I rush over to help undo the knots around his hands and feet. Martha steps back demurely to let me finish, and Ethan gives me a sharp look to let me know he’s not happy that I disappeared for a while. Not my fault, I want to explain. How was I supposed to know Ms. Tremt set me up with the forbidden phone?
Ethan stands up and rubs at his wrists. He doesn’t seem to know what to do next.
“I’m sure my brother would be happy to help you fix your fence,” I tell the Pedersens. “He’s very, uh, handy.”
On MineFarm at least, I think to myself. I elbow him to say something.
“Yes, please let me help you fix it,” Ethan chimes in. “And my sister here would be happy to help with the housework. She’s wonderful at cooking and cleaning. No job is too difficult for her.” He glances over at me triumphantly. “It’s the least we can do, since we caused you such . . . inconvenience.”
Inconvenience? We found their cow and returned it! And it’s Ms. Tremt’s fault about the stupid fence. I want to give his arm a good hard pinch, but I know I can’t do that in front of the entire family, who are watching us like we might be aliens. I get the feeling he’s trying to teach me some kind of lesson, and between him and Ms. Tremt thinking they know what’s best for me, I’ve just about had it.
“That would be very nice,” Martha says quickly, smiling at me. She’s about my age, and she looks both smart and kind. Maybe we’d even be friends under different circumstances. Like if she weren’t my great-great-great-grandmother and I wasn’t traveling back in time!
“Are you children . . . orphans?” Mrs. Pedersen asks, looking appraisingly at my slightly gnawed apron and long, loose hair, which probably still has some slop in it from earlier.
I scan the Pedersen children, who, despite living on the prairie with no electricity or plumbing, are all neat and tidy, with clean faces and braided hair and starched aprons. Even the babies look clean.
Think! I scream at my brain. What can I say to explain our appearance and what we’re doing here?
An American history fact pops into my head. “No, ma’am, we’re not orphans. We’re . . . scouting land for our parents. They want to settle here . . . under the Homestead Act of . . . 1862.”
With each word, I start to remember more and more of that unit in history class last year. The Homestead Act! It’s perfect.
“I see,” says Mrs. Pedersen. “Well, that makes sense, I suppose.”
Awesome. I totally nailed it, and without my phone! I elbow Ethan again, who gives me a discreet thumbs-up.
“You’re a bit late, though,” explains Mrs. Pedersen sadly. “Many settlers have packed up and gone back East already. Our family came a few years ago, so we had time to plow and get a first crop of corn in. We’ve worked hard and succeeded . . . somewhat. We just moved out of our dugout and into a real wood house this spring.” She proudly gestures toward the tiny house.
I remember that a dugout is a house dug into the ground, with earth for walls, roof, and floor, and sod on top. They’re well insulated from the cold winters but often have only a single window for light. Not a fun space for a large family to share.
“Your new house is very nice!” says Ethan, sounding confused. “But where’d you get the wood siding for the house? There are hardly any trees on the prairie.”
“We bought it in town,” Mrs. Pedersen explains. “The railroad was put in a few years ago and brings supplies every few days.”
I nodded, remembering (also from my history class) that the addition of a railroad back in the 1860s was a huge event.
Mr. Pedersen steps in. “Now, about this fence . . . I know you say you didn’t cause it, but nothing like this has ever happened before, and here you all are.”
“Like my sister said, I can help fix it,” Ethan quickly offers. “Since we’ve caused so much commotion. And Ava would really like to help you with your chores. To make it up to you.”
I glare at him. Why does he keep throwing me under the chore bus? I could have left him here, but I came back to save him! He doesn’t seem very grateful. When we get back home and I have my phone again, I’m taking the rest of his MineFarm cows. And maybe his chickens, too.
“That would be very nice of you,” Mrs. Pedersen says. “We accept. Martha, you show this young lady how to be useful, all right? But take the babies into the house first, please.”
