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ROSE WAS UP EARLY, washed and dressed in time to watch the sunrise. She treated herself to an extra cup of coffee before planning her day. The crisp air and pale blue sky seemed to indicate another warm one, and she smiled in anticipation.
After setting her work for the morning, she knelt by her bed and prayed. Special consideration was given to each of the two families who had made themselves so indispensable to her; the McKennies and Medfords.
Once again she prayed for Mr. Schmidt. It seemed to Rose that he had a good heart, but was far away from finding God and, in fact, had no real knowledge of what God was actually like, just notions gathered along life’s way.
How many “good” folks are in the world, she wondered, who are, in reality, far from God, lost and lonely?
She took time to pray for Mrs. Schmidt too, and included the tailor’s hardened old wife and the crotchety liveryman. “Bless them today, Lord, and let them know it is from you so they can turn to you,” she whispered. Lastly, she asked for guidance on everything she had planned, giving each thing to his control.
“I thank you for bringing me here, and I really want to obey you in whatever it is you have for me.”
Rose heard a splashing from the creek and went to the door. Two large men were sloshing up the slope from the stream. They were both wearing work pants, plaid shirts and sturdy boots. The younger one carried a large wooden box loaded with tools, while the older man had a saw across his shoulder and a tin pail in his other hand. It was the blond-and-bronze boy from church and the man with a wagonload of children!
The young man introduced himself as Søren Thoresen and shook her hand politely and with a shy grin. Rose liked him right away. He turned and introduced his father, Jan Thoresen.
Rose took note again that the proper pronunciations were “Yahn” and “Torasen.” Mr. Thoresen gazed steadily at her while shaking her hand. He rumbled “Gud Morn” but nothing else.
Brian was right about Søren, Rose evaluated. “He’s as much a part of the west as the freight manager at the station!”
Mr. Thoresen impressed her differently. He was quiet and reserved, and his strong, healthy build belied his being the father of a twenty-three-year-old son. His eyes were the most compelling feature in his sunburned and weathered face.
They are such a brilliant blue. Icy . . . but not cold. Not exactly.
The picture of a Norwegian fiord, clear, deep, and still came to her. Still, Rose found it disquieting to be examined with such detachment. Søren was a much livelier and comfortable version of his father.
Rose showed them around. Most of the repairs were obvious; Søren and his father held animated conversation in Norwegian, pointing, taking measurements, and “test shaking” was the word Rose coined for it. Everything needed to be made sturdy again, Søren informed her, especially the doors and roof. When the blizzards hit, anything not nailed down snugly or firmly built would likely be blown away. They inspected the barn, the lean-to that abutted the barn, the outhouse and, beginning with the roof, the whole house with its attached pantry and lean-to. While they were discussing the front door frame, Rose timidly drew out her notes, and requested their attention.
“Excuse me. I, ah, I know it is important to make everything weatherproof, and I want that of course. But while you’re working on the basics, I would like, that is I have some ideas I would like incorporated. Right here . . . on these papers?”
The two men were silent as she spread the sheets out on the table. The rectangle box representing the house was divided into two rooms, parlor and kitchen. The parlor doubled as Rose’s bedroom and the kitchen for everything else—working, writing, cooking, and eating. Major improvements were the windows on the east and south walls, the interior wall to make two rooms, cupboards and shelves—lots of them. Last but not least, a porch the entire length of the front and the width of the south side of the house. They studied her sketches, Mr. Thoresen pointing and making comments.
At last Søren spoke. “These windows must be ordered. Mr. Bailey’s company doesn’t stock them this size, and he only keeps a few on hand anyway. If you are intent on this . . . veranda? My father says it should be built last only after the roof is replaced, the interior work done, doors fixed and windows installed. He means to make you as snug as we can for your money and in the time we have and feels the decorative part should wait. We may not be able to get to it until late summer if we’re to do the essential repairs between plantings now. That’s about two weeks.”
