More Than a Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  He’d barely fallen asleep, it seemed, when the bells clanged for the fire department. Thorliff bailed out of bed and back into his clothes with the speed of any fireman. He slid down the banister and out the door.

  ‘‘Go get ’em,’’ yelled Mr. Stromme.

  Thorliff jumped on the bicycle he kept propped against the front porch and pedaled toward the fire station. If he got there in time, he could ride on the wagon. He sniffed the wind, which was coming from the west. He could tell by the smell from the Creamery out west of town along the river. The smell of smoke overlaid that of sour milk. Grass fire? Hayfields? Please, Lord, let it not be a house or a barn.

  The pumper wagon came flying toward him, pulled by six heavy horses. He angled off the road to keep from getting run over and turned to follow them. While there was no way to keep up, the sound of the clanging bell that warned everyone out of the way beckoned him on. He could see the firelight and billowing smoke long before he got to the fire.

  Flames were already licking the walls of the barn by the time they arrived. The firemen had the hose down in the well and were pumping the seesaw-looking handles to get enough pressure to get water spouting out the nozzle and onto the flames. Neighbors had formed bucket lines to both fight the fire and soak down the roofs of the house and the other buildings. When one of the firemen called him over, he took a turn on the pump handle, sweat pouring down his face, his hands slipping on the round metal handle. After what seemed like hours and long enough to make Thorliff sure he was going to drop, the fire chief shouted, the men rotated, and someone shoved him aside to take over the pumping.

  Thorliff kept from dropping to his knees through sheer force of a will that felt bent like heated angle iron. He choked back a gag and staggered over to join the bucket brigade. Taking the full bucket from one person and passing it to another seemed a cinch compared to the pumping, until his hands blistered. He could feel them popping on the palms of his hands. Winter hands, his pa would say, soft from lack of heavy labor. While the printing press was no croquet match, compared to this it was a Sunday afternoon stroll.

  As the barn collapsed in a shower of flames and sparks, the people doused the roofs again and stood back to keep watch that nothing else ignited.

  Thorliff walked around asking questions, learning what he needed to know, then returned to the bicycle he’d leaned against a tree trunk.

  Pedaling back to town, he kept coughing from the smoke he’d inhaled while at the same time his mind rehearsed the sentences he would write for his newspaper article. Consensus was that hay put up too wet had heated up and burned down the barn. Thankfully all the animals were outside in the pasture, and though the hay and barn were lost, the house and outbuildings were saved. The volunteer firefighters had done a good job.

  ‘‘How bad?’’ Henry asked from his bed.

  Thorliff told him and then pulled himself up the stairs. Now he really knew what tired felt like. In those minutes between waking and sleeping he figured out a way he could warn Phillip of the possible danger his daughter was in and not really betray a confidence. He hoped it sounded as good in the morning.

  By morning he decided he couldn’t tell Phillip. Talk about being caught between a burning fire and a cliff. Which was worse?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Blessing, North Dakota

  Early August

  ‘‘Abe Mendohlson came by today and asked if I wanted to buy his land.’’ A ring of smoke floated just above his head. Haakan was an expert at making smoke rings.

  ‘‘He’s giving up, Pa?’’ Andrew looked up from the wooden spoon he was carving as the Bjorklunds all sat on the back steps to catch a last breath of breeze before heading for bed. Mosquitoes whined, and flitting fireflies lit up the grass, bright dots of moving light in the deepening dusk. Barney thumped on the top step in his tiff with the fleas that bothered him more than mosquitoes.

  Astrid slapped one on her arm, leaving a blood splotch. ‘‘I hate mosquitoes.’’ She moved closer to her father. ‘‘That’s one good thing about smoke—it chases them away.’’

  ‘‘And here I thought you were my favorite girl.’’

  ‘‘Pa, I’m your only girl.’’

  ‘‘Not really, there’s your ma.’’

  ‘‘She ain’t—er—isn’t a girl. She’s a woman.’’ Astrid didn’t have to see her mother’s look to feel it. And ain’t was such a good word; she could see nothing wrong with it.

