Chapter Eighteen

“I’VE ACCEPTED a new position as a traveling evangelist,” Peder said to Ruth as they gathered at the dinner table.

“Your father has wanted to do this for a long time,” Olava said, pulling up her chair. “He’ll be reaching people in churches all around the country.”

“But it means we’ll be moving to Minnesota,” Peder added. He studied his daughter’s face, and as she asked questions, her parents assured her that the change was the right one for their family. They’d be settled in their new home before Ruth began seventh grade that fall.

She felt excitement and a thread of fear —Wallingford was the only home she could remember. Now, after eleven years, everything would be different.

They moved first to Fergus Falls, Minnesota. With 10,000 residents, the town seemed huge to Ruth —Wallingford had fewer than 250 citizens. On the north side of town stood the magnificent state hospital, one of the last insane asylums built in the Kirkbride model. It resembled a towering castle and, at times, housed as many as two thousand patients.

Ruth spent seventh and eighth grade in Fergus Falls. She made friends quickly and loved to ice-skate on local ponds during the cold winters. But before Ruth’s first year of high school, Peder and Olava decided the best home base for ministry was Minneapolis. As one of the largest cities in the country, it offered seemingly infinite resources and was a good central location for Peder’s travels around the region.

Peder enjoyed his new position. He visited churches in twelve states and four Canadian provinces, staying in more than a hundred parsonages. He encouraged congregations with messages as a guest speaker, and he advised pastors as a veteran of the parish ministry.

Ruth and Olava appreciated the conveniences of Minneapolis. Ruth rode the streetcar to school every day, and it wasn’t long before she could navigate the city with ease. Even on a tight minister’s income she was able to dress well, and her cheerful and engaging disposition always drew people to her.

A few years later, a teacher of Ruth’s would write in her yearbook: “You sure are filled with atomic energy —may it never burn out. However, be just a little more conscious of the serious side of life as well as the joyous.”

Another remarked, “You really livened up my English class.”

In the years that Peder traveled, Ruth and Olava grew closer than ever. They took the streetcar around the city to shop or sightsee, and attended church together. For a special treat they watched a movie at the cinema. Olava’s favorite was Lassie Come Home.

These were war years, and ration cards were as normal as money to Ruth. Since her mother didn’t drive, they at least weren’t subject to gas rationing. At times, classmates or church friends told stories that related to the faraway war; of brothers, sons, husbands, and friends not coming home from places like Normandy and Iwo Jima. But as in the Depression years, Ruth was sheltered from tragedies taking place beyond the safe existence her parents built around her.

On rare occasions, Ruth was able to travel with her father. She was always welcomed with glowing compliments about how pretty she was, what a fine girl she seemed to be, how proud her daddy must be. Ruth, in turn, was proud of her father, and she missed him terribly when he was gone.

“How long until you come home this time?” Ruth asked her father on one of his visits. “You helped the boys prepare for confirmation, and now mine is coming soon.”

Ruth had been studying hard for the ceremony that would be a public declaration of her faith. But she knew it would be easier to understand Luther’s Small Catechism if she was sitting beside her father as he explained the lessons that he knew like the back of his hand.

Peder promised to be there to help his daughter prepare.

After her confirmation, Ruth continued to enjoy a full life in the city. Then suddenly, after only two years in Minneapolis, they were packing up again. Decades later, Ruth would be stunned to learn that as they were leaving Minneapolis, a woman named Minka Disbrow was moving in, just two miles from the cute bungalow house the Nordslettens occupied. Perhaps they’d walked the aisles of the same grocer, or brushed past each other on a streetcar, or sung hymns near one another at the same Lutheran church.

The Nordslettens were relocating to a small farming town in Wisconsin called Viroqua, where Peder had taken what would be his final pastorate. Ruth, now a junior in high school, was once again the new girl, but this would be her last time in that role. This town would take her in completely, and she would remain here for the rest of her life.

* * *

After the grand city of Minneapolis, little Viroqua in southwestern Wisconsin was a throwback to Ruth’s first tiny hometown in Iowa.

“What kind of hick place have we moved to?” she wanted to ask.

Ruth had grown accustomed lately to dressing well, in dresses or at least in pressed slacks and a blouse. But the girls in Viroqua wore rolled-up blue jeans, bobby socks, and saddle shoes, topped off with their fathers’ white dress shirts. Ruth stared at the girls, feeling like she’d arrived in a foreign land.

