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Authors: Lauraine Snelling
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blizzard?”
“Far said so.” And if her father said it, in Astrid’s eyes, that was next to God talking.
“Yes, please, Lord, bring our son home before the blizzard.” Ingeborg barely repressed a shudder that tried to shake her clear to the bottom of her soul.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On a Train West
December 22, 1893
The sea of white continued to eternity.
Thorliff made himself return to his book rather than stare out the train window. Hoarfrost rimmed the sides, sending feathers out to take new territory. He’d already scraped it away once. At least he didn’t have to study. Exams were over, as was his first term. He’d made it through. What a relief.
“Grand Forks. Next stop, Grand Forks.”
Thorliff watched the conductor sway his way down the aisle, stopping to answer a question posed by a man most likely a drummer, from his appearance. The salesman looked a mite familiar, perhaps one of those who frequented the Blessing Boarding House.
Why, Lord, can I not read here? I can with the babble of students in the reading room or even when the press is running . His thoughts roamed back to the pressroom where the antiquated press tried to shake the walls down. But there he could concentrate on his books and listen for the slightest change in the printer cacophony that signaled trouble, trouble that occurred with dismaying regularity.
Taking the printer apart, fixing the problem, and putting it back together came after he’d learned to set type, put away type, clean the rollers, and grease the gears. Greasing the press wasn’t a whole lot different from greasing the combine or the steam tractor. If the part moved, grease it, was his father’s maxim. Who would have thought his hours helping his father and uncle Lars with the farm machinery would be put to use with a cranky printing press?
Thorliff’s stomach rumbled, even louder in his ears than the clackety-clack of train wheels on rails. The screech of applied brakes let him know the train was indeed nearing the Grand Forks station where he needed to change trains. They crossed the bridge over the frozen Red River, and steam billowing past his window from the braking reminded him to fetch his satchel from the rack above his head and slide his book into the outside pocket. He hadn’t needed to pack much for such a short visit.
When he stepped to the platform, a snowflake floated down and settled on his nose. The gray sky promised a multitude.
When he made his way to the counter to buy something to eat, he glanced around at the waiting passengers. Wouldn’t it be a surprise to see someone he knew?
“I’ll take a hunk of that cheese and two slices of bread, coffee if you have some.”
The woman behind the counter nodded. “That there is Bjorklund cheese. You ever heard of it?”
“Ja, I have.” Should he tell he most likely helped make that wheel of cheese?
“They make the best cheese anywhere. Better even than Wisconsin.” She handed him his dinner. “That’ll be forty cents, please.”
Thorliff kept himself from shuddering. Like his bestemor always said, “They rob you on the railroad.” And that was true whether buying food or shipping grain, cheese, hogs, whatever.
“Takk.” He took his change, his mind spinning off to an article he could write for the paper. Alternately taking bites of bread and cheese, chased down by coffee that could almost be called hot, he made his way to a high-backed wooden seat, much like the pews in most churches. When he glanced up to the reader board, he shook his head. One hour to wait. Now dusk would fall before he could get home.
Setting his coffee carefully on the seat beside him, he drew his textbook out of his satchel and tried again to read.
A baby crying reminded him to take a sip of his now cold coffee. He glanced in the baby’s direction to see a young man and woman trying to comfort a quilt-wrapped infant. The baby was having none of it, screaming as if they were beating him. The young mother got up
“Far said so.” And if her father said it, in Astrid’s eyes, that was next to God talking.
“Yes, please, Lord, bring our son home before the blizzard.” Ingeborg barely repressed a shudder that tried to shake her clear to the bottom of her soul.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On a Train West
December 22, 1893
The sea of white continued to eternity.
Thorliff made himself return to his book rather than stare out the train window. Hoarfrost rimmed the sides, sending feathers out to take new territory. He’d already scraped it away once. At least he didn’t have to study. Exams were over, as was his first term. He’d made it through. What a relief.
“Grand Forks. Next stop, Grand Forks.”
Thorliff watched the conductor sway his way down the aisle, stopping to answer a question posed by a man most likely a drummer, from his appearance. The salesman looked a mite familiar, perhaps one of those who frequented the Blessing Boarding House.
Why, Lord, can I not read here? I can with the babble of students in the reading room or even when the press is running . His thoughts roamed back to the pressroom where the antiquated press tried to shake the walls down. But there he could concentrate on his books and listen for the slightest change in the printer cacophony that signaled trouble, trouble that occurred with dismaying regularity.
Taking the printer apart, fixing the problem, and putting it back together came after he’d learned to set type, put away type, clean the rollers, and grease the gears. Greasing the press wasn’t a whole lot different from greasing the combine or the steam tractor. If the part moved, grease it, was his father’s maxim. Who would have thought his hours helping his father and uncle Lars with the farm machinery would be put to use with a cranky printing press?
Thorliff’s stomach rumbled, even louder in his ears than the clackety-clack of train wheels on rails. The screech of applied brakes let him know the train was indeed nearing the Grand Forks station where he needed to change trains. They crossed the bridge over the frozen Red River, and steam billowing past his window from the braking reminded him to fetch his satchel from the rack above his head and slide his book into the outside pocket. He hadn’t needed to pack much for such a short visit.
When he stepped to the platform, a snowflake floated down and settled on his nose. The gray sky promised a multitude.
When he made his way to the counter to buy something to eat, he glanced around at the waiting passengers. Wouldn’t it be a surprise to see someone he knew?
“I’ll take a hunk of that cheese and two slices of bread, coffee if you have some.”
The woman behind the counter nodded. “That there is Bjorklund cheese. You ever heard of it?”
“Ja, I have.” Should he tell he most likely helped make that wheel of cheese?
“They make the best cheese anywhere. Better even than Wisconsin.” She handed him his dinner. “That’ll be forty cents, please.”
Thorliff kept himself from shuddering. Like his bestemor always said, “They rob you on the railroad.” And that was true whether buying food or shipping grain, cheese, hogs, whatever.
“Takk.” He took his change, his mind spinning off to an article he could write for the paper. Alternately taking bites of bread and cheese, chased down by coffee that could almost be called hot, he made his way to a high-backed wooden seat, much like the pews in most churches. When he glanced up to the reader board, he shook his head. One hour to wait. Now dusk would fall before he could get home.
Setting his coffee carefully on the seat beside him, he drew his textbook out of his satchel and tried again to read.
A baby crying reminded him to take a sip of his now cold coffee. He glanced in the baby’s direction to see a young man and woman trying to comfort a quilt-wrapped infant. The baby was having none of it, screaming as if they were beating him. The young mother got up
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