Rose answered. “I see.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice, but knew she was being childish.
Mr. Thoresen was looking at her intently, so she mustered a bright smile and responded, “Well then, we will get the essentials done and not worry about the porch until later. But I do want it as soon as is convenient.”
Nodding, Søren picked up his tools, and the two men set to business. While they were working, Rose fed Prince and put him in his pasture. He looked questioningly askance at her quick visit so she relented, spending five minutes scratching his forehead and patting his neck. He responded by laying his muzzle on her shoulder. How she loved this horse! Finally, Prince moved away of his own accord to graze, and she fetched her rake, hoe, and hatchet.
Rose did not know how to go about clearing brush, but she could see what she wanted removed. Brian had cleared the front fairly well, so she widened the area, working around the side in narrow swaths. Each time she hoed down a respectable amount of grass or brush she would rake it into a pile. She made two piles, one on either side of the house. Her hands already stung inside her gloves, and her back protested when she would straighten, but she kept at it. The growing open space was her reward.
At midmorning, every loose board had been nailed down. Søren and Mr. Thoresen were making a list of lumber and materials needed and called for her to come and approve it. Aware of how dirty and disheveled she had made herself, Rose made haste to assure them that whatever they needed was fine.
“All the arrangements are made with Mr. Bailey—you can pick up whatever you need.”
Mr. Thoresen spoke rapidly to Søren in Norwegian and he agreed.
“My father suggests one of us take our wagon to town to get the lumber. There are several things to be done here in the meantime, so I’ll leave right away.”
“That’s fine.” Rose hurried away to the pump. With her hanky she washed her hands in the cold water. She removed her straw hat and tidied her hair before going back to clearing brush. A new respect for her hoe was in her eye when she began again.
She heard Mr. Thoresen working on Prince’s barn, the sound of his hammer blows rhythmic and sure, while Prince stood curiously at the fence watching what he could.
Rose’s brush clearing advanced to the back of the house. Again and again she brought the hoe down on the roots of the brush. The largest green roots required using the hatchet to cut through. It was satisfying to see the pile of brush grow and the clearing spread out.
Mr. Thoresen was working on the outhouse now, knocking the old roof off in preparation for a new one. Rose was happy about that, considering the leaky alternative!
For an hour more she labored, going to the pump to bathe her face and hands once. Her back was in pain, but she kept at it, hoeing down the “enemy” (as she now considered all weeds) and raking them into mounds. In her heart she knew she was overdoing it, that it did not all need to be done today, but she stubbornly kept on. She was struggling to get the last bunch into her pile when turning around she ran right into Mr. Thoresen. She was so surprised, she just stood there. He reached out and took the rake from her exhausted hand.
“Too much,” he said mildly. “Sit, please.” Without another word he took over her job.
Rose did not dispute with him. At the pump she washed again and went into the house. In spite of her dusty shoes, she lay down upon her bed and did not realize she’d drifted off to sleep until the sound of lumber being piled in the yard startled her awake. Her instincts told her it was way past lunchtime. One o’clock! She’d been asleep more than an hour.
“Ohh!” Rose’s back protested when she got up. She pushed herself up and, putting on her hat, limped outside. Søren and Mr. Thoresen were just finishing unloading the wagon.
“Have you eaten lunch yet?”
Søren laughed. “No, but I am hungry enough to. We brought it in that pail, and I am just getting back as you can see, so we’re about ready now.”
“Would you like some coffee with it?”
Mr. Thoresen knew what coffee was, apparently, for he responded decidedly, “Ja! Dat’s gud.”
Rose went to get the water. Most of the back yard was free of brush and grass! In addition, the pile of brush was smoldering, nearly reduced to ashes. She checked the sides. Yes, both piles were burning. Mr. Thoresen had done it while she was sleeping.