At least Ruth had one relative at the small high school, and second cousin Anita was thrilled to show her around. With Ruth’s quick smile and confidence, she didn’t have any problem fitting in. She was a beautiful girl, the new pastor’s daughter, and a fascinating newcomer to the students who’d known each other since playing in the church nursery.

To her own amazement, Ruth soon felt comfortable in the “hick” town. She even sported the local uniform of rolled-up blue jeans and bobby socks, although she had to settle for a T-shirt to complete the outfit. Her father’s white button-down shirts were much too big for her petite frame.

Ruth met Charles Lee on one of her first days at school. She enjoyed talking to the handsome high schooler, although he sometimes acted strangely.

“What’s up with Charles?” Ruth asked her cousin Anita.

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes he acts really weird. I’ll think we had a really good talk, then the next time I see him, he seems to be making fun of me or something.”

A wide grin stretched across her cousin’s face.

“What is it?” Ruth asked.

Anita couldn’t contain herself. “It’s not Charles.”

“What? You’re saying it’s me?”

“No, I mean, you aren’t talking to Charles.”

Ruth squinted her eyes and felt a surge of annoyance. What was her cousin talking about?

“It’s Chester, his brother. His identical twin brother.”

“What!” Ruth said, crossing her arms at her chest. But a smile played at the edges of her mouth.

“Chester and Charles sometimes switch places. They’ve been doing pranks like that for years. They’ve tricked teachers, parents, anyone they can.”

Ruth began plotting revenge in her mind, but bemusement wrestled with her anger —and won.

“At least now I know he’s not stupid,” she said with a laugh.

Ruth was never fooled by the brothers again. She and Charles continued to talk, and Chester liked to tease them. Before long, Ruth and Charles were going steady.

Through her junior and senior years of high school, Ruth and Charles were considered an item. Charles and his family belonged to the other Lutheran church in town, but later he began attending Reverend Nordsletten’s parish.

During the summer months, Ruth went to Bible camps with many of the other Viroqua students, and she continued to sing and play the piano. Ruth’s passion for music only grew during her high school years. She especially liked the Big Band music of Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Sammy Nestico. As the family radio blared the music, even her parents grew to enjoy it.

Although separated in miles, the Nordsletten family remained closely connected. Scotchy was stationed in Corpus Christi, Texas, in the navy. Ruth loved wearing his peacoat when he visited. Kenny was in Minneapolis, and sometimes Ruth took the train back to the city to see him, as well as Ole and his wife. Ole was going to seminary and would become a minister like his father. Ruth’s favorite times were when her brothers and their growing families visited. Olava seemed to glow when all her children were beneath her roof again, and Ruth adored the ruckus of voices —debating, discussing, or laughing.

To Ruth, a full house meant happiness.

* * *

The morning of May 28, 1947, as Ruth dressed for her high school graduation, sunshine beamed through the windows. She wore a suit beneath her graduation gown, and white leather sandals, which she’d just purchased. Before walking to the school, Ruth posed on the parsonage’s green lawn for a picture. The sky was the kind of blue that promised warmth and the coming of summer, although the temperature was making a surprising dip and a bunch of clouds crowded together on the horizon.

During the graduation service, the light coming through the windows softened, then faded. A freak snowstorm surprised everyone. Robed graduates hurried through the cold to their cars or raced home on foot, diplomas in hand.

Charles and Ruth walked together in the falling snow. By the time Ruth reached her house, her leather sandals were soaked through. The straps dried stiff and misshapen; Ruth could never wear them again. That night, eight inches of snow dropped on Viroqua. The storm set records across the Midwest, some holding firm until a May storm in 2013.

In Minneapolis, Minka Disbrow still thought of her older daughter, even as she held her infant, Dianna, in her arms. She’d continued to write letters to Miss Bragstad. She’d hoped that her Betty Jane would graduate from high school, an opportunity Minka never had. Will she be going to college next fall? Has she fallen in love? Is she happy? So many questions ran through Minka’s mind.

Ruth was now older than Minka had been when she’d left the House of Mercy with a heart so broken it would never fully mend. While Minka had spent her young adulthood grieving, Ruth was anticipating a bright future, full of promise.

* * *

In late summer of 1948, Charles took Ruth to a jewelry store. He’d been working at a local business and had saved for this day. After they chose an engagement ring, he asked if she wanted to wear it.

“No,” Ruth said. Charles recognized her stubborn streak coming on.

“No?”

“I want you to put it on my finger proper-like, when we’re alone,” she said firmly.

Charles learned quickly that when Ruth dug in her heels about something, he’d better listen. This understanding would help him in the coming decades of life together. And once they were away from the curious eyes of the store clerks, Ruth welcomed the engagement ring onto her finger.

