A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  They broke out in peals of laughter, but Vera insisted while trying to catch her breath that it was the only plan that would work. They couldn’t stop laughing then for several more minutes.

  Rose spent all Thanksgiving morning cooking and baking. Jacob and Vera were bringing several pies as well as part of the dinner. Figuring that the boys and men would have two servings of dessert, she baked a spice cake, two pumpkin pies, two apple pies, and a large plate of cookies.

  “That ought to hold them!” she concluded, satisfied.

  The Medfords arrived at noon, and dinner was served at one. In blessing the food, Jacob took particular notice of the families back east that they were away from that day. Rose remembered fondly how her mother loved to be the hostess on Thanksgiving. Tom, Abigail, and baby James would be her guests about this time. Tom would joke and tease, keeping everyone laughing and cheerful . . .

  Dinner was cozy and family-like with Jacob and Vera. They ate all they could and hardly made a dent in any of it.

  “No cooking for a week!” Rose and Vera gloated.

  Guests began to arrive just before the set time. Merry, laughing greetings were exchanged, and the children ran around outside playing tag or catch (to the Baron’s dismay) while the adults visited and sipped coffee or hot, cinnamon-spiced cider. The day grew dark early, the children trooped in, and even with all the small children sitting on the floor, Jacob and Vera were still sandwiched in between Meg and Sigrün on Rose’s bed. But no one seemed to mind; just being together, sharing the evening was enough for them.

  “That’s another thing I love here,” Rose reflected, smiling to herself. “People love people, not things and social status.”

  Her daydreaming had caught the attention of Jan Thoresen who raised his coffee cup when she came out of her reverie and realized he was watching her with his intent blue eyes. She saluted him back warmly in friendship.

  Vera and Rose served around pie, cake, milk, and coffee. A few minutes later they served it around again.

  “All right, Vera,” Rose motioned. “Knock ’em dead.”

  The chattering and fidgeting ceased when the young woman seated herself at the small instrument. After a moment’s pause, soft, delicate, notes seemed to float in the room as she began. The tiny rivulet grew into a mountain stream, a rushing, sobbing torrent that took their breath away. Many of the youngsters sat still, riveted in place. Vera ended the prelude and launched into a spirited sonata that defied the ability of untrained ears to follow—let alone fingers play. The glissando that ended it would have more appropriately been played on a ten foot Steinway in a cavernous concert hall, but was no less appreciated. Deafening, spontaneous applause filled the little house. Vera, flushed and pleased, stood and bowed while the applause continued. Reseating herself, she started a well-loved Gospel song that was taken up in a flash. Feet patting, hands beating the rhythm, they burst out in harmony. It was too much to be resisted. Through one after another, Vera led them, at last bringing the evening to a close with:

  Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me!

  I once was lost, but now am found,

  Was blind, but now I see.

  Jacob stood where all could see him and prayed. Yes, they were all thankful and, the Lord knew, they had much to be thankful for.

  Chapter 24

  When Thanksgiving had passed, Rose realized with a start that she had only two weeks to finish the Christmas projects to be sent home to her mother, Tom, Abby, and the baby. The shipping would take around two weeks if there were any delays.

  At the same time, the temperature started to drop. That night, when she banked the fire, the room had already chilled and by morning a thick coating of frost covered the lower half of her windows and her teeth chattered as she fed the fire and added coal. A glance out the window showed a whole world covered in frost.

  The box she was sending sat on a dining chair near the table and through the next week she snugly packed in it two dainty jars of raspberry jam, a sausage, a good sized wheel of cheese and a small one of gjetost—fruits of her own labor under the watchful eye of Amalie.

  For baby Jamie she had plied her needles and created a knit sweater and bonnet of soft blue edged in fuzzy white. The last item was a watercolor portraying her house and yard from the vantage of the road just above them. She had labored hard to capture the view of the creek, the protected, serene effect of the house and stable with Prince and Snowfoot grazing contentedly in the pasture. It wasn’t finished yet. Rose sat with her eyes closed to recall the green of the cottonwood trees in spring, the way the grass waved on the hill in the breeze. She gave herself two more days to complete it—no more—and went on to write a Christmas letter. It grew in length rapidly as she described in detail the last busy weeks of harvest including her new experiences and skills up to the Thanksgiving gathering and concert.

