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“AT LEAST WE HAVE A roof over our heads, and I have a job through the winter.” Samuel is trying to convince himself that even though things didn’t work out as we had hoped, we will not starve. A week of worry preceded our finding this place, though.
Our dreams had built up so big during our journey that we expected to walk off the train, pick our land practically from the train platform, pay cash for all we needed, and set up housekeeping by nightfall. Of course, we didn’t expect it to be that easy, but America was the place where all our dreams were to come true.
Reality set it quickly. Two carloads of bewildered people unloaded at Galesburg. Now what? Where do fifty other people and we find a place to live—starting with tonight’s lodging? Can we find a hotel with a cheap rate, or are we allowed to sleep at the depot until we find a room?
Everyone is hungry. Traveling costs have whittled at the savings that was supposed to last much longer. How many more meals before we are out of money?
Immediate employment is needed to continue feeding the family but look at all these men standing on the platform in the same dire situation. All the farmers on this train are going to be vying for a piece of farmland in this area. And how many trainloads of immigrants came before us this spring looking for the same thing? Panic overtakes me. Now that we are here, what do we do?
The depot agent is patient, considering he is asked these same questions daily. “Talk to Pastor Dahlsten at the First Lutheran Church. He’ll help you find a place to stay tonight and a meal to fill your stomachs,” he says as he points up the street. “Follow north on Prairie Street several blocks, then go right on Waters Street until you see the white wooden building. The church is good about giving you a hand.”
“But, sir, we want to go to Andover.”
“Well, that’s twenty-five miles on north. Tomorrow morning you come back here and ride to Lynn Center, then you’re on your own. Check with their livery to see if you can hire a wagon to get to Andover.”
We were not at our final destination after all. We wander with the crowd to the church mentioned, looking for food and advice. We’ve now among fellow Swedes, but we’re just the latest throng of immigrants that have arrived. Will they help us or resent us for moving in on their town and their charity?
“Go due west. It’s only about three miles. Keep looking for a high church steeple in the distance. That’s what the locals call the ‘Cathedral on the Prairie.’ It’s the new Lutheran church being built in the middle of Andover. Call on Pastor Swenson when you get there. He’ll show you over to the Immigrant House.”
We’re closer, but still not there.
It was a short train ride. It took longer to load our baggage in Galesburg and unload it at Lynn Center than to ride there. At the time I thought that I’ll be glad when we don’t have to travel with all our possessions anymore.
Besides us, there were two other families who got off at Lynn Center. After we hired a wagon, it was brought to the depot to load our belongings. We split the cost, but with three families’ luggage, there wasn’t room for passengers. So we walked beside the wagon, looking for our landmark.
In some ways, our walking seems fitting for the final leg of our journey. We’re farmers, tuned to the rhythm of the land, and our stroll is the perfect way to get acquainted with this new area.
All our senses are close to the earth to witness nature. We saw the scenery through the window of the train car, but walking makes us part of that view.
The land rolls slightly; it’s not entirely flat like some of the land we crossed earlier. Edges of the native prairie are still visible between fields of green. There are some pockets of deciduous trees in the landscape, but nothing like Sweden with its pine and birch forests.
The air is sweet with warm earth and blooming weeds along the trail. We’ve breathed all kinds of city pollution in the last two weeks, and I welcome the fresh scent of the countryside. A bird call in the distance mixes in with the steps of the foot travelers and team. A grasshopper clinging to the top of a blade of tall grass chirps as it sways in the breeze.
We stop partway to rest. The children are tired of trying to keep up with their little legs, and the heat and humidity are difficult for all of us. There is a bit of breeze, but the sweat is trickling down my back.
A farmstead sits close to the road where we stop. It’s not a big place like some we’ve seen. It doesn’t look very old, but most of the buildings could use some repair and a coat of paint. It probably was one of the first homesteads built when the area was established twenty years ago. The only trees on the place are fruit varieties west of the house.
We don’t see any activity around it, and we wonder if it is vacant. All the windows and doors in the small house appear shut. They should be open with today’s heat. The porch faces the road, and there are tall weeds mixed with wilting daisies along its edge. You’d think the farmwife would pull the weeds to enjoy the flowers.
The barn is modest by most standards. The pen next to the barn is empty. There are no grunts of pigs echoing from behind the pig shed or chickens scratching around the buildings. The field beyond the barn is planted with corn, so the ground is not idle. There is a stretch of native prairie behind the barn that is ready to be mowed for hay.
Samuel goes up to the house to see if we can draw water from the well we see in the farmyard, but no one answers his knock. Even though the top of the well is covered, the bucket is still hanging inside. So he draws water for us to drink.
We sit on the porch during our break. Samuel had lifted the food basket from the wagon to get cups, so I gave the children some food. Revived somewhat, the group of youngsters chases one another around the yard until it is time to leave. When we’re done, I pour the last of the water on the daisy clump by the steps.
If I lived here, I’d draw water from this well every morning to water these flowers.
So this is Andover.
Swedes from Kalmar Län settled here during the early years of Swedish migration to America. Kristbala, about twenty-five miles southeast of Pelarne, lost nearly half of its four thousand citizens when they moved to the Andover area in the last decade. Now we get to see what they wrote home about in their letters. I expected a much larger town, but its relatively small size is a comfort after the big cities we’ve been in. I’ll feel much safer here than in places like New York or Chicago.
People and vehicles are coming and going on their errands around town. Dogs chase playing children. Although bare of trees along the dirt streets, the town appears clean. It looks like a nice place to live.