Rose stirred up the fire and put the pot on. For her own lunch she sliced bread and cheese, opened a can of peaches, and served out a small dish. When everything was ready, she took a cloth and the coffeepot out to the larger tree and laid them out. Returning to the house she got her plate and three cups. The last item was a pail of icy water from the pump.
Søren and his father, both leaning against the tree, were waiting for her, lunches ready. They looked happy to take a break, and Rose recalled that they had already done the “choring” of their large farm before coming to work for her!
Mr. Thoresen blessed the food softly in Norwegian and Rose and Søren said “amen” at the same time. Then they opened their lunch pail, and Rose gaped at what they pulled out—great open-faced sandwiches made of thick slices of meat, cheese, and onions followed by pickles, carrot sticks, sliced turnips, cookies, dried apple slices, two quarter-pie slices of squash pie, and a small cheese wrapped in a damp cloth emerged from that bucket. Tucking clean cloths into their shirt collars the two men began to eat.
And eat.
Rose looked at her bread and cheese. Father and son had devoured half their sandwiches and several pickles, carrots, and turnip slices before she nibbled her first bite.
Mr. Thoresen said something amusing to Søren who chuckled in agreement.
“What did he say?” Rose asked smiling.
“Oh, he said that the reason you are so thin is that no one has ever fed you properly.”
Rose’s cheeks and neck flamed in embarrassment.
Mr. Thoresen’s eyebrows went up and Søren apologized immediately.
“Mrs. Brownlee, I am sorry—what he said wasn’t meant to be rude. Our women are so hearty that they eat quite a bit. Why, Sigrün eats nearly as much as I do when we are harvesting. I truly apologize if we have offended you.”
Rose nodded. After a moment she offered, “I am not used to working hard—or even seeing men work hard and eat as well, I mean as much, as you do. I am sure my appetite will get better out-of-doors. You see, I was sick a while ago and haven’t gotten my weight back yet. But I will.”
Both Søren and Mr. Thoresen nodded in agreement as Søren translated what she said. Mr. Thoresen cut a small wedge from the wrapped cheese and offered it to her.
“Gjetost,” he stated. “Gud, gud for you.”
“Goat’s cheese,” Søren explained. “Our specialty from Norway. It is very nutritious. We have five goats in addition to our cows.”
Rose sniffed it dubiously, but was afraid to offend them by not trying it. Cautiously she nibbled the dark brown substance. It was different, quite strong. She thought she could like it so she took another bite. It was all right and she finished the piece. “I like it. Thank you.”
“My father wants to know if you have milk here.”
“Well, no, but maybe I could buy some from you?”
“Yes, he says we will work something out.”
Mr. Thoresen spoke again, and Søren repeated it to her.
“He says if you have been ill you should be careful and not overdo it by working outside too long like you did today, until you build your strength up.” Søren chuckled and shook his head. “There’s more, too, Mrs. Brownlee, and I apologize for my father’s boldness. He’s a very kind man, but he basically says what’s on his mind without considering if it might be taken wrongly. Please understand that his advice is meant in friendliness. He also says you are too pale (Søren chuckled) and should work outside sometimes without a hat because the sunshine is good for you and will give you color—but, again, not too long at a time (another chuckle), and that you should eat more, of course.”
Mr. Thoresen was seriously looking at both of them, so Rose thanked him demurely and valiantly ate everything on her plate, including the second piece of gjetost and several pickles and cookies Mr. Thoresen insisted on adding to her lunch.
Rose wondered if her sore muscles would let her get up when lunch was over. Finally, the two men stood and stretched. They excused themselves and went back to work so she picked up the dishes, groaning as she did, and shook the cloth.
To her surprise, both men were in the house moving everything to one side of the room.
“We are going to paper and wall the inside,” Søren explained. “When your windows arrive in about three weeks, we can put them in. Meanwhile, getting the walls finished is important.”
