| |
SUMMER ARRIVED IN ITS fullness. The heat began early each day before the sun was fully up, driving Rose into the house by midmorning. When that was too unbearable, she sheltered under the cottonwood trees where a hot breeze and a cold washcloth gave her an hour or two of relief.
Now she chored as early every morning as she could get up. By watering and hoeing in the early light she did half a day’s work by eight or nine. After milking and putting Snowfoot and Prince out she had her usual washing and cleaning. At noon she fixed her large meal of the day with a little left over she could eat in the evening. The less she used the stove, the better.
The garden grew up before her eyes, doubling overnight, it seemed. New peas came on, and baby radishes, onions and carrots supplemented her diet. The squash and pumpkin vines blossomed and spread out. Climber beans twined themselves around tall poles and reached for the sun.
Rose watered, weeded, and thinned her garden, then watered, weeded, thinned again. In those late afternoon hours she rested, dozing or reading. When the sun declined, choring began again and life seemed to revive in the evening as it cooled to tolerable levels. Even then, Rose slept fitfully in the stuffy, muggy house to wake early and begin the long, hot process again.
The Baron became more and more Rose’s companion these days. He exuberantly displayed his loyalty and affection whenever they were apart for even a few minutes and then reunited. He was fast maturing physically, too, and it was difficult for Rose to control his zeal. He was so strong and heavy! He literally knocked her over when she wasn’t expecting his onslaught of “tender” affection. This was a big problem, but there was another, too. The Baron was a great watchdog. He kept the coyotes out of the yard and discouraged the “nibblers,” but he liked to dig. Not just anywhere, mind you. Only in the garden or in her shrubs. Now that the starts and flowers were doing so well along with the green garden, she cried tears of vexation when she came upon his destruction. And she couldn’t seem to stop him.
Every week Kjell or Uli would bring fresh eggs, butter, and cheese to Rose, and she would pay for them. After a particularly weary morning of replanting a bush that obviously wasn’t going to ‘make it,’ she snapped at Kjell in desperation, “Please tell Mr. Thoresen that the dog he gave me is tearing up my yard and garden. Ask him what I should do, for heaven’s sake!”
Kjell must have delivered the message effectively, for an hour later Mr. Thoresen was knocking on Rose’s front door. The Baron growled menacingly at him.
“Kjell say dog bad. Here.” He handed Rose a thin, resilient stick.
“What do I do with this?” Rose inquired indignantly.
“Come see.” Jan walked down the porch steps and around the house. There, the same poor bush victim had been dragged out of its hole and was gasping its last.
“Baron!” Jan’s voice was stern and commanding. Even Rose’s eyes grew big, and Baron skulked behind her skirts.
“Baron, come!” he demanded again.
When the pup refused to move, Jan reached behind Rose and took him by the collar, gently, but firmly.
Immediately Baron snapped at him, and Jan switched him soundly on the muzzle.
“Nei. No.”
He dragged the struggling dog to the bush and rubbed his nose in the shrub and its roots, punctuating his actions with “No!” and a firm smack with the stick on his hindquarters every few seconds. Having thoroughly acquainted Baron with the adverse results of his hobby, Jan turned to Rose.
“Now, Mrs. Brünlee—must do if dog bad. All times.”
His instruction was uncompromising, and his inflexibility scared Rose a bit. He must have seen her shrinking back for he added gently, “See?”
Baron was slinking repentantly toward them, baring his belly in submission and his teeth in a comical parody of a grin.
“Must teach dog be gud.” Jan glanced around. It had been weeks since he had been to Rose’s.
“Look nice. I see?” He did not wait for an answer but inspected the little shrubs and bushes, her garden and the flowers from seed just now beginning to shoot up. He even examined with interest the four fruit saplings.
Grunting in approval he commented, “Four, five year, get fruit.”
“Yes, I know. I . . . just wanted to start them, to see them grow.”
He nodded. “Garden grow gud.”
“Isn’t it doing well? I should have beans soon, and I even have a little salad every day from the greens. It is more than I can eat by myself, really, and with the new potatoes and peas I—”
Holding up his hand, he offered a fleeting smile. “Talk so slow, please, Mrs. Brünlee.” He seemed weary for an instant and it made Rose feel badly.
“Mr. Thoresen,” she began again, “I am sorry. Thank you—takk takk—for helping me with the Baron.”
He bent his head once and turned to leave.
“Mr. Thoresen,” Rose hesitated. “May I fix you some cool tea?”
Shrugging, he turned back around.
“Ja. Denk you.”
She poured two tall glasses of sweet, cold tea, and they sat on the porch in the shade of the house looking at his cornfields, house, and barns, the brown, gold, and green fields and the prairie away beyond. She refilled his glass almost immediately.
He seemed to be relaxed, so she ventured, “The day I had Sunday dinner with your family?”
He nodded for her to go on.
“At dinner we talked about the Bible.” She spoke slowly.
“Ja?” he was interested.
“I enjoyed that so much. Since then I have been studying—reading and trying to learn more.”
“Ah, dat’s gud. I try, too.”
“You do? I thought . . . ”
“Hmm?”
She searched for the right, simple words.
“I thought you knew already.”
He snorted and his eyes gleamed with humor. “Not all; not . . . ” he sought for the word.
“Not possible?” Rose suggested.
“Ja, not possible. Have Bible?”
“Do I have a Bible? Yes, of course. Do you want me to get it?”
He nodded, and she brought it to him. Turning to Colossians 3, he pointed out verses 16 and 17.
“Read, please.”
Rose read slowly, with articulation:
Let the word of Christ
dwell in you richly in all wisdom;
teaching and admonishing one another
in psalms, and hymns and spiritual songs,
singing and making melody
in your hearts to the Lord.
