The Homestead Read online

  Then her heart soared, a song came from within her, and she felt a fresh will to continue, a desire to see what they could accomplish here, so far away from everything they had ever known.

  In time, then, with the Jenkins’ help, they had a decent place to live. The house was small, the furniture sparse, but there was a lift, a good solid space under the eaves for the children’s sleeping quarters.

  Sarah had brought her flannel comfort covers, leaving the sheep’s wool at home, reserving space for other necessities. So she stuffed these serviceable covers with thick, dry prairie grass, and the children slept well. Manny and Eli at one end of the loft, Hannah and Mary at the other. It was a wondrous roof; the gray tin didn’t allow one drop of rain inside. When there was a storm, the sound was like a barrage of ice pellets thrown against it, though it really only was raindrops of water. Hannah loved the sound of it and the safety of lying cozily under this new roof.

  Sarah never complained that she had to cook outdoors. There was no fireplace and no money for a stove, but she was grateful for the house nevertheless. She sang as she swept the floor with her homemade broom of willow twigs. She praised the Lord all her days for the roof and the good walls surrounding her at night.

  She cared tenderly for little Abby, who was a good baby, lying in her little bundle of blankets because there was no cradle or crib for her. Mary was in awe of her, sitting on the one luxury they had brought from the East—the cane bottom armless rocking chair. Hannah tickled her under her dimpled chin and watched her mere seconds before directing her interest elsewhere. Babies were a bother, and they smelled.

  Abby Jenkins shared more of the crumbling squares of white lye soap with Sarah, so it wasn’t that the baby’s diapers weren’t clean. Sarah watched her oldest daughter warily. Her eyes followed her as she went through the door, pushed back the tide of alarm that threatened her calm, and wondered what kind of girl would be so unaffected by the innocence of a small infant.

  How had they managed to raise this unruly daughter, this distant person who showed increasing disinterest in all manner of spiritual teaching? When Mose read the German Schrift, she either tapped her foot as if she was irritated, or lifted her eyes to the ceiling while she strummed at her lips with two fingers, making a strange buzzing noise, which apparently Mose never heard, or if he did, he gave no indication of being distracted.

  Sarah, however, was distracted. Always glad when devotions were over, she felt the stiffness leave her neck and shoulders, her breathing slow to normal. She could sense the lack of interest, but surely they would not need to raise a heathen in this wild and lonely country without sufficient people of religion to give her good company. How could they expect it of their children, wearing the white head covering if there was not another girl within a hundred-mile radius brought up in the doctrines of the Amish?

  Sarah’s way of dressing was very important to her. As long as she could wash, starch, and iron the large white head covering, she would wear it, and if it wore thin, she would patch it with fine and even stitches. Without it, she would feel unclean, exposed, naked. The head covering was instilled into her upbringing, infusing her life like a warm and fragrant tea, comforting, sustaining, a perfect guideline on how to live a godly life.

  She thought of the Jenkinses often. Here was an uncouth and worldly family, one who had no religious principles. And yet, their kindness knew no restraint. It flowed from them, an unexamined virtue they were completely unaware of, brushing away any grateful words with an air of unease, as if praise was an unaccustomed visitor, a stranger who made them nervous.

  The diapers Abby had given them came from a store of good quality flannel from her high walnut cupboard in the living room, a massive, ornate piece of furniture that made Sarah wonder about the Jenkins’ background. Much too polite to ask about their past, Sarah had kept quiet and accepted the small favors, the tiny gowns adorned with old lace, the hand crocheted booties, yellowed with age, but wearable and comforting.

  Abby’s dry, weathered face had been a beacon of joy, the lines and wrinkles increasingly deepened as she smiled and laughed out loud with a coarse sound that came from her throat every time she held the tiny bundle. Until one day, a strange sound strangled the laughter. She sat back in the wooden rocker and gasped for air, trying to stop the sobs that began in the midst of her smiles.

  “I had a little one once,” she said suddenly, her voice raw with suppressed emotion. “I had myself a baby girl. As perfect as the rising sun and as welcome. We found her in her cradle, cold and still one frosty mornin’. Her life was not quite three months on, an’ she was taken. I guess the Lord must have had need of her up there in His Heaven. I don’t know. It still hurts after all these years. She was like a doll, my firstborn. Bitter, I was, for the longest time. But there ain’t no use carryin’ on if’n you can’t have what you most want, so in time, it became a small pain instead of a big one. Clay came along then, and took a chunk of the pain away. Seems as if each baby that came along took some more of it with him. But now I remember back to how it all was.”

  She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, blew her nose with the square of muslin she always kept in her pocket, and shook her head. “Times come when it’s hard to figger out the Lord. Why He does things the way He does. Not that I’m overly religious, mind you. Hod don’t hold much with church going and prayin’ an’ stuff. But when you folks came along, it put me to mind of the time we used to go, singin’ and prayin’ and listenin’ to the preacher yellin’ about God and all kinds of them things.”

  She shook her head again, pondering. “I dunno.”

  Immediately Sarah’s motherly heart took up the pain, understood Abby’s ache, the longing she still felt, and she said softly, “The Lord giveth and He taketh away. The Bible is so clear about that. It was God’s will.”

  “Yeah, well, I know. But I’ve come to doubt God, livin’ out here in this place where you can’t count on nothin’. The dust and the storms and the cold and the heat, when yer crops shrivel and the cows can’t hardly find a thing to eat until their ribs is like bed slats under their dried out skin, it’s enough to make a person wonder if there is a God, and if there is, if’n He cares about this here prairie an’ the folks that live on it.”