She winks at Martha and heads off toward the clothing line. Martha tells me she’ll be right back, and goes to take the babies into the house. As I watch Mrs. Pedersen walk away, she reminds me so much of my own mother that I suddenly feel homesick. I wonder what my mom and siblings are doing right now. Then I realized that in this time, my family doesn’t even exist yet. That thought makes me feel more homesick than ever. And it also makes me feel bad about the way I acted last night.
“How much time do we have left here?” I whisper to Ethan.
He checks his watch. “A little more than two hours. Here—hide The Book of Memories in your pocket. And don’t use it without me.”
I slide the book into the deep pocket in my skirt. “Thanks for the trust.”
“No problem. It’s only two more hours, and then I’ll make sure we get home, okay?”
“Okay . . . Oh, and by the way, I have an awesome idea that’s going to make going home a lot better. And two hours should be juuuuust enough time to put it into action.”
“Wait, what plan?” asks Ethan. “Put what into action? Ava!”
I smile smugly. I can’t help it. It’s such a brilliant idea that I wonder if it was really Ms. Tremt’s plan all along in sending me back to 1891 when I’d asked to go back to 1991. I’d told her I wanted to convince my mom to go to California for college. But what if she doesn’t need to be convinced, because the family had already settled there a century before?
“I’m going to get my ancestor Pedersen family to move to California!” I tell him. “If they go now, my family will stay out in California forever. Because why would anyone leave the sunny coast? My whole family, every generation, will be born into the good life!”
Ethan shakes his head. “That’s not right, Ava. You can’t meddle like that.”
“But these people are tough,” I say, feeling my plan is fully justified. “They can make the trip, and it’ll be a whole lot easier to live out there than on this prairie, which is probably twenty degrees below zero every day in the winter.”
“Ava, you’re not allowed to change history for selfish reasons. Ms. Tremt said so. You heard it. You recorded it on your phone!”
I nod. “Yeah, I remember. But it’s not selfish. It’s for the good of my whole family—especially my mom. She’ll be happier in California—trust me. Now go fix your fence. I’ve got some smooth talking to do. And maybe some cow milkin’ and hay stackin’.”
“Don’t talk like a cowboy,” Ethan warns me. “This isn’t an old black-and-white movie. Don’t say cowpoke or anything like that.”
“Duh, I know. Don’t you remember my performance earlier? I got you untied and out of going to jail. This adventure from Ms. Tremt really is amazing. I get to give a better life to a century of Pedersen family members, and I get in some acting practice for my new TV career. I’m ready to go in front of the camera! Giddyap!”
Ethan goes off on horseback with Mr. Pedersen to scout materials for fixing the fence and trough, leaving me to wait for Martha. After a few minutes, she comes back outside without the babies to get me.
“We have to start getting dinner ready,” she says. “Would you like to help me with that?”
“Yes, very much,” I reply, following her. I keep thinking about what my angle is going to be to get the Pedersen family to consider leaving their new wood house, which they’re so proud of, and their large crop of corn. It’s going to take a lot to get them to drop everything and move out to California. It’ll be especially hard to use the beautiful weather as an argument since we happen to be visiting the prairie on a lovely sunny day and not in the dead of winter, when
I know that the Minnesota prairies are terribly cold and windy.
In the house, Martha introduces me to another sibling, who is shelling peas at the table.
“This is my little sister, Inga,” Martha says, gesturing at the girl, who has two long white-blond braids and looks so much like my sisters Tania and Tess that I wish I had my phone to take a picture. “She’s eight and very shy.”
Inga’s cheeks turn pink and she nods at me, but she doesn’t speak.
“Hi, Inga,” I say. “I have twin sisters your age who look a lot like you.”
Martha tilts her head. “That’s funny. Ethan didn’t mention he had three sisters when we were talking earlier.”
That’s because in real life, Ethan has no sisters, only an older brother. I think quickly. “Well, you know how boys are. All he thinks about are, um, horses. And, you know, farming.”
“Of course.” Martha smiles. “And you already saw our sweet twins, Hans and Jens, who are fifteen months old.” The babies are playing in a corner, with just a pair of what look like rolled-up socks as a ball to pass back and forth between them.
