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Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
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poor farm’s wagon to the Jonnson mill one day this week and fetch Tommy. You’re right. He needs to be here in town with the rest of us.”
Cora beamed.
Christina tried, but for reasons she little understood, she couldn’t conjure a smile in reply. “Let’s get supper started before Mrs. Beasley scolds us, shall we?”
Chapter 8
Levi stepped out into a bright, clear morning. He paused at the edge of the porch, taking in the expanse of blue overhead. For weeks gray clouds had masked the Kansas sky. Even though the wind stung his cheeks and made the inside of his nose burn, he let his gaze drift from horizon to horizon. Such a big sky. And blue. Everywhere blue. Much like Mor had described the sky over the ocean when she and Far had crossed from Sweden before Levi was born.
If his parents had stayed in Sweden, would Far still be alive, healthy in mind and body?
Thoughts of his father tarnished his pleasure in the crystal-bright sky. He set his feet in the direction of his mill. His boot heels thudded on the hard-packed earth as he made his way to the slope-roofed, sturdy plank building waiting at the edge of his property. As he closed the distance between his house and the mill, anticipation built in his chest. Another day of labor. Easier labor, he admitted, than what he performed in spring and summer, when the river ran free and turned the waterwheel to power his saw, but such rewarding labor. He would savor these final days before the layer of ice on the river melted, which would mean setting aside his planer, adz, chisels, and awls.
Regret pricked. Such pleasure he found in those tools. Tools with wooden handles worn smooth by his grandfather’s hands, first used in a country far away from these rolling Kansas plains. Using them to craft beautifully detailed pieces of furniture, fireplace mantels, and jewelry boxes filled him with a satisfaction unlike anything else. If only—
He gave himself a little shake as the past threatened to encroach on his present. There was honor in his warm-weather work, too. He only made boards in the warmer months, but boards were important. Boards from his mill becamehouses and stores and barns. He made straight cuts, true cuts, so whatever was built would be square and strong. As long as people had the good sense to put the building on a firm foundation and protect the wood with a coat of paint, he wagered his thick-cut boards could withstand a century of Kansas’s erratic seasons.
The hinges creaked on the wide door when he swung it open—a familiar sound. Comforting as a lullaby. Here in the sanctuary of his mill, the place that allowed him to make an honest living with his two hands, he spent his most peaceful moments. Always busy in here. Which meant no time to think.
Although the walls blocked the wind, the mill was frigid, its windows and even the exposed square heads of the iron nails pounded into the rafters holding a coat of frost. With a hurried step he crossed to the bricked corner where a black potbelly stove hunkered. Kindling filled a basket, and split wood waited in a neat pile beside the stove. He reached for the kindling first, earning a spark with two quick strikes of his flint.
Within minutes a tiny fire crackled. With practiced ease, he layered wood over the blaze, blowing gently to encourage the fire to grow. He watched the flames lick upward, darkening the creamy white wood, and although he welcomed the warmth, he couldn’t deny a sense of regret at what must be sacrificed in order to stave off the cold. How it pained his craftsman’s heart to see wood that could become carved medallions or turned legs or delicate spindles turned to char. He slammed the iron door shut with a solid clank.
A startled intake of breath sounded behind him, and he whirled around. “You!” Hands clenched into fists, he stomped across the sawdust-strewn floor and took Tommy by the upper arm. Everything within him wanted to shake the boy senseless, but he kept a rein on
Cora beamed.
Christina tried, but for reasons she little understood, she couldn’t conjure a smile in reply. “Let’s get supper started before Mrs. Beasley scolds us, shall we?”
Chapter 8
Levi stepped out into a bright, clear morning. He paused at the edge of the porch, taking in the expanse of blue overhead. For weeks gray clouds had masked the Kansas sky. Even though the wind stung his cheeks and made the inside of his nose burn, he let his gaze drift from horizon to horizon. Such a big sky. And blue. Everywhere blue. Much like Mor had described the sky over the ocean when she and Far had crossed from Sweden before Levi was born.
If his parents had stayed in Sweden, would Far still be alive, healthy in mind and body?
Thoughts of his father tarnished his pleasure in the crystal-bright sky. He set his feet in the direction of his mill. His boot heels thudded on the hard-packed earth as he made his way to the slope-roofed, sturdy plank building waiting at the edge of his property. As he closed the distance between his house and the mill, anticipation built in his chest. Another day of labor. Easier labor, he admitted, than what he performed in spring and summer, when the river ran free and turned the waterwheel to power his saw, but such rewarding labor. He would savor these final days before the layer of ice on the river melted, which would mean setting aside his planer, adz, chisels, and awls.
Regret pricked. Such pleasure he found in those tools. Tools with wooden handles worn smooth by his grandfather’s hands, first used in a country far away from these rolling Kansas plains. Using them to craft beautifully detailed pieces of furniture, fireplace mantels, and jewelry boxes filled him with a satisfaction unlike anything else. If only—
He gave himself a little shake as the past threatened to encroach on his present. There was honor in his warm-weather work, too. He only made boards in the warmer months, but boards were important. Boards from his mill becamehouses and stores and barns. He made straight cuts, true cuts, so whatever was built would be square and strong. As long as people had the good sense to put the building on a firm foundation and protect the wood with a coat of paint, he wagered his thick-cut boards could withstand a century of Kansas’s erratic seasons.
The hinges creaked on the wide door when he swung it open—a familiar sound. Comforting as a lullaby. Here in the sanctuary of his mill, the place that allowed him to make an honest living with his two hands, he spent his most peaceful moments. Always busy in here. Which meant no time to think.
Although the walls blocked the wind, the mill was frigid, its windows and even the exposed square heads of the iron nails pounded into the rafters holding a coat of frost. With a hurried step he crossed to the bricked corner where a black potbelly stove hunkered. Kindling filled a basket, and split wood waited in a neat pile beside the stove. He reached for the kindling first, earning a spark with two quick strikes of his flint.
Within minutes a tiny fire crackled. With practiced ease, he layered wood over the blaze, blowing gently to encourage the fire to grow. He watched the flames lick upward, darkening the creamy white wood, and although he welcomed the warmth, he couldn’t deny a sense of regret at what must be sacrificed in order to stave off the cold. How it pained his craftsman’s heart to see wood that could become carved medallions or turned legs or delicate spindles turned to char. He slammed the iron door shut with a solid clank.
A startled intake of breath sounded behind him, and he whirled around. “You!” Hands clenched into fists, he stomped across the sawdust-strewn floor and took Tommy by the upper arm. Everything within him wanted to shake the boy senseless, but he kept a rein on
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