A Touch of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  She turned at a hand tapping her shoulder. One thing about not hearing, she could go off in her own little world and not pay attention to anyone else. Or maybe it was just part of her. Sometimes she had seen Tante Ingeborg look as if she was returning from somewhere else.

  “You want to help me move the string?” Astrid asked.

  Grace nodded and rubbed her hands together to get rid of some of the dirt. Together they marked and furrowed three rows, and she went back to covering the beans in her row, this time using her feet to tamp the ground down on the seeds. Done with her row she glanced over to see how Jonathan was progressing. Sweat darkened the front of his shirt and the sleeves where he had wiped his forehead. He grimaced as he forced the blade into the dirt with his booted foot. His legs or feet must hurt, but he’d steadily turned over the clumps that now lay with black faces to the sun. Grace knew other girls in Blessing were all giggly about how handsome Jonathan was with his dark curly hair and laughing deep brown eyes. While he wasn’t any-where near as tall as the Bjorklund and Knutson men and boys, he had a grace about him that caught the eye. Astrid said he probably learned that in dance class, but their friend Rebecca Baard had shushed her.

  Sometime later Astrid tapped her shoulder again. “Mor’s calling us to come help get dinner on the table.”

  Grace got to her feet and brushed the dirt off her apron. The only way to sow small seeds was on hands and knees, using one’s fingertips. She caught a smile from Jonathan and sent him one in return. He must feel very odd here. Maybe he just needs a friend. Sometimes it’s hard to be marked as different.

  Astrid paused at the garden gate and turned back toward Jonathan. “Mor will be ringing the triangle in a few minutes for the men to come in. I think Pa would be pleased if you were at the barn to help unharness the teams, so keep watch, and when they are nearing the barn, be there to meet them. Then everyone washes at the bench, like this morning, before coming in.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  Grace followed Astrid and glanced out at the land, where the teams, heads nodding, continued their rounds of the fields. The tractor belched black smoke, and a flock of blackbirds ebbed and flowed over the newly turned soil, searching out the exposed worms and bugs.

  They reached the porch just as Ingeborg beat the iron bar around the triangle, sending the clanging signal across the land. One of the men lifted his hat in response to let her know they’d heard it.

  “He didn’t know how to use a spade,” Astrid said when they entered the kitchen.

  “But he learned quickly.” Grace spoke carefully as she washed her hands. Everyone was so used to turning to include Grace in the conversations when they weren’t signing that Astrid had turned to face her automatically.

  “And he is willing to take instructions, even from a girl.”

  Ingeborg smiled at her daughter’s emphasis on the word girl. “Your brothers would not be so gracious.”

  Grace and Astrid turned to each other and grinned, then rolled their eyes. Many an argument had occurred through the years when they tried to teach their brothers something.

  Grace set the table while Astrid sliced the fresh bread that was still warm. The fragrance of it melded with the rabbits baking in the oven.

  Grace looked up to see Ingeborg pull out the roasting pan and set it on the cooler end of the stove.

  “I’ll make the gravy, and you cut up the meat, Astrid.” Ingeborg reached for the flour canister on the warming shelf of the stove.

  “Do we need anything from the well house?” Grace asked.

  “Ja. Cream, buttermilk, and take a knife along to slice a wedge off that cheese out there.”

  Grace did as she was told, as always pausing on the top step to lift her face to the sun. Like her tante Ingeborg, she needed the warm sun to drive away the memories of winter. She often thought of raising her arms to the sun just as the plants did their leaves, seeking the warmth to grow by. She glanced over to the garden to see Jonathan leaning his spade against the fence along with the other tools. He lifted his straw hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His skin was olive toned and didn’t burn as easily as hers, instead, quickly tanning with the sun. He really stood out in the midst of so many fair-haired, light-skinned Norwegians. Not that all of them were blond, but there was a difference. Thinking on these things, she followed the dirt path, now edged with ankle-deep rich green grass, to the well house.