  ‘‘Becky has been over at the Mendohlsons’ taking care of Ossie and Julia. She said Ossie cries all the time for his mother. I can’t think how bad it would be if something happened to . . . to our mor.’’ She reached behind her for her mother’s hand.

  Ingeborg laid down her knitting needles and cupped her daughter’s head so she could plant a kiss right where the part in her hair left a line of skin less covered.

  ‘‘The good Lord willing, I plan to be around for a long time.’’ Ingeborg rested her cheek on her daughter’s head.

  ‘‘But Mrs. Mendohlson didn’t plan on leaving either. She was so excited about the new baby. Why does God do things like that?’’

  ‘‘Ah, my Astrid, you ask such hard questions. Let me think how to answer.’’

  The western sky wore only a thin line of light right at the horizon, and the farther up one looked, azure deepened to black, and the stars twinkled like the fireflies in the yard. An owl hooted and a nighthawk answered.

  Astrid leaned her head against her mother’s knees. ‘‘Are you still thinking?’’

  ‘‘Ja, that I am. You know that the Bible says all things come from God.’’

  ‘‘Ja. Pastor Solberg read that to us. So then how come if God loves us, He sends bad things?’’

  ‘‘But you know that when Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the tree of good and evil, sin came into the world.’’ Ingeborg felt her daughter nodding. Oh, Lord, please help me here. How can I answer my daughter when I am questioning the same thing at times?

  ‘‘Because of sin in the world, bad things happen to us or around us.’’ Ingeborg closed her eyes, praying and talking at the same time. ‘‘But God says over and over again that He will be with us, that He will deliver us out of trouble, so we shouldn’t be afraid.’’

  Haakan entered the discussion. ‘‘Maybe we have to get into trouble so that we cling closer to our Father, just like when you are afraid of something, you hang on to my hand so tight I get fingernail prints on my hand.’’ He blew another smoke ring that stayed in form until a whisper of breeze melted it away.

  ‘‘Pa, I don’t do that anymore.’’

  ‘‘No, but you did, and you are still my child, so I think it is the same way with God. He wants us to hang on that tight, and just like sometimes you wandered away from me or your mor, we do the same with God and He uses the bad things to get our attention and bring us back to him.’’

  ‘‘Mange takk. Thank you.’’ Ingeborg nudged her husband with her toe.

  ‘‘I still don’t like God’s taking Mrs. Mendohlson away from her family like that.’’

  ‘‘I know, none of us do.’’ Ingeborg rubbed her daughter’s neck and shoulder until Haakan took one of her hands and laid it on his shoulder. Ingeborg took the hint. ‘‘But it is good that she and the new baby are together in heaven and having a wonderful time with Jesus.’’

  ‘‘Like with our other babies?’’

  ‘‘Ja, with all His children.’’

  Ingeborg thought back to the two babies she’d carried for only half enough time. If only they had lived, she and Haakan would have five children instead of three. If only. She thought they were two of the saddest words in the world.

  ‘‘You know that report I had to do on heaven?’’ Andrew’s voice came softly from where he sat cross-legged on the ground. The sounds of his carving had ceased as the twilight deepened. ‘‘The Bible tells of streets paved with gold and how God lights up the whole place. There will be no more sorrow nor tears, and everyone will be praising God. I d
on’t care so much about gold streets, but I think I will be glad to meet my first pa, and I want to tell Jesus how glad I am that He died on the cross for me.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to wait for heaven to tell Him that.’’ Ingeborg rolled her eyes toward her eyebrows.

  ‘‘I know, but I want to see Him smile, and maybe He will like some of my jokes too.’’

  ‘‘Ah, my son, you make Him smile right now.’’ She squeezed back when Haakan took her hand and stroked it with his thumb.

  A coyote yipped up the river, and another answered.

  ‘‘I like to hear the coyotes sing.’’ Astrid leaned her head to the side so her mother could rub her neck more easily.

  ‘‘Barney doesn’t. He just crawled up in my lap.’’ Andrew stroked the half-grown dog.

  ‘‘How does he know that coyotes are dangerous?’’

  Ingeborg stared up at the stars. ‘‘Astrid, all I can say is God made it so, and so it is.’’