  Sarah murmured, “Oh, but His mercy is unfailing. His goodness is always with the righteous.”

  For an instant, Abby’s eyes flashed, as if Sarah had angered her, and just as quickly, it was gone. When she spoke again, she had changed the subject to the amount of dark hair that adorned little Abby’s head, and after that she never mentioned God in Sarah’s hearing.

  Had she angered Abby? Sarah did feel God would bless them here in this verdant prairie if she lived righteously, submissive to Mose and the way he ordered their lives. Had God not provided even now? She had not been able to see her way through the birth of little Abby, and the building of the house. Everything had seemed insurmountable, like a steep, forbidding mountain that was impossible to climb. Oh, her faith in God had multiplied, abounded, her heart filled with strength to go on, for He surely provided, even in the darkest times.

  On their journey, when the horses tired, the way looked long, stretching before them like an invisible question. God had provided. It was only her own doubts and fears that had hampered her faith. She wanted to tell Abby this, share her testimony of dependence on a much Higher Power, fill the woman’s heart with God’s abounding mercy. But she was afraid Abby would not be open to it and that it would only anger or provoke her. Perhaps she had seen too much.

  Mose hitched the horses to the sturdy new plow and went out to a section of land he felt was the most fertile, where the soil was thick with black loam and decomposed grass. He set the plow and called to the faithful creatures.

  They lunged into their collars. Mose hung on to the two wooden handles and together they plowed a long, dark ribbon of upturned soil, clumps of grass sticking up out if it like misplaced whiskers. After a few rounds in the hot, spring
light of the sun, dark streaks of sweat marred the horses’ flanks, their nostrils were distended, blowing out with the force of expelled breathing.

  Mose stopped, flexed his shoulders, pushed back his straw hat and surveyed the upturned ribbon behind him. Here was good soil, no doubt. Here he would prosper, his crops a beacon of good management that came directly from his forefathers, generations of men who had tilled the land and sowed the seed that had been blessed by the God who was rich with mercy and unfailing goodness.

  With each turn of the good earth, his heart rejoiced in the Lord. He knew the corn he would plant would stretch on either side of his buildings, a waving sea of green, the wide, rustling leaves eventually producing large yellow ears of corn to feed the hungry children and animals, an abundant food supply, coupled with the endless sea of grass that could be harvested for the horses.

  He hoped to obtain a calf from the Jenkinses, if the Lord so willed it. He thought he might be able to barter a few days’ wages for it, perhaps longer than that, a few weeks, possibly, for a bull calf and a small heifer to start his herd.

  Mose smiled at the thought of Sarah’s delight in milk, cream, and butter, a veritable luxury, and one he looked forward to with keen anticipation. Yes, life was worth living. Oh my, how much it was worth! Out here in this powerful land, where God’s presence hovered across the waving sea of prairie grass, the air was pure and as sweet as the nectar of a honeysuckle vine, free of the foul breath of other men’s opinions. His spirit soared on the wings of the small brown birds that raced across the sky in acrobatic rushes of reckless flight. Uncharted, freewheeling, but crafted by the Master’s hand, Mose thought, as he squinted into the brilliant noonday sun.

  On into the afternoon they toiled, man and beast, using every resource they were given, struggling on across the land, tearing up the hardened grasses by the roots, tossing them aside by the shining plow slicing into the moist earth.

  In the evening, Sarah stood at the edge of the field, her eyes wide with wonder. The thin line of plowed soil had turned into a broad, dark band, the clumps of moist earth sheared cleanly, glistening in the late-day sun. The soil was moist and heavy with promise, a harbinger of things to come.

  She breathed deeply, never tiring of the sensuous odor of freshly plowed soil. It spoke of Mose’s labor, a good man doing what God had ordained from the beginning, that man labor by the sweat of his brow.

  She pushed back the notion that there were obstacles, the clumps of grass still protruding from places where the soil was not fully turned over. Would there be sufficient rain? Hadn’t Hod spoken of drought?

  Sarah hunched her shoulders, wrapped a hand around each elbow and stood, her head bowed as she murmured her lowly prayer to her God. One day at a time, Lord, one drop of rain at a time. Himmlischer Vater. Meine Herre und mein Gott.

  The harrow bounced cruelly across the sturdy clumps of grass, jerking the hames of the horses’ collars, rubbing them raw, their skin oozing drops of blood that smeared with the white foam of their sweat, turning it pink as the flecks dropped from them.

  The sun was high in the sky, hot and getting hotter. Mose was perspiring freely. His legs and feet ached from the agonizing jolts as he stood on the rusted old harrow he had borrowed from Hod.

  The morning was well spent, but his work seemed fruitless. Discouraged, he stopped the team, watched the heaving sides of the horses, noticed the raw places beneath the harness and became alarmed, stepping quickly to their sides. He looked back and his heart sank within him.

  How would he ever get a crop into the ground with this rusty harrow and two horses? This grass was far more than he had bargained for.

  He thought of the sturdy Belgians, the powerful, lunging teams hitched four abreast, easily drawing well-constructed, well-equipped harrows and discs and plows across soil that was easily turned and easily crumbled beneath the steel equipment. The corn planters were so new and efficient.

  For one moment this journey fell on his shoulders with the weight of a sack of grain. He felt the folly of it. Or was it folly? Perhaps he was only discouraged and tired. To be back on the home farm, though, was like an invisible thread that pulled steadily, waking up thoughts and memories long buried.

  His mother, plump and happy, always smiled as she rang the