Winter
I WAS KEPT SO BUSY that fall that I scarcely had time to miss Willie and Camellia. It seemed that I should have been in about three places at one time. There was so much to do, and only Grandpa a
nd I to do the farming.
Grandpa had slowed down a lot, too. I hadn’t realized until I was working with him just how difficult it was for him to put in a full day’s work at the farm. I should have never left them alone while I went to school in town; I should have been there sharing in the responsibility. Maybe then things wouldn’t have gotten so far behind.
But inwardly I knew that they never would have agreed to my staying at home. Even now, comments were made about my “calling” and I was reminded that I was not to hesitate when I felt God was prodding me on to what I “really should be doing” with my life.
I asked myself fairly frequently if I felt Him prodding, but I also found myself bargaining with Him.
“Can I wait, Lord, until I get the pasture fence mended?” I’d pray. “God, would you give me enough time to get in the crop?” And each time I asked His permission, I felt like I got His nod of approval.
Uncle Charlie’s washing machine arrived in mid-October. I hadn’t realized how much it meant to him until I watched him grinning as he uncrated it. He stroked the wringer lovingly, then gave it a few cranks and grinned some more. It was going to be a good investment.
The weather didn’t cooperate that fall. The fields would dry just enough for us to get back at the harvest; we’d work a few hours, and then another storm would pass through, delaying us again. In my frustration I would go to fence-mending or repairing the barn or cutting wood for our winter supply.
I went to bed worn out every night and slept soundly until morning. Then I got up, checking the sky for the day’s weather before I even had my clothes on, and started in on another full day.
It was late November before the district threshing crew moved in for the last time and we got the final crop off. Because of the rain, it wasn’t as good a quality as we had hoped it would be, but at least it was in. Our hay crop of the year had been scant and poor, also.
Grandpa relaxed a bit then. The lines seemed to soften on his brow. Grandpa had too much faith for worry, but he was a little less concerned than he had been with the crop still in the field.
Uncle Charlie seemed to feel the lessening of tension, too. For one thing, I knew that he was relieved to have his kitchen back to himself. We’d had a neighbor woman and her daughter in helping to cook for the threshing crew. Uncle Charlie needed the help, we all knew that, but he sure was glad when the last dish was washed and put away and the women went home.
I turned my attention to other things—cutting wood, fixing door hinges and banking the root cellar. And I talked to God some more.
I had thought I might be ready for His call at the first of the year, but now I realized that I would never be caught up enough to turn the farm back over to Grandpa and Uncle Charlie that soon. I needed more time to get things back into shape. God seemed to agree. I did not feel Him nudging me to hurry on to other things. Instead, He seemed to give me assurance that my job on the farm wasn’t finished yet.
And so I worked feverishly, trying to get as much as I could done before the snow came. When it did come, it came with fury. The thermometer dropped thirty degrees overnight, and the wind blew from the north with such intensity that it blew down several trees. The snow swirled in blinding eddies. I was thankful that I had repaired the chicken coop and lined the floor with fresh warm straw. I was glad, too, that the barn was ready for winter. But I still hadn’t gotten the pigpens ready. I worried about the pigs, especially the sow that had just given birth to eight little piglets. I struggled against the wind with a load of straw for bedding.
It was useless even to try. The wind whipped the straw from my pitchfork as soon as I stepped from the barn. After trying several times, I tossed my fork aside and gathered the straw in my arms. Even that didn’t work well. As I fought my way toward the pigpen the wind pushed and pulled, pulling the straw from me. By the time I had reached the pigpen I had very little left.
I tried again, over and over, and each time I arrived at the shed with only a scant armful of straw.
At last I gave up. I was winded and freezing as I bucked the strong gale. I hoped that the bit of straw I had managed to get to the pigs would help to protect them against the bitter storm.
I spent most of the day fighting against the wind, trying to ease the discomfort of the animals. Several times Grandpa and Uncle Charlie came out to assure me that I had done all I could, that the animals would make it through on their own. But I wasn’t so sure, so I kept right on fighting.
When the day was over and I headed for the house with a full pail of milk, I was exhausted.
The kitchen had never looked or smelled more inviting. The warmth from the cookstove spilled out to greet me, making my face sting with the sudden heat after the cold. The aroma of Uncle Charlie’s hot stew and fresh biscuits reminded me of just how hungry I was.
Grandpa took the pail from me and went to strain the milk and run it through the separator. I didn’t argue, even though it was normally my job.