  When she opened the door, the cool air rushed out, caressing her face in the passing. Hams still hung from the rafters, along with smoked haunches of venison, mutton, and a couple of geese. The milk cans from the morning milking were still in the trough, and baskets of eggs sat on the shelves, along with crocks of butter, jugs of cream, and leftovers waiting to be made into stew or soup. She sliced a wedge off the half wheel of golden orange cheese and set it in a basket, added a full butter mold, and tightened the lid on a jar of cream so that it wouldn’t spill in the basket. Then carrying a crock of buttermilk in her other arm, she headed back for the house.

  When she saw Jonathan coming toward her, she smiled.

  “Can I carry that for you?” He held out his hands.

  She shook her head. “I am fine, thank you.”

  A frown blew across his brow as he stepped off the pathway to let her pass.

  I should have let him, she thought. Maybe that would have been more polite. But carrying these is what I always do. That’s what baskets are for. She could feel his gaze drilling into her back but refused to let herself turn around to check. If he kept volunteering to help them, when would he have time to do his own work? This promised to be an unusual summer. Now, if Toby had been there and volunteered, would she have let him take the basket? And walk beside her?

  KNEADING BREAD ALWAYS GAVE her time to dream. Ingeborg flipped the dough over and continued the rhythm of pushing with the heel of her hand, turning the elastic dough with the other, rolling in a portion, and heeling again. Sometimes she used both hands to force air out of the dough. Always she found herself humming. She sprinkled more flour on the board and continued. She used much of her kneading time for praying. The Bible spoke so often of bread, the staff of life, and Jesus, the Bread of Life. In kneading bread she felt she had a part of that life; in taking baked bread from the oven, she knew it.

  “You sound happy.”

  She turned to smile at the young man silhouetted in the doorway. “Baking bread always makes me happy. Even if I start angry at something or someone, when I am done, that is all gone.” Uff da. What made you answer like that? “Do you need something?”

  Young Gould had been with them for a week now, and she had yet to regret their choice to host him for the summer. He never hesitated to try a new task or complained of the aches he must be feeling. He fit into their family like a newfound cousin.

  “Andrew said you would bandage me up.” He held up his hand wrapped in a handkerchief.

  Ingeborg stopped her kneading and pointed him toward the sink. “How bad is it?”

  “It was bleeding a lot.”

  She washed her hands and took his hand in hers, unwrapping the bloody cloth. “Uff da. How did you do this?”

  “The knife slipped.”

  She studied it, trying to decide if she should put a couple of stitches in to close it up. “Let’s get it cleaned and see how bad it really is.” She pressed against the veins in his wrist to help stop the bleeding. “See what I’m doing?” At his nod, she continued, “Use your other hand to press here so I can get some things together.”

  By the time she had poured hot water from the reservoir into a basin, added soap, fetched her medical bag, and set supplies to boiling to sterilize, he had pulled a chair over to the counter and sat with his hand over the dry sink.

  “You feel dizzy?” she asked when she saw his white face.

  He nodded.

  “Then put your head down between your knees.” The last thing she wanted was him flat on the floor in a faint. />
  “But the blood …”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She placed a hand firmly on the back of his neck and helped him get his head down. “Better?”

  “I guess so.” His muffled voice reminded her of Andrew years before when he’d had a similar accident.

  Shame Astrid was helping Elizabeth today, when she could have used her here. Of course she could load the boy in the buggy and take him to the surgery, but knowing that Elizabeth was feeling puny with her pregnancy made her decide to take care of it at home. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes.”

  As soon as she touched his hand, blood welled up again. “Keep your fingers hard on the wrist while I wash this.” She pulled her boiling pan of silk thread and needle from the hot part of the stove to cool and rubbed a small scrub brush over a bar of lye soap. The water turned red immediately, so she cleaned around the wound as quickly as she was able. “How did this happen?”

  “I was repairing a harness like Andrew showed me, and the knife slipped. It would have been a lot worse had I not been wearing my leather gloves. Can you stitch up gloves too?” Jonathan flinched but held his hand steady.