The church and pastor were easy to find. He walked with us the three blocks to the immigrant shelter. Along the way, he pointed out businesses, residents, and gave us a history of the town. It started with a few Englishmen in 1835. They have a mill down south of town on the Edwards River. Swedes came to the area in the 1840s and started a commune south of here named Bishop Hill. Starting with around one thousand immigrants, in the beginning, it amassed over twelve thousand acres by the early 1860s. Large brick buildings were built to house people and businesses. The commune was dissolved, and the land was divided among the members in 1861. Dissenters, and new immigrants who followed later raised the Swedish population of neighboring towns.
A group led by a Pastor Esbjörn came to Andover in 1850, but they had a hard time building their first church because of cholera epidemics. They started the little white chapel in 1851, with funds the pastor collected from people in the East. Jenny Lind, the Swedish singer, gave him fifteen hundred dollars for the fund.
Progress wasn’t made during the next two years. The church basement was used for a hospital, and the grounds sheltered hundreds of immigrants that kept arriving.
At the height of the cholera, epidemic wagons went around the colony daily to pick up the dead, which were buried in mass trenches north of the church. When the church was finished in 1854, it was without a steeple because the lumber purchased for the steeple had been used for coffins instead.
Within a decade the expanding congregation didn’t fit the chapel anymore, so construction on the new church nearby started last year. Members made over fifty thousand bricks for it. It seats one thousand people. The inside is not finished, but there is a temporary altar, pulpit, and benches. The building rivals the big-city churches we saw on our trip. I think they made up for the lost steeple because the one on the new church is one hundred and thirty-six feet tall.
Besides the Lutheran church, there is also a Methodist and a Presbyterian church. The tidy appearances of the hotel and downtown businesses prove the town is flourishing. The two story school is empty this time of year but nevertheless shows there must be a growing population of children in town. We already passed a country school on the way from Lynn Center, so we know education will be available for our children wherever we settle.
It was strange to see a young town. Andover was started less than forty years ago. I don’t think I had ever been in a building that new in Sweden, let alone a town.
We pestered the Pastor with questions about available land in the area. Samuel’s shoulders sagged when he heard there is no homesteading land in this area, and probably not in the state. All the prairie sod was broken up over a decade ago. Farms are prospering now that they are well established. If a place does go up for sale, the going price is high. Groups were talking about banding together and moving farther west next spring. If we couldn’t find land here, we could move on.
The best the Pastor could recommend was that Samuel asks around to find employment in business in town, or for a job as a farmhand. Word circulated when something came up, but with so many people looking for jobs, the competition was fierce and the pay low.
Pastor Swenson brought us to a residence that is being used as an immigrant haven. We can stay here while Samuel looks for work and a place to live. I wonder how long we’ll be allowed to stay because I’m worried it might take a while to get settled.
This morning we walked the boardwalk on the main street and peered in store windows to get familiar with what business is in town. We’ll be living here, so we need to learn about what is here.
We found the post office. I suggested we send a letter back to Sweden to let the family know we arrived safely, but Samuel said he wants to wait until he has good news. He wants to tell his fader about his new Illinois farm. I just let it pass for now. We both know that owning a farm here is beyond our means, but we don’t want to admit it to ourselves or to the family just yet.
Samuel will soon find out for himself if land is available. The land agent was in his office, so Samuel made for the door. I would like to have been in on the conversation but sense this is some thing Samuel wants to do without an audience. He wants to face the disappointing news by himself. Hedda and I steer the children down the street to the next shop so the men can talk in private.
The large plate glass windows of the mercantile shine, beckoning us to come and see what’s inside. The door stands open, with mixed aromas from food to leather drifting out. After living in Sweden’s lean years, it is comforting to see shelves stocked full, bulk produce in barrels, and cured meat hanging from the ceiling. The store has everything from tools to household goods to furnish the home and farm.
The shelves are stocked with cans and boxes with labels in English. We can guess the contents of some by the picture on the labels, but of others, we have no clue. How will we know if medicine will cure or poison us if we can’t read the words? But this store has rye flour and salted herring at the request of homesick Swedes. It is nice to be able to speak Swedish with the clerk.
Hedda ran her hand against the bolts of bright printed calico on a shelf. I know she longs for a new dress of cooler material. Don’t women weave their own fabric here?
“Yes, we’re new in town, “I say to the clerk, and, “No, I don’t know where we are going to live yet.” He seems to have more confidence than I do that our situation will reverse soon.
Little hands quickly grab the stick candy the clerk hands them. I’m horrified when they stick it in their mouths because now I must pay for it. I have few coins on me and no idea how much the candy costs. The grinning man assures me it is a free treat for the children, and I smile a “thank you” in relief. Every coin in our possession has been counted more than once, and it is painful to part with each one.
After Samuel spent a week looking for a job in this town and the neighboring areas, his luck turned around. A Mr. Peterson came to the immigrant house looking for Samuel. He had a vacant farm, and he needed an experienced person to take over the place for this next growing season.
“I can’t promise you it would be a permanent place because I might put it on the market. But the family that rented the farm left for the West recently, and with all the field work needing to get done, I need someone to move in right away. I haven’t had the time to look for someone to take care of the place until now. I asked Pastor Swenson to be on the lookout for a family he thought might be suitable, and he mentioned you.
“Actually, if you came to Andover by way of Lynn Center, you went by the farm. It’s on the north side about a mile back, a small house that sits close to the road.”
That’s the farm where we stopped for water.
Samuel hesitates, not knowing whether we should take this offer or wait for something better. It would be only a temporary place, but what if we can’t find anything else?
I nod my head to Samuel’s puzzled stare. I think this will work for our first home in America. Besides, I’ve already sat on the porch and watered the flowers.