Pixie pushed herself up against me as I fought with coldnumbed fingers to get off my heavy choring boots. She licked at my hands, at my face, anywhere that she could get a lick in. I guess it seemed to her that I had been gone for a very long time.
When I went to wash for supper, Uncle Charlie spoke softly from the stove where he dished up the food.
“Your face looks a bit chilled, Josh. Don’t make the water too warm. You might have a bit of a frostbite there.”
I felt my nose and my cheeks. They seemed awfully hard and cold. I heeded Uncle Charlie’s advice and pressed a cloth soaked in cool water up against them. Even the cold made them burn.
Over the meal we discussed the storm and all I had done to try to prepare for it. I noticed that the woodbox was stacked high. Grandpa had been busy, too.
“Looks like it could be with us for a while,” commented Grandpa. “Sky is awful heavy.”
I didn’t know much about reading storms, and I hoped that Grandpa was wrong. One day of this was enough.
We listened to the news on our sputtering radio while we warmed ourselves with coffee. The forecast wasn’t good. According to the man with the crackling voice, the storm could get even worse during the night and wasn’t expected to blow itself out for at least three days.
I could sense even before I awoke the next morning that the radio had been right. The storm was even worse than the day before.
When I went out to face the wind and the cold, the range cows were pushing tightly around the barn, bawling their protest against the storm. I knew that they needed shelter; I also knew that they could not all fit inside. The barn was reserved for the milk cows and the horses. I felt sorry for those poor animals. We really needed some kind of a shed to protect them against such storms. That’s one thing I’ll do first thing next summer, I vowed to myself.
The next day was a repeat of the two that went before it.
All day the wind howled. Then, near the end of the day the wind abated and the snow slackened. The temperature dipped another five degrees.
Even in the farmhouse we were hard put to keep warm. Uncle Charlie lit a lamp and put it down in the cellar to keep Aunt Lou’s canned goods from freezing. We added blankets to our beds and set an alarm so we could get up in the night to check the fire.
The next morning arrived clear and deathly cold. The water in the hand basin in the kitchen was skimmed with ice. I lit the lantern and started for the barn, hating the thought of going out to face the intense cold. My breath preceded me in frosty puffs of glistening white. Even the moon that still hung in the west looked frozen into position.
Now that the wind had died down, I really had work to do. The animals outside hadn’t really eaten properly since the storm had begun. It had been just too hard to fight the wind. Now they stood, humped and bawling, hungry and thirsty, and nearly frozen to death.
By the time the storm had passed and the temperature was back to normal again, we had lost three of the piglets, two of the older cows, and half a dozen chickens. Th
ree cows had lost the lower portions of their tails to frostbite, and our winter supply of feed had already been seriously depleted. If the winter continued this way, we would find it difficult to continue feeding all of the stock. Even so, we fared much better than some of our neighbors. The storm had killed a number of the animals in some herds.
As Christmas approached, I was eager to spend time with Aunt Lou and Uncle Nat. Little Sarah was sitting by herself and even attempting to pull herself up. And the opening of the Christmas gifts was, of course, even more fun with a baby in the house. We all had a gift for Sarah, and we took her on our laps and pretended that she was taking part in the opening of the present. We also pretended that she was excited about each new rattle or bib. She wasn’t; in fact, she liked the rustle of the wrapping paper better than anything else.
I even brought Pixie with us. In the colder weather I usually left her at home when we went to town, but today I tucked her inside my heavy coat and she managed just fine. Sarah loved her, and I put Pixie through all of her tricks just to make Sarah squeal and giggle. She seemed to like it best when Pixie “spoke” for a little taste of turkey. Then Sarah would wave her chubby arms and squeal at the top of her voice. We all had a good laugh over it.
In the afternoon I slipped out and hurried over to the Foggelsons’. I wanted Mrs. Foggelson to know that I was thinking about her—still praying for her, too. Besides, I was a little anxious to hear any news about Camellia.
Before I went up their walk, I could see that there was no one home. The heavy curtains were pulled shut and no one had cleaned the snow from the walk for several days. The shovel was leaning up against the back porch, so before I headed home again I decided to clear the snow from the walk. I didn’t know when the Foggelsons would be back again or if it would even be evident to them that someone had been there, but I did it anyway.
I wondered if there was some chance that Mr. Foggelson had changed his mind and they had gone together to see Camellia. I hoped so. It would be a lonely Christmas for both Mrs. Foggelson and Camellia if they were to spend it apart.