  “I can patch a glove all right. Now this will sting.” She took the threaded needle from the water and slid it through both sides of the cut and deftly tied a knot. “One down, one to go.” She looked at his pale face. “You need to put your head down again?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  She took another stitch in the heel of his hand, tied the knot, and watched for a moment to see if blood would leak. “There, that’s all. I’ll put some ointment on it and wrap it. You have to keep it clean, so wear gloves while you’re out working. Looks like a clean cut, and you’re a healthy young man. It should heal well.”

  “Thank you.” He looked from the wound to her face. “You are amazing.”

  “One learns to do all kinds of things on a farm. I’ve stitched up dogs, cows, and horses, and sometimes I even sew clothes, although we use our sewing machine for much of that. This ointment I’m using contains honey and will help too.”

  “Honey?”

  “Surprising, I know, but honey helps speed the healing.” While they talked, she wrapped his hand in strips of white cotton and tied the ends neatly on the back of his hand.

  “Did you take medical training?”

  “No, and that’s why I am so grateful we have Dr. Elizabeth here now. I’m not called on for much doctoring anymore.” She gathered her supplies and put each back in its proper place in her leather satchel. “This bag has seen many miles.”

  Jonathan stood and glanced over at the table. “Your bread—it’s about to fall on the floor.”

  Ingeborg turned and her laughter trailed over her shoulder as she crossed the room to retrieve her rising bread before it slipped off the table. “Obviously the yeast is working well.” She quickly washed her hands then flipped the dough back into the crockery bowl. “Could I prevail upon you to bring in several armloads of wood? The woodbox is nearing empty. But don’t pick them up with the bandaged hand.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll find gloves in a box on the shelf to the right of the door on the porch. Leave your cut one here, and I’ll find some leather to patch it with.”

  She went back to kneading her bread while Jonathan filled the woodbox and left the house whistling. She should write and tell his parents how well he was doing and what a fine young man they had raised. Her thoughts returned to the cheese house and the bumper crop of waxed cheese wheels she had growing out there. The shelves were rapidly filling with aging cheese, and with the new cows both she and some of the other farmers had bought; she might have to add on again. She’d been right in insisting they add to the milk herd, even though she hated for her and Haakan not to be in accord.

  After wiping a trickle of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, she turned the dough in the bowl, laid a clean towel over it, and set it to rise on the shelf in the sun. The extra kneading would make it a finer grained bread. She checked the roasting haunch of venison from a young buck Andrew had shot as it grazed in the wheat field, and then closed the oven door before pouring herself a cup of coffee and going out to sit in the sun on the back porch.

  She should be hoeing potatoes, weeding carrots, or doing any number of chores that waited patiently, but instead, she lifted her face to the sun’s caress. Always after the long winter, she craved the sun as a starving child craved bread. She noticed Grace did too, even from when she was a small child. Almost like an instinctive reaction to warmth. She sipped her coffee and glanced toward the barn, where Jonathan and Andrew were repairing harnesses, one of those ongoing necessities that usually got done in the long months of winter. Where had the time gone, or was it just that there weren’t as many growing children at home to help with the daily chores? Or was Haakan slowing down?

  That thought had been nagging at her. She hesitated to call it a fear because she believed what the Bible said when it commanded Fear not. Fear not, so simple and easy to say, but actually doing it was the hard part. While Haakan never complained, hadn’t she seen him flinch sometimes when twisting? Or was her imagination trying to run off with her? It had happened before. She held her cup in both hands and closed her eyes.

  “Please, Lord, take care of Haakan. If there is something wrong, bring healing, give him the strength to do what he feels needs to be done. I know you love him better than I can. I thank you for giving me such a fine man to love and grow old with.”