Ruth had her hope chest neatly packed with things for their new home: pot holders, doilies, dishes, aprons. She and her mother, Olava, had spent years making pieces for it and choosing items that would someday fill Ruth’s own home. They’d purchased Jewel Tea dishes and cobalt-blue Depression glass for Ruth’s future table, carefully wrapping first a platter and then a serving bowl. In the decades to come, Ruth added to the collection, which would survive countless holidays and years of small hands “helping out.”

Ruth and her mother had bonded from the first day they’d met at the House of Mercy. They’d sung together, worked in the kitchen, and done housecleaning in Minneapolis for extra money when Peder was traveling. For several years, during the summer and autumn months, they’d canned fruits and vegetables side by side, waiting for the soft, popping sound of lids sealing over the boiling jars. Ruth would find this skill invaluable in the future, when she’d make canning and freezing an essential part of her family life.

Olava shared her cherished recipes with Ruth. Her beef vegetable soup had always been a family favorite, and the children couldn’t get enough of her baked goods. Ole described them well: “They were out of this world and halfway into the next!”

Even with a houseful of children, Olava took bits of time to explore outside interests. Without any lessons, she had discovered a natural talent for oil painting. She could visualize a ship at sea or a mountain landscape —with no ocean or ranges for hundreds of miles —and her brush brought the image to life on canvas. Her children and grandchildren saved her paintings of a blacksmith’s shop, a deer, a waterfall, a sailing vessel. The generations to come would have something to remember their grandmother by.

Since leaving Minneapolis, Olava had noticed a decline in her health. It was becoming difficult to open and close her hands from the effects of rheumatoid arthritis, which worsened as the years passed. She also suffered from asthma and struggled to catch her breath even when doing small tasks.

Still, she enjoyed every moment with her children, telling them stories about her life, such as her time working as a nurse during World War I. Or childhood stories like when she’d nearly drowned in the Two Rivers area at the age of fifteen.

She’d been delivering lunch and hot coffee to her father and brother-in-law as they worked in the hay fields on the other side of a river that divided their land. Two logs with their bark peeled back served as a little bridge. Olava’s arms were full —coffee in one hand, food in another —and the logs were slippery. Halfway across, she lost her balance and fell into the river.

Frigid water filled her lungs, burning as it pushed out the air. She sank, but suddenly, “Jesus was beside me, the Lord in His white robes, as plain as day.” He spoke to her. She asked His forgiveness. Together, they prayed the Lord’s Prayer.

Olava’s brother-in-law had heard a peculiar noise that roused his curiosity and drew him to the river. Instinct pushed him to run as he approached the water’s edge. He dove into the water and pulled Olava out, putting her into a nearby wheelbarrow and running her across the log bridge and back to the house.

She later wrote of the event, ending her account this way: “When I hear of people here and there who meet death by drowning, I think of my own experience, when Jesus came so close to me as He did in the Two Rivers in Northern Minnesota. They too may have had similar experiences with the Lord, as I did, before death took them.”

She had no idea that the story mirrored that of Ruth’s maternal grandfather, Ben, who would perish beneath lake waters in the next state over, just thirteen years after Olava’s near-death incident.

* * *

Ruth and Charles’s wedding took place on September 24, 1948. She was nineteen years old. It was a family affair: her father officiated, her brother Scotchy walked her down the aisle, her sister-in-law Arlett played the organ, Ole sang, and Kenny served as usher. The only shadow crossing the day was Olava’s health. Scotchy and Kenny helped her get to the church to attend the ceremony, but she was quite ill.

After the wedding, Charles moved into the parsonage with Ruth, into the same house as her parents. The young couple was broke and wonderfully happy. And it had been such fun growing up in a house with four kids, Ruth decided a couple more would only increase the joy.

“I want six children!” she told Charles.

Charles looked at her and said, “If six come along, they will be welcome and loved.”

Soon they were able to move into an apartment of their own. After bouncing around Viroqua a few times and saving diligently, they had their $1,000 down payment to build a small house on the south end of town. The payments were $48 a month.

By then, babies were arriving. Only a few months after their first anniversary, Ruth discovered she was pregnant. After a difficult labor, the couple welcomed a daughter, Deb, and Ruth happily immersed herself in homemaking and motherhood. Less than eighteen months later, Charles and Ruth celebrated the news that their second baby would arrive the following summer.

But the joy was short-lived, and Ruth’s desire for six children was soon to be tested.