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WE FINALLY HAVE A ROOF over our heads and a way to provide food and income. Our possessions were hauled to the farm, and I was back on the porch, ready to make this house our home.
The white wood-frame house consisted of a rectangle shaped kitchen, which you stepped into from the porch, then a living room and a bedroom on the east. A flight of stairs just off the bedroom ran upstairs to two small dormer bedrooms. It was sparsely furnished with table, chairs, beds, the basic necessities to make do.
The first thing Hedda and I did was to scrub the house from top to bottom. Although it had not been vacant for very long, it was musty from being closed up. It wasn’t in a filthy state, but I felt everything needed to be cleaned because someone else’s scent and dirt was in it. Curtains were taken down and washed. The woodstove, which I had to get used to cooking with, was cleaned of its old ashes and polished. I even scrubbed the porch to remove the road dust.
Unpacking did not take long because we brought so little with us. The rug found a place in the kitchen by the front door, not by a hearth. Dishes, cooking utensils, and the staples we bought in Andover were stored on the open cupboard shelves. The bedding was washed, dried in the sunshine, and heaven to sleep in after our varied accommodations over the past weeks. The children’s clothing had stains that needed attention. Our good clothes and coats were brushed and stored in the trunk we unloaded.
There were no treasures to display in the living room. Looking at bare shelves made me yearn for the things I left behind. “Wouldn’t the clock have looked nice there? That picture still hanging in the living room in Sweden could have hung on that wall.” I knew it would take time to find things for the house, but at times I was impatient to have a house that looked like a home.
Samuel, with Oscar tagging along, spends his first days cleaning up the farmyard. Overgrown weeds around the perimeter of the house and outbuildings had to be chopped down. Manure was pitched out of the barn. Samuel cleaned the tool shed just as fervently as I cleaned the house. Tools were unpacked and hung on one wall.
The squawking of chickens caught our attention at dawn the second morning. The man who owned the farm pulled up to the barn with a coop of chickens in the back of his wagon and had a cow and a saddled horse tied behind. He had brought this live stock for us.
The laying hens and the ruffled rooster scattered when freed from their cage. Within minutes their squawks of panic had turned to clucks of content as they scratched the ground for food.
Oh, to have a milk cow again! It wasn’t just the need for milk and cream that I was happy to have, but I had missed the routine of milking. The time I spent in those early morning hours was mine alone to dream and think in.
The pair of Percheron draft horses was unhitched from the wagon and turned into the small pasture off the barn. The harnesses were hung in the barn, and the wagon was parked beside it. Samuel couldn’t have been more excited, although he tried not to show it. Never had he had such fine animals to work with. Oxen had been the main work animal on our Swedish farm, and I knew the horses would spoil him as much as he would them.
Although Samuel was hoping the gelding bay would stay, the farmer had brought it to ride back home.
The two men spent the rest of the morning discussing equipment that was in place on the farm. They walked the fields, looking at the progression of the crops, talking about what needed to be done next—this patch of broom corn will be the first to cultivate, the hay should be cut next week if it doesn’t look like rain.
While watching them from the living room window, I wondered what Samuel must have been thinking. This is all so new to him—the crops, the machinery, working with horses. I could tell from the house that he looked a little apprehensive. Asking questions and doing his best is all he can do. I could also tell that Samuel wished that this farm was his own place, with its growing crops and livestock. The farmer was very kind compared to some Swedish landowners we’ve known, but I’m sure Samuel was thinking that, even though people are very generous here, he was still a farmhand working for someone else.
We slipped into the routine of summer. The corn seemed to grow overnight in the humid hot air that takes over the state this time of year. Samuel toiled to keep the weeds clear of the rows. Not only did he need to earn his pay, but he also needed to learn about the crops that are grown in America.
I tended the garden we started by the well. Fresh vegetables spoiled us after last summer’s barren harvest. We couldn’t afford the jars Americans use to keep fruit, so I dried the peaches, plums, and apples we harvested from the orchard trees. Everything we stored will feed our family this winter.
I worked on these projects alone because Hedda found a housekeeping position in town. She had Sundays free, so she came out to the farm after church service to eat dinner with us and play with the children. The afternoons we spent sitting out on the porch to escape the heat of the house. I stayed isolated on the farm that summer with the children and rarely was in town. Hedda, on the other hand, was part of the social life of Andover and enjoyed the easy work of housekeeping. She was picking up English words that she taught us. The children seemed to mimic Hedda and learn faster than I did. We tried to learn the language because we didn’t know where we would be moving next. Very few American towns have so many Swedes as Andover. We were satisfied with life on our rented farm until mid-Au gust. Through the church, we heard that there was a meeting the first of that month in Galesburg to organize a committee to look for land farther west to start a new Swedish community.
This might be our opportunity to start our own farm. And suddenly visions of moving again filled our thoughts as we tended the rented land and milked the borrowed cow. Passing the time and the meetings about moving west helped my restlessness grow. I didn’t want to become attached to the house and community knowing we would have to leave it. Samuel kept looking but couldn’t find a farm we could afford to buy. Maybe if we spent several years renting a place, we could eventually save enough money to buy a small acreage, but land prices are going to continue to increase as the farms in this area mature.