  ‘‘And on that I think your mother has answered enough questions for tonight. Morning will come far too soon. Andrew, since we got the haying done so quickly, I think we’ll go over and help Swen do some more of the finish work on his house so they can get moved in before harvest starts. He’s planning on going with us this time with the threshing machine.’’

  ‘‘I wish I could go.’’

  ‘‘I know you do, but someone has to stay home and milk the cows and help take care of things around here. I trust you to do that.’’

  ‘‘I know, but I still would like to go along.’’

  ‘‘So did you buy Abe’s land?’’ Ingeborg asked as they made ready for bed.

  ‘‘What else could I do? He needs the money.’’

  Ingeborg laid her head on her husband’s shoulder. ‘‘I love you, Haakan Bjorklund.’’

  In the morning, after chores and breakfast were finished and as the men prepared to leave, Ingeborg brought in the first picking of beans, and she and Astrid sat in the shade to snap them.

  ‘‘We’ll come with dinner, so you tell Anji not to worry about feeding everyone. Kaaren and hers are coming too. We will have a real party today.’’

  ‘‘Good. We’re about due for a party. Should have told the others.’’ Haakan finished putting his tools in the wagon bed. ‘‘Come on, Andrew, what are you waiting for?’’

  ‘‘I was looking for that horse that Onkel Olaf made for me. I thought Ossie might like to play with it.’’

  Ingeborg exchanged a glance of pride with her husband. Leave it to tenderhearted Andrew. ‘‘I think it is up in the attic. I’ll go get it.’’ She returned in a few minutes with the cutout horse head on a stick for riding. Olaf had even made a mane out of unraveled rope and a bridle with reins out of scraps of leather. She’d been keeping it in hopes that one day they would have another little one to ride it. Samuel had been the last one to play horsey with it. But after losing the last baby during the winter, Kaaren had not been given another either.

  Those ten days of having little May had been such a joy, but her mother coming for her had been even greater. While she knew Robbie wasn’t well yet, he was sleeping better, and the rages were less intense. Mrs. Nordstrum had thanked Ingeborg repeatedly for coming to help her when she did.

  Ingeborg waved her men off and returned to snapping beans. They would get the first jars canned before they left. And from now to fall, they would be canning and pickling pretty much continuously. She glanced up at the crab apple tree she had planted two years earlier. Perhaps they would get enough to make crab apple jelly this year or at least a jar or two of pickled ones. The blossoms had been such a beautiful pink, dotting the tree like bits of pink sunset cloud come down to rest.

  They packed the clean jars, poured boiling water over the beans, added salt, and laid the rubber rings that had been softened in hot water in place. After setting the glass lids on top and flipping the wire bales into their upper grooves, the jars were lowered into the boiler of boiling water. Ingeborg filled water up to the jar necks and steamed them for an hour. At that point the lower bale was locked in place, and the jars boiled for another hour.

  ‘‘Well, we might not be there right on the twelve o’clock button but near to it.’’ Ingeborg wiped the sweat from her face.

  ‘‘How come it takes beans so long?’’ Astrid asked while adding more wood to the firebox.

  ‘‘Have to make sure the germs are boiled out. Bad beans can kill you.’’

  Astrid eyed the beans with raised eyebrows.

  ‘‘Don’t worry, I check each jar. If it is cloudy at all, we don’t eat it.’’

  ‘‘I know the chickens do.’’

  Amazing how quickly the kitchen could become a steam room with the stove hot enough to keep the canner boiling and the steam rising from the kettle. They might as well be doing the wash too but for the beans cooking in the boiler.

  ‘‘Someday we are going to have a room outside with just a roof and a stove. Heard of one somewhere. They called it a summer kitchen. I think it’s something they do down South where it is so much hotter and steamier than here.’’

  ‘‘I saw in a book on India that there they have fans in the ceiling, but they have a slave or servant or someone to turn a crank to keep the fans moving.’’ Astrid picked up the last bucket to be snapped. ‘‘Let’s go outside in the shade again.’’

  When they all arrived at Swen Baard’s new house, the children leaped from the wagon almost before it was stopped and headed for the front door so they could see all that had been done.