  Under her pen, the people she knew became real and visible to her family. Concluding with her love to each of them, she signed her name and stood up to stretch. Snow was falling in the yard, thick, heavy and silent.

  “Beautiful,” Rose admired.

  Throughout the day it came down until just after dark, when the moon lit the sky and revealed the clean blanket covering everything. Baron scratched at the door to go out and paused confused on the porch.

  “Go on, Baron,” she laughed. “It won’t hurt you!”

  He stepped tentatively into the snow, lifting each foot high and shaking it. Suddenly, he leapt into it, nosing great sprays of snow into the air, snapping at them, and running crazily in circles. He stood still and barked at Rose as if to say, “Come on!” but she shook her head and declined.

  “No, you go have your fun, boy.”

  He took off, scattering the fluffy whiteness as he went.

  The month went quickly. The schools hosted recitals that Rose attended, clapping enthusiastically for each of the children she knew. Arnie Thoresen stole the show with his unconventional rendition of “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” complete with cannon and rifle fire, bugle calls, and shouted orders much to the discomfiture of the schoolmaster, Mr. Letoire, and the delight of every boy and girl. Refreshments were served afterwards; coffee, punch and cookies provided by the parents. Rose sought out the teacher to compliment him on his fine work.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brownlee. I do enjoy instructing a fine mind. We have quite a few outstanding pupils including the Thoresen boy who gave us that memorable performance this evening. All the children of that family will make their mother and uncle proud, I am sure.”

  “You must enjoy living with the Thoresens then, Mr. Letoire.”

  “Indeed! Mrs. Thoresen makes every meal a delight to sit down to, which is certainly a desired improvement from cooking for oneself. And Mr. Thoresen is making rapid progress too, for a sound mind in any language is a blessing to work with.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Letoire? In what way is Mr. Thoresen your pupil?”

  “In the study of the English language, of course. This was his prime consideration in requesting I board with his family this term. We have an hour most evenings using the English Bible as our text. His knowledge of scripture in his native Riksmaal makes for some very enjoyable discussion for improvement of English vocabulary and grammar.”

  “And you find Mr. Thoresen an educated individual?”

  “Oh, certainly. You know, he and his younger brother did not come to America in desperate circumstances as many émigrés did. No, I am given to understand that his father is a landowner in the mid-coastal region of Norway, someways north of Bergen. Not rich by any means, but secure and prosperous. I believe they came for what Mr. Thoresen would term ‘spiritual opportunity’ in addition to financial.”

  “I see. Well, once again, it was a lovely and well-prepared evening. Congratulations to you, Mr. Letoire.”

  They sang all the beautiful Christmas carols at service the next day. Rose sang with her whole heart, allowing her voice ful
l rein for a change. The message Pastor Medford preached was about the birth of a baby who brought deliverance to each heart that allowed that baby entrance, just as Joseph went from inn to inn looking for a welcoming door for his wife and expected baby. It set Rose free inside and it came as a revelation just then how each thing God did had to be received, believed on if you will, individually. Her faith was no good for someone else, and theirs no good for her, because God was looking for love in return from each man and woman.

  “I love you, Lord,” she whispered. “For what you have done for me.”

  That night was Christmas Eve and she was going to spend Christmas day with the McKennies. Meg and Fiona both begged her to come early “For t’ be see’n th’ wee ones wi’ their socks and present” and Rose accepted. Thoresens, too, asked, but she had already made her plans, so it was with surprise and pleasure when she heard the music of sleigh bells that evening across the rise descend into the yard. There was a whispered conversation out in front and giggles before voices commenced a familiar carol in an unfamiliar tongue. They trooped up the steps and sang lustily to Rose who opened the door to them. Bundled and red-cheeked with excitement all the Thoresen children stood singing, even Søren. But Uli stood in front, a wreath encircling her head like a crown, lit with candles.