“Yes!” Rose was enthusiastic and helped shift her few things aside. She put a chair by the back door where she could observe them. Beginning in one corner, they papered the front wall between the studs with black tar paper. The paper would make the wall “tight,” keeping out wind and dust. They worked quickly, being careful not to drip on the floor. The hot, acrid smell of tar was strong in the room, but Rose did not mind. She was having the time of her life seeing her plans unfold. After the men finished the papering, they cut long planks and nailed them lengthwise to the studding. Each board was butted up to the next one and made snug by a few soft hammer blows on the side, forcing it as close to the next one as it could go. As fast as they worked, they still only finished the one wall before it was chore time.
“We don’t work tomorrow, Mrs. Brownlee,” Søren informed her, “because it is Sunday. But we will be back Monday morning. We will get a lot done since we have the lumber here now.”
“Thank you. It is already looking better. And I hope to see you at church tomorrow. Perhaps I could meet Mrs. Thoresen then.”
“I’d be happy to introduce you, Mrs. Brownlee,” he replied. They gathered their tools and lunch pail and strode down the slope across the creek and fields to the waiting cows and other chores. Rose watched them and then inspected her one finished wall with satisfaction. Not plastered as she would expect back east, but maybe someday.
Remembering again that the following day was Sunday, she opened her small trunk and unpacked her blue suit and hung it up. Some hand washing took time too, so she was busy. When she should have been thinking of dinner she was still too full from lunch, so she admired her wall again trying to envision all four of them done and the one room made into two, plus the other repairs.
The roof was bad too, they had said, but she had known that from Brian. Rose stared at the little square trap door to the loft and decided to take a look up in it. She’d never been up there. The ladder leaning against the outside of the house was heavy and awkward. By laying it down she was able to drag it in and lift it up until it leaned against the beam next to the door. She tested it gingerly, then climbed up. Hanging on fearfully to the ladder with one hand she pushed up with the other. The door was quite light and opened all the way over. Rose stepped up another rung but could see nothing in the murky darkness. She descended the ladder and fetched a lamp. Lighting it and trimming the wick, she carefully climbed back up. This time the dusty outline of the loft could be seen when she put her head through the door. She lifted the lamp higher for a better look. The room was small, because the low pitch of the roof used up much of the space, but large enough for the Anderson children to have slept in. Rose twisted around to see it all. It was totally empty but dirty. The amount of dirt had to have been from the cracks in the roof. Rose wondered why she couldn’t see daylight through those cracks. Brian McKennie had said that the roof had holes or near-holes in its boarding.
An enormous clap of thunder shook the house, making Rose gasp in shock. Before she’d descended the ladder, hard, pelting rain was beating rhythmically on the roof and walls. She hadn’t even noticed the sky darken with rain clouds, but that was why sunlight hadn’t penetrated the loft. Rose was grateful her stockings were hung inside!
Deciding the rain shouldn’t keep her from taking a bath and washing her hair, Rose lifted the galvanized washtub from the nail outside the back door and brought it in, placing it on the floor by the stove. Next, she built the fire up good and hot. Then she ran to the pump with both buckets and pumped them full. The rain was pouring down in cool torrents. Rose liked it. She stood with her face upturned, enjoying the sensation. This was something she had never been allowed to do as a child. She emptied the buckets into two large pots on the stove and made three more trips.
By the time the water was hot, she was chilled enough to really enjoy its warmth. Of course, there was no way to actually soak in a washtub, but she knelt in it and rubbed herself vigorously with soap and hot water, rinsing with ladles of water from the stovetop. The heat radiating from the coal fire filled the room with delicious warmth. She toweled off and dressed in her nightclothes before emptying the washtub bucket by bucket. Then, she ladled hot (not too hot) water onto her hair as she knelt on a towel before the tub. After washing and rinsing it thoroughly she wrapped it securely in another dry towel and finished dumping the dirty water.
It was late enough to be bedtime when she sat in front of the stove carefully combing and drying her hair with the stove door open.
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