  ‘‘Sure wish I had that much energy,’’ Ingeborg said with a sigh, lifting two baskets out of the back of the wagon.

  ‘‘Me too.’’ Kaaren waved at Dorothy, who was washing the windows. Swen’s wife, whom he had met in Grafton at one of the dances he and Knute sometimes attended, fit right in with the rest of the community just as if she had grown up there. The eldest daughter of a farmer south of town, she was good for Swen and he for her. Her laughter lightened his seriousness, and his steadiness kept her feet on the ground. Though they’d framed the house the fall before, Swen and Dorothy weren’t married until spring.

  ‘‘Welcome, Mrs. Bjorklund, Mrs. Knutson,’’ Dorothy called. ‘‘I have the coffee on. Swen installed the stove last night, so this is our first time to use it.’’

  ‘‘Where do you want us to put the food?’’

  ‘‘I set up sawhorses in back in the shade of the house, not that there’s much shade anywhere this time of day. But at least there is a breeze outside.’’ She drew her head back in the window and gave the sparkling pane another swipe.

  ‘‘These young people today sure start out with a lot more than we had.’’ Kaaren nodded toward the windmill that pumped water one way to the water trough for the cows and the other way to the springhouse, where food could be kept cool.

  ‘‘Ja, and that house is a palace compared to a soddy.’’

  ‘‘Won’t be all so long until we’re doing this for Andrew and Ellie.’’

  ‘‘I thought Thorliff and Anji would be the first. So who knows? I’m not counting on anything anymore.’’ Together they carried the baskets and table things around the house to set up for dinner.

  ‘‘Hurry up, Anji,’’ Becky called out a few minutes later. ‘‘Dinner is all ready.’’

  Ingeborg saw Anji walking across the prairie with Mr. Moen. He was carrying her basket and, as usual, was dressed in his dark suit. Did the man never figure out that here on the prairie loose shirts were more practical? As they drew closer, she searched Anji’s face for the rosy glow that used to reside there whenever Anji and Thorliff were together, for that look of delight she wore when teasing him, and for her laughter that used to wing its way across the air like the trill of a meadowlark.

  All that was missing.

  Ah, Anji, if you truly love this man, that is fine, but if you are settling for something less than you had before, that is sad. Ingeborg hid her thoughts in the bustle of setting out the last of
the food, but she promised herself she would be watchful and do what she could. That’s the least she could do to help the daughter of her best friend, who was no longer here to do it herself.

  Swen said the grace, and they began passing the bowls and platters of baked chicken, baked beans, fresh green beans, lettuce sprinkled with vinegar and sugar, fresh bread, both soft and hard cheese from the Bjorklund cheese house, and gingerbread with cream for dessert.

  ‘‘He did well, didn’t he?’’ Ingeborg leaned close to her husband and nodded toward Swen.

  ‘‘Ja, Joseph can be right proud of his two boys.’’ He shook his head just a little. ‘‘Guess I should begin calling them men. They do the work of men and have for years.’’

  ‘‘Ja, I guess. And Thorliff too. Wouldn’t he enjoy this? I must remember everything and write it to him.’’ When they were cleaning up again, she turned to Anji. ‘‘So how are the wedding plans coming along?’’

  ‘‘Good. My dress is finished, and I’ve sewn enough other things for the trip, I think. Ivar says we can buy some things in New York, but I don’t think he has any idea how expensive that would be.’’

  ‘‘Now you sound just like your mother. Agnes could stretch a dime into a dollar as good as anyone.’’

  ‘‘Do I?’’ Anji smiled at Ingeborg while her eyes misted with tears. ‘‘When I used to dream of getting married, I never thought it would be without my mother and father here. Life just changes, you know?’’

  ‘‘How well I know.’’ Ingeborg thought of the deaths so recently. ‘‘And much of it we have no control over. We think we do, but when it comes to living and dying—well, I learned one thing.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘We need to love everyone around us as hard as we can and not let anger and resentments cause rifts. We just never know what tomorrow or the next day will bring.’’

  ‘‘You are so right, but that isn’t always easy.’’