  “Oh, how lovely!” Rose exclaimed.

  The children pushed forward, eager to deliver their packages, and Rose waved them all inside. Amalie, Sigrün, and Jan came behind them, smiling and wishing her a Merry Christmas.

  “But what is this?” Rose demanded of the children. “Explain it to me.”

  “It’s Saint Lucia,” Karl began. “She lost her eyesight but—”

  “And God gave her new eyes,” Arnie finished when Karl took a breath.

  “I’m Saint Lucia!” Uli bragged. “See my candles? We’re looking for my new eyes but we found you instead!”

  The boys hooted with laughter at Uli’s explanation while Søren added,

  “It’s traditional to visit one’s neighbors between Saint Lucia’s day, the 13th of December and Christmas to bring candies and sweets. You are our only close neighbor so here we are—even if we are two weeks late!”

  Amalie helped Rose undo the packages of cookies and cakes, which were promptly handed around. One bundle was definitely not candy by its smell, and Rose handled it suspiciously.

  “Lutefisk. Ver special,” Jan explained. He took the brown paper package and cut its cord with his pocketknife. As he unwrapped the unmistakably strong fish, the family sniffed appreciatively.

  “Ver special for Christmas. Codfish hard get here, so ver much treat, Ja?” The children echoed their relish.

  “Try, please?” The fluffy fish meat was steaming with warmth still, but the odor was having an unpleasant effect on Rose. Reminding herself that it was just codfish, she forced herself to try the offered bite. It was light and buttery and melted away in her mouth. The children giggled at her surprised expression—but the smell! Her stomach pitched uneasily.

  “It has a very pleasant taste and texture . . .” Rose commented weakly.

  Reading between the lines, Jan chuckled and re-wrapped the fish. “Lutefisk not for ever’one. We take home and eat more, eh?”

  “Thank you, anyway.”

  Then the children bestowed a present on her wrapped with shiny red paper, sprinkled over with silver stars.

  “I’m sure I didn’t expect a gift,” she protested.

  “Open it! Open it!” they urged.

  She did and found a colorful wooden trivet painted in traditional Scandinavian rosemaaling.

  “Wonderful work! it’s truly beautiful—thank you all, very much!”

  “Sigrün did the Rosemaaling,” Uli volunteered. “And Onkel carved the wood.”

  “I might have known so, he has such a grand skill. And Sigrün—I didn’t know you did painting. Would you show me sometime? I dabble in watercolors a little.”

  Ducking her head in shy pleasure, Sigrün nodded.

  “Now I have a gift for all of you.”

  The children expressed their approval. From under her bed Rose pulled a small box. She set it on the table and invited them to look. Kjell lifted the lid and “ohhed” softly. The other boys and Uli crowded up to see. The box was lined with shells, starfish, coral, and sea horses.

  “What are they?” Uli breathed.

  “Let’s take them out and see,” Rose suggested. Carefully they removed each one and laid them where everyone could inspect them and Rose could comment. They listened attentively as she described each piece, where it came from and what it was like in the ocean before it died or washed up on a beach.

  “However did you collect them all, Mrs. Brownlee?” Karl asked. He was holding a large, red star-fish and poring over its intricate construction.

  “My son collected them over the last four years,” she stated. “It was a hobby of his, but I knew you had never seen anything like them so my mother sent them to me for you. Do you like them?”

  “Yes’m.” They looked curiously at the shells in the light of their absent owner but refrained from asking further questions. The uncomfortable moment passed and the children, even Søren, Sigrün, and Amalie continued to admire the box’s contents while Rose plied them with their own sweets.

  When they left, Rose gave each of the youngsters a candy cane and a hug. She hugged Sigrün and Amalie, shook Søren’s hand and Mr. Thoresen’s.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Thoresen.”

  “Ja, and a ver Merry Christmas for you. And I denk you.”

  She looked questioning.

  “Denk you for special gift to children,” he repeated. “Ver special.” He pressed her hand and bowed.