Again, I can’t help thinking how much our families have in common, even though we lived 120 years apart. Twins do run in families, so I guess it’s not that much of a surprise.
“What should we do first?” I ask.
Martha looks me over and then looks at their small and tidy kitchen area, which consists of a cookstove, a single cabinet holding dishes, and a table and chairs. Behind her is a small room with a single large bed in it, and there’s a loft upstairs that’s open to this main room. There are also two rockers over by the window. That’s it in the entire space, and it’s all spotless and dust-free.
“You know, maybe before we start cooking we should get you cleaned up,” Martha suggests. “You must be hot and dusty from wandering all over the prairie trying to return our cow.”
I know she’s trying to be diplomatic, and I appreciate it. Clearly I look like I’ve been rolling around in the manure pile and the Pedersen family can’t handle it. “Sure,” I say.
She leaves Inga in charge of the twins, and I follow her back outside, where we walk to the water pump. She removes the well cover, which I assume prevents the twins from falling in, and then hands me a bucket. I begin moving the arm of the pump up and down, up and down, surprised at how heavy it starts to feel after a moment and just how long it takes to fill one bucket.
Once we have the bucket of water, Martha makes me lean back and dip my hair into it. “Yaaaah!” I yell.
“What’s the matter?” Martha asks, in a worried voice. It felt like she was dipping my hair into a bucket filled with ice cubes—that’s how cold it was. But I realized this is probably the way they wash their hair all the time. No hot and cold running water at their fingertips for the Pedersen family. I suddenly miss home even more.
I tell Martha I’m fine; I just didn’t brace myself for the cold water the way I usually do. This explanation seems to satisfy her (thank goodness), and she washes my hair quickly in the icy-cold water, and when I sit back up, I’m shivering and I feel like the temperature has dropped twenty degrees! But I try to act like I have my head washed outside in a bucket of ice water every day, and smile at her as she offers to braid my clean hair for me.
“That would be nice, thanks,” I say. Using just her fingers, she manages to comb out my hair, make a perfectly straight part (I’ve never been able to do that in Tania or Tess’s hair—ever), and then somehow pull every single strand of my hair into a braid so tight that my eyelids move two inches closer to my ears. It’s pretty painful and certainly won’t be falling out anytime soon.
“Thank you so much,” I say when she’s finished and looking at me proudly. “Want to go for a walk? You can show me around your . . . homestead and tell me about your life here.”
Martha smiles wistfully but shakes her head. “That would be lovely, but we must begin preparing dinner! Lots of potatoes to peel.”
She hops up cheerfully and heads into the house, where she hands me a sack of small potatoes and a small, dull knife to peel with.
As I begin peeling, Martha starts measuring out flour and salt and something else, maybe yeast, to make biscuits from scratch. She does it all effortlessly, with no recipe, as if she doesn’t even have to think about it.
The small potatoes are round and awkward to hold as I slice off the skins, and I keep losing them. They roll off the table, and Inga quickly retrieves them, while shooting odd looks at her sister.
To distract them from my obvious lack of kitchen skills, I say, “Tell me more about your family. I’m very interested in meeting some more settlers here.”
Martha is kneading the dough now, while Inga flours a board for her to roll it out on. It looks so practiced, it must be something they’ve done many, many times together. Why don’t I ever cook with my twin sisters like this?
“Well, as Ma told you, we were some of the first settlers to come here from Sweden. It was very difficult at first. My mother was pregnant with the twins, and Inga was small. We had a terrible first winter here with almost no food.” She pauses for a moment and then says, “We had another brother, Elias, who died of a fever as soon as we got here.”
Martha stops talking again and looks at Inga, who is staring down at the table. I realize Inga must have been close in age to Elias and still missing him very much. I can’t imagine losing a sibling! And to something as simple as a fever?
“Are there any doctors in town?” I ask, hoping that’s a normal question. Were there many doctors back in 1891? I can’t remember.