  Uff da! What’s with all this thinking on getting older? Just get busy and quit sitting in the sunshine. It’s making you feel as lazy as those cats sleeping in the sun by the barn wall. She tossed the coffee dregs on the rosebush, which already had buds. Once spring came, plants in North Dakota rushed to grow and bloom just like the people did. Now if I had a table set up here, I could bring out all the bookwork. The front porch faced west, so it was still in the shade. The cottonwood she’d planted as a sapling so many years ago now shaded the south side of the house, as did the clump of birches Haakan had brought her from Minnesota one year and planted by the back porch. They’d planted a line of elm trees and one of pines to the north as a windbreak, filling it in with Juneberry bushes, chokecherries, and wild roses, making it a haven for grouse and pheasants. Samuel ran one of his snare lines for rabbits there.

  The chore of bookwork was never appealing. Her ledgers lined a shelf over the desk Onkel Olaf had made before he took his family and furniture crafting business off to Grafton. Thinking of that reminded her that she owed Goodie a letter. What she wouldn’t give for a visit from her friend of so many years. She returned to the house, checked the rising bread, put more wood in the stove, and defying all the work awaiting her, retrieved a tablet and pencil from the desk. After pouring another cup of coffee, she headed back outside to the wash bench, where she sat down and leaned against the sun-warmed wall.

  Dear Goodie,

  How I wish you were here to enjoy the sunshine with me. There is just enough breeze to be comfortable. Mrs. Robin is sitting on her nest in the cottonwood. I can see the nest easily because I put out bits of red and yellow yarn, and she and her mate snatched them right up to weave in with the twigs and grasses.

  I just bandaged Jonathan Gould’s hand. I did tell you he was spending the summer here in my last letter, at least I think I did. This is Mr. Gould’s second son—actually his first son with his second wife. He had one son and one daughter by his first wife, and then his first wife died in childbirth, along with the baby. Mr. Gould had twin boys and another girl with his second wife, so Jonathan has younger brothers and a young sister. Mr. Gould believes this son needs to learn about manual labor.

  As we know, there is plenty of man-ual and woman-ual labor to be done around here.

  She smiled at the play on words, knowing it would make Goodie smile too.

  I am so grateful that Ellie shares her letters from home. You raised a fine young woman there, my friend, and I am
grateful she is married to Andrew. I am just sorry you don’t get to watch little Carl growing up, as we do. He is a ray of sunshine in our lives. Such a happy baby.

  We have quilting tomorrow, and Grace and Astrid have agreed to cook for the men so that Kaaren and I can both go. Did you hear yet of Sophie’s two little ones? Hamre, after his father, and Joy. They are a handful. They bring back memories of Sophie and Grace as newborns who were so much smaller.

  Ingeborg paused for a moment, remembering their grief when they realized tiny Grace could not hear. And yet what a wonderful joy she is to this family. And how true to her name. May the new little Joy also grow into her name.

  I know Ellie feels torn whether to stay with the girls or take her part as one of the married women who will continue the work of our church. She is thinking of helping with the Sunday school class for the littlest ones when fall comes, but I’m sure she has told you that.

  In your last letter you asked if things are better with Hildegunn Valders. One would think she’d be happy as a cat with a mouse since she hears all the gossip first thing at the post office. But no matter how hard I try, she cannot seem to forgive me and mine. She made a snide remark at the last quilting, and Mrs. Magron, bless her little heart, stood up and, hands on her hips, told Hildegunn to let bygones be gone and be grateful she has two fine men for sons and she’d better learn a lesson or two in gratitude. We were all so shocked that all we could do was stare. Hildegunn, of course, humphed and glared, but what could she say? I take that back, the day Mrs. Valders is tongue-tied is the day I know we should be checking to see if Jesus arrived unannounced. I should cross that out, I know, but we can laugh together at least.

  Well, I better get back and set the rice to boiling. I cannot wait for the new potatoes. I was going to make noodles but ended up stitching a certain young man’s hand instead. Oh, I read the cleverest thing in a magazine. Make your noodle dough like usual but without quite as much flour. Then, using a wooden spoon, force the dough through the colander and into boiling water. Boil for five or so minutes until the noodles rise to the top, drain and put into cold water, then drain again and brown in butter with some chopped onions and whatever seasonings you desire. Serve with a meat or under roast chicken. Everyone raved about my new noodles.