  It seemed to Rose that when the Christmas season ended, the blizzard season began. Rose was pumping water when she noticed the northern vista had assumed a hazy aspect. A few minutes later she was sure there was something odd about it. She took the water in and came back out to pump another bucketful for Snowfoot. Glancing over her shoulder she was amazed to see that nearly all of the prospect just north of Thoresens’ was gone—obliterated. Even while she watched, their pastures disappeared from view and the cloud advanced. It dawned on Rose that her first blizzard was nearly upon her. In a panic, she yanked Snowfoot’s stake up and dragged her to the barn. Moments later Prince was deposited in his stall unceremoniously, and Rose hurried to pull down double portions of feed into their mangers. She’d been told how often a blizzard could keep a family from tending their stock, occasionally causing them to starve. She called loudly for Baron and found him already by the stable door, anxiously whining for her.

  “Good boy! You wanted to take care of me, didn’t you?”

  She ran for the house, Baron at her heels, and pulled the shutters closed, fastening them securely, top and bottom. Thoresens’ was gone from sight, the blizzard upon the cornfields when she slammed and bolted the front door. It was quiet, unnaturally so, moments before the storm hit. Rose was trying to remember if she’d left anything undone or forgotten when a sound like a shriek surrounded the house and the wind-driven snow blasted every wall.

  Rose sat still in the rocker, her heart racing wildly. She felt as if a fantasy monster was attempting to pull her home apart in order to pluck her out. When the roar continued unabated but the doors, walls and roof held, Rose began to relax. She built up the fire, thankful for the load of coal inside her pantry’s bin, and made dinner, adding a little extra for Baron. He wouldn’t be going out to catch his meal.

  The blizzard went on and on. Rose worked quietly, first tidying up, then on a quilt she was attempting for Jamie. It was going to be robin-egg blue on the back and a pattern of stars and crescent moons on the front in yellow, orange, and white. A blue border would tie it all together. Vera had helped her to start, and Rose was conscientiously following her instructions, even pulling out uneven stitches which, Vera insisted, were signs of an impatient nature. Rose was sure of that, and struggled to keep her temper under contr
ol, even as she struggled to get her stitch standards high enough to win Vera’s approval.

  “Knitting is easier,” she fussed.

  The continual roar and scream of the wind was deafening. If anyone had been there to talk to, no conversation could have been held anyway. She went to bed early and lay awake feeling and hearing the barrage against the house. Fitfully, she dropped off to sleep, exhausted by the commotion.

  In the month of January there were three blizzards with heavy snowfall in between. Rose enjoyed the snow, but it did make traveling difficult. She didn’t have a sleigh like many families did by taking the boxes off their wagons and mounting them on runners, so she rode Prince to service and to Bible study on Wednesdays. it was slow going at times and often cold; also lurking in the back of Rose’s mind was the scary idea of being caught in a blizzard away from home alone with Prince. She never left the house without first putting Snowfoot in her stall with adequate food and water.

  The ladies’ meetings continued to produce good results. Jacob and Vera’s work grew and prospered too as the church grew. They were able to rent a small place of their own in town with a kitchen, tiny sitting room and bedroom. Vera confided to Rose what a blessing the privacy was and even more, the room.

  “We’re going to have a baby, Rose, probably in late July.” Vera’s face glowed with happiness.

  February blew in much the same as January and the sheer boredom of being inside so much started to tell on Rose’s spirits. She finished the quilt for Jamie, began another for her mother, knit mittens for several neighborhood children, read most of her books, and played her piano sporadically. Visits were infrequent because the weather was so severe most of the time and just plain cold. The temperature stood often just above zero. More and more she understood what she’d heard called “cabin fever” although to Rose’s way of thinking, one good friend . . . or husband . . . would have made all the difference in the world.

  It was the loneliness that did it. The days held few interests or visits. Her nights became infiltrated by dreams of James, memories of James, and a great, dull, heavy longing settled on her as if a stone were tied to her heart. Without realizing it as it happened, she slid into a slough of depression that was draining her spiritually, day by day. She continued reading her Bible faithfully and was deep in the book of Psalms, but when she encountered David’s songs of anguish, she failed to hear David’s answer from God because of her own dark thoughts and became more depressed.