Samuel went to another meeting a week later where there must have been three to four hundred men. You can tell this area is too crowded when that many families are looking for land. There were hundreds of displaced immigrants in western Illinois trying to find work and homes. Something had to be done to help the immigrants, so action was being taken. They formed a committee of five men that will scout out possible land in Missouri, Kansas, and Nebraska.
The goal of the Galesburg group was to find enough land for an entire group of people to move at one time. There have been advertisements in the newspaper about river-valley property for sale in the state of Kansas. Railroads were given land on alternating sections of the planned route to lay the track. Once the route has been chosen, the excess land is being offered for sale for a reasonable prices.
The committee came back with good news. They had looked over land in Missouri first but didn’t find anything to their liking. Then they went on to the Smoky Hill River Valley in central Kansas. Pastor Dahlsten had a letter from a fellow Swedish pastor, Olof Olsson, who had contracted land in that area for a group coming from Chicago. Our committee liked the ground and decided to settle next to the Chicago group to form a larger Swedish community. They contracted to buy twenty-two sections of land or fourteen thousand eighty American acres. The price will range from a dollar fifty an acre for upland sections to five dollars for bottom land.
To make the land selection as fair as possible, a lottery was held to find out what land a family would settle on. Each section was drawn as a unit. Family and friends who wished to live on adjoining farms drew one unit. Each section will hold four to eight families, depending on whether they want eighty or a hundred and sixty acres. One person from each unit drew a slip of paper from a jar that listed their section’s legal coordinates. The contract for the land would require a fifth of the total for a down payment and four other equal payments at ten percent interest. Only the interest is due the first year.
So many families wanted to move that a committee member had to go back to Kansas to contract for another thirty-eight thousand acres. The Sandberg, Brodine, and Gustafson families we met at church were just a few we knew who was moving. Pastor Dahlsten from Galesburg is going to set up a church for the new community.
We decided to move with the group. We still want land of our own, and this was the perfect opportunity. We will be with people from our native country that speak our language and uphold the customs we are used to. Most of the families are from the Kalmar and Dalarna areas of Sweden.
Samuel didn’t participate in the lottery because we want to homestead free land near the contracted tract. The money we save on the land could go to building materials, seed, and equipment. Hedda decided to stick with the family and come along.
The first group left for the Kansas prairie in October. Others followed in small groups until a whole trainload moved in February. We planned to leave early this spring, but then a letter from Sweden delayed our departure. Mathilda kept the vow she made a year ago. She would be traveling to Illinois in May.
Moving this time will not be so hard. Yes, there are more things to pack, but we know what to expect. The two-day train ride will be easy compared to our three-week journey a year ago. I’ve started piling up things that can be packed ahead. Mathilda should be arriving any day, so we plan to leave soon after she comes.
Clothes for the five of us will be folded and packed back in the trunk that made the trip from Sweden. Bedding will be stuffed in sacks. Household goods accumulated over the past year will fit into two crude crates Samuel made from cheap lumber. I wish I could take this stove with me. I have used up the staples, so we don’t have to pay for their weight. We will buy new food supplies in the town near our new land. What dried fruit is left I’ll take along because we won’t have an established orchard. We have definitely accumulated material goods this past year.
The brudkista will transport the valuables. I decided to pack it today to get it done. Our wedding quilt is wrapped around the picture frame Samuel made for me to hang in the living room. In the frame I stretched an embroidered sampler of the Swedish table prayer I had stitched as a child. The wooden spoon and knife set that Samuel carved for my engagement gift are there, along with the few china plates and cups I’ve managed to trade for eggs at the general store. And a bundle of letters, the link to the family at home. I mentally correct myself as I tuck the letters in the chest. America is our home now. Time has improved my hemlangtan—until another letter arrives. Then I pine for my old home again.
They have been read, reread, and will be kept and cherished. Just touching the same paper that they held brings a flood of memories each time I hold it. I can see Fader sitting at the table discussing what to write before he even puts the pen in ink. Moder is sitting in the chair by the fireplace telling him what to write while knitting socks. They will reread the last letter we sent to make sure they have answered all our questions, then they discuss ones to ask us. I imagine Johannes and Stina are some times there to add their input. Then the task of laboring over the actual writing comes. Between the times that they read the letters, I imagine the pages are stored in a special memento box on top of the mantel.
It was months before we got the first letter. First, they had to receive the letter Samuel sent to them saying that we had settled in Andover, Illinois. Samuel’s letter started formally, just stating the fact that we all arrived safe and hearty. No, we haven’t bought land but have rented a farm near Andover for a year. But I knew the parents would want to know how the trip was, how long it took, did we have any trouble? We went into details of the area, of the farm we were renting and made comparisons of America and Sweden.
Then we had our own questions. Has it rained? How are the crops doing? Were they still healthy? Any neighborhood gossip of friends and family we left behind?
I couldn’t help but reach back into the chest and pull out the first letter we received from them.