And whatsoever ye do in word or deed,
do all in the name of the Lord Jesus,
giving thanks to God and the Father by him.
“See?” he gestured in approval. “God’s word ‘dwell’—stay, live here.” He pointed to his chest. “Keep try to learn. Here. Not here.” He indicated his head.
“Oh! I see. Yes. Thank you.” She marked the passage so she could come back to it.
Draining the last of his tea and setting the glass down he stood.
“Go now, Mrs. Brünlee. You make dog gud.”
Reminded of what he expected her to do with Baron, she grimaced but agreed.
“Proverbs 13:24,” he quoted succinctly and swung off the porch.
Rose leafed through her Bible until she found it.
He that spareth
his rod hateth his son;
but he that loveth him
chasteneth him betimes.
“For my dog?” Rose burst out laughing. Quiet, solid, reserved patriarch of his clan, Mr. Thoresen, had a sense of humor.
She had an opportunity to test his method on Baron soon. The following morning while she was watering, he was excavating the marigolds from around the trumpet vine. Now, nothing could have been better designed to raise her ire than an attack on her favorite vine, so with a determination fueled by her anger she called Baron to her.
Maybe the dim light of understanding flickered somewhere in his small brain, for as he bounded toward her, tongue lolling, ready to fawn and lick her hand, he took note of the flowers scattered by her feet and the switch in her hand. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, his enthusiasm gone, so she strode to him and, using all strength, pulled him to the scene of the crime.
It was ludicrous, really. Rose couldn’t force his nose down to the ground, so she held him and thrust the flowers up into his face while shouting “No! Bad dog!” then dropped them and picked the switch up to use on his rear. In a contest of strength, Baron would win “hands down,” but due to his loyalty to her, and the fact that she had never struck him before, he was submissive and abject for several minutes.
Then after lunch she caught him in the very act of demolishing a lilac. Stick in hand, and vengeance in her eye, she descended on him. It was easier for her to do a thorough job this time, and Baron’s yelps of surprise and pain did not deter her.
Several sessions more followed in the week and then “miraculously” the repeated disciplines seemed to work. Baron took his excavation projects elsewhere, and Rose’s garden and yard endured a season of peace.
—
AS SUMMER DRIFTED BY, Rose bought a used saddle and copied Fiona by riding Prince on short trips although she feared she would never be a graceful horsewoman. Just mounting Prince required the use of her front porch and patience on both parts.
Of an evening she might ride across her unused fields behind the house the three miles to McKennies’ farm. Their family made room for her like a favored relative and often Rose would bring a treat or game for the children and a book for Brian while she and Fiona talked and worked or occasionally visited another neighbor.
Through Fiona Rose met several other families in the area. A few miles opposite McKennies was the Gardiner farm. They had come from Tennessee five years before and had just “proved up” their claim that spring, one that had previously been filed on and abandoned when the former owners failed. They had a grown daughter, Sally, who was engaged to be married in the fall, and two sons still in school who farmed with their father. Beyond them lived the Bruntrüllsens, a Swedish family whose only son, Ivan, was Søren’s best friend.
Sundays and spending Sunday dinner and the afternoon with friends, either as guest or hostess, was the high point of every week for Rose. The whole McKennie family, including Meg, or Jacob and Vera Medford, all the Thoresens, the Schmidts, and the Gardiners had been her guests. When delivering the promised bulbs to Mrs. Bailey she had asked them to come, but Mrs. Bailey amiably declined, and Rose continued to pray for them and to try to express God’s love in some tangible way. They had not come to church as yet.
She remembered the soddy one Sunday when McKennies were visiting and asked Brian about it. He agreed to open it up and take a look. Rose had a small collection of tools bought one or two at a time when she needed them. They were stored in the stable and Rose showed them to Brian, who selected a crowbar and a mallet before they made their way through the dry, overgrown prairie grass disguising the soddy against the hillock.
Brian felt for the edges of the door and used the end of the crowbar to scrape through the dirt and grass grown around it. He pulled and fussed a few minutes before it came open.
The inside was small—about eight feet, but cool and empty. A musty, earth smell permeated the air. Rose was impressed that a family of four had lived several winters in its small confines.
“When they built the house it must have seemed like a mansion after this,” Rose commented.
“Aye,” Brian replied. “Our soddy was ’most twice as big, but we were havin’ more young ’uns at th’ time than Andersons did.”
“Is your soddy still around, Brian?”
“Nae. We was usin’ it for cool storage many o’ year ’fore we were diggin’ th’ root cellar closer by. Then we tore it doon. An’ we should be diggin’ a cellar for ye, too, Miss Rose. This is bein’ too far from th’ house, especially in winter—and ye must be havin’ a place for t’ store yer garden produce.”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose you are right.”
As June melted into July and July passed by drowsily, Prince grew fat and sassy along with Snowfoot. Sometimes, on a hot day, just for pleasure, Rose would take Prince and Snowfoot with Baron tagging along and walk up the creek. She turned them loose to wander and play, nibble or graze on the green growth by the water. Prairie dogs, birds, garter snakes, rabbits, all were observed in their tramps.
Across the creek, beyond Thoresens’ fields, unplowed prairie or other farms stretched out. Very few farmers actually used all 160 acres of their homesteads yet. But every year they could, they would break more ground, sow more crops. Thus, the wild spaces were being pushed back, a little at a time.
Rose was happy to dip her bare feet in the creek and feel the sandy gravel between her toes. The afternoons when they rambled aimlessly in the sunshine became her fondest memories of that summer, her first year out west.
~~**~~