“There is one, but we didn’t have the money to pay him,” Martha says. “Anyway, nothing could be done for Elias’s fever.”
I do remember learning about typhoid fever running through the country back then, and that while it’s treatable with antibiotics now, in 1891 many people did die of it, especially small children or those who were malnourished.
“You are a very brave family,” I tell Martha and Inga. “To come here all the way from Sweden! That’s an amazing journey. You must be very strong.”
As I peel, and Martha talks more about putting in their first corn crop, I examine the house more carefully and really see how few belongings this family has. In a house with four kids, there are no toys.
“Um, what do you guys like to play with?” I ask, hoping my question sounds normal. But Martha seems excited to talk to someone new and is glad to tell me everything.
“I have a beautiful box of buttons, and Inga and I made up a game with them. And Inga has a rag doll that Ma made for her last Christmas. We share that sometimes.”
As Martha goes on talking about their life, I continue to learn more and more about them. They eat the same foods all the time: biscuits, potatoes, home-baked bread, and whatever meat their dad can find hunting. They get very few fruits or vegetables, except for wild berries and greens. They plan to put in a garden next year. The open loft I can see above the main room is where Inga and Martha sleep, while Hans and Jens sleep in the tiny bedroom off the main room with their parents. Each girl has one play dress and one church dress, and that’s it. They have so few things. And no chocolate. No candy. No gum. No graham crackers even!
I think about my own room, filled with toys and games and books, stuff I hardly ever look at or touch. Plus all my siblings’ rooms and their stuff. Plus my phone, my scooter, our family’s computer. Stuff, stuff, stuff, all over my house. And this family has so little.
I become so distracted thinking about everything I have that I stop paying close attention to my work. Martha reaches out a hand to stop me, and I look down.
“You’re cutting off chunks of the potato with the skin,” she says gently. “But we don’t have many potatoes, so we need all of that to eat.”
Ashamed, I promise to do better, and even pick up some of the skins with chunks attached and carefully repeel them. How could I waste their food? I feel terrible.
Mrs. Pedersen comes in as I’m
trying to fix the over-peeled potatoes. Clearly horrified, she says, “Martha, how about you finish the potatoes and maybe Ava can help with something else?”
The twins start crying, and I realize maybe I’d be better off outside with them, where I can do some brainstorming on my plan and not ruin any more of their food.
“I could take the twins outside to play for a bit,” I suggest. “I’m very good with babies. Ethan usually does the cooking at our house.”
“He does?” asks Mrs. Pedersen.
All of the Pedersen family look at me oddly. Apparently boys do not do the cooking in 1891. “I mean, he digs up the potatoes,” I say. “And hunts. I’ll, um, go get the twins.”
I smile and walk over to get the twins, who must be bored out of their minds sitting in a quiet corner with nothing to do, but they seem used to it and are mostly poking at each other.
I gather them up, wondering how on earth I’m going to find the angle I need to make my case for this family to move. I need information. Something to make them understand. On the way out the door, I spy a newspaper carefully folded on the windowsill.
Perfect! That’s just what I need. I grab it stealthily and hide it in the folds of my long skirt, thinking to myself that maybe these outfits are sort of useful after all.
Once we’re outside, I see that Ethan is now up by the stable, hammering and sawing with Mr. Pedersen, and that my friend the cow is safely tethered to a picket line in a grassy area nearby. I lead Hans and Jens over toward the cow and plop down in the grass. The boys are immediately excited and start to babble at the cow, who very generously moos back at them and flicks her tail, which makes them clap with joy.
Wow. These kids really don’t need much for entertainment. My siblings would like to see a cow too, but only because they’ve never hung out with one before. These kids see the cow every day.
From the house, I hear an exasperated Mrs. Pedersen ask Martha to please hurry up, as they still have quite a bit of baking left to do before dinner, plus setting the table and hauling more water.
Ugh! This prairie life is for the birds. All that work, and the meal isn’t even cooked yet. And it’s not like it’s some fancy delicious turkey dinner either!
There's No WiFi on the Prairie Page 4