Dear Family,
We received your letter postmarked June 1 from Andover, Illinois, U.S.A. We think of you being so far away, but here a letter comes, retracing your route. I think Moder carried the letter round in her pocket for a week, touching it often, just because you had handled the paper before her. She doesn’t say much, but I know she mourns the loss of her daughters and grandchildren, just like I do.
We’re glad to hear you found a place to live. It sounds like such a fine place. Describe it in more detail so we can picture the farm. How close to town is it?
How has the weather been this summer? It continues to be hot and dry here. The grain shriveled before it got knee high. I’m afraid we are in for another famine year.
What kinds of crops will you be harvesting this fall? You wrote about broom corn and sorghum. What are they used for? How many acres will you harvest? Will you have help, or does the American machinery you described take the place of extra hands? I’d love to drive the team of dependable horses you are working with. You must get your work done twice as fast and cover twice the field. With all those acres to take care of, be glad you’re not plodding behind our slow old oxen.
I can’t believe you haven’t found a rock on the place! I moved several before forenoon coffee and think about your absence of stone every time I leaned over!
Moder asks how the children and Hedda are. We haven’t gotten a letter from her describing her new job yet. And how are you feeling, Lotta? We hope the trip wasn’t too strenuous for the unborn child.
We miss you, but I must say you made the right decision to leave because you wouldn’t have made any income from the farm again this year.
Please write as soon as you can. Moder needs to hear from you again.
Much love and prayers,
Your parents
Our letters to our parents described in more detail the farm and its production because that was what interested them the most. Even though we were on different land in different countries, farming was the tie that bound us. Each letter asked more questions on weather and growing conditions. When do you harvest oats? How much hay do you get per acre? What is the average amount of rainfall in July? Some things we didn’t know ourselves until we experienced them, but we tried to answer each question and more. Our description of thunderstorms that lit up the sky with brilliant jolts of lightning and blasted the farm with a burst of hailstones caused them to write back in alarm. They were not only worried about us, but about the crops, they had tended through our letters.
When Johannes wrote the letter, different questions were asked, mainly because of his ties to the church. Are you going to church there? Did you hand over your transfer papers and join yet? Have you made arrangements for the new child to be baptized as soon as it is born?
We assured them we were a part of the Andover Lutheran Church congregation, but we have not joined because of our temporary situation. The churches here are the social as well as the spiritual centers of the community. We have met people that have become like family because most are transplanted from Sweden.
When the leaves of the sugar maple and ash turned colors this fall, I pressed and sent a leaf of each in our letters home. The autumn weather was warm during the days but had a crisp scent to it that was hard to describe. Nights cooled down just as soon as the early sunset disappeared over the horizon.
The harvest pace intensified as damp cold weather threatened the community. Farmers helped one another cut and bale the broom corn on their neighboring acreages. Wagonloads were carted to processing plants, where the seed was stripped from the tops, and the brooms sorted.
Samuel mastered working with draft horses and the machinery used in the harvest. It was still hard work but so much faster compared to the old Swedish ways.
Frost hit the garden one morning in early October, covering the vines with sparkling crystals. We harvested plump orange pumpkins and bushels of turnips from the garden and stored them in the root cellar. I wrote an inventory list of all the food we had harvested for our winter supply, wishing I could send half my stored produce to my family in Sweden.
Just as in Sweden we cut wood for the winter, repaired buildings so they would protect those inside from the cold to come, and gave thanks for the harvest. And we also wrote the news that we would be moving to Kansas in the spring to homestead land.
In our Christmas letter, we described the new granddaughter, Josefina Mathilda, born to us on December 12. Our new friends, August and Elizabeth Sandberg, were her sponsors on her baptism six days later. Josefina wore the christening gown Moder snuck in the trunk right before we left.
We assured the family that all three children were adjusting to their new home, were healthy and growing, and would enjoy Christmas, even though they would miss their grandparents.
Christmas preparations in our area were the same as in Sweden. Lutfisk and sill were available at the general store. Julotta was celebrated at the church. I did tell them that Oscar and Emilia had been worried that the jultomte couldn’t find them this Christmas because they had moved. But a storekeeper in Andover assured them that the Swedish Christmas elf has always found his way to this Swedish community.
The early snows with blowing wind seemed colder than Sweden in December, and I couldn’t help mentioning that in the letter. I tried hot to be melancholy, but I’m sure they guessed that we were homesick for the Christmas season in Pelarne. Even though we were among countrymen, Christmas would be sad without family sharing a meal, presenting gifts, giving one another an embrace of good wishes.
I enclosed seeds in an early spring letter so our mothers could start patches of daisies by their front steps, along with a few kernels of broom corn for our fathers to plant. We knew they would enjoy watching something grow that we had tended in America. This would be our last letter from Illinois. The next would be mailed from Kansas.
I look up from my reading to glance out the living room window. Two girls carrying suitcases are walking down the road toward Andover. Being close to the road, we have gotten used to the traffic and hardly pay attention to travelers. Now, opposite our house, the two plop down beside the road, apparently to rest before continuing to their destination. They look hot, so I decide to be hospitable and take water out to them. When the porch door slammed behind me, the two looked my direction.
One of the girls sitting in the ditch is my sister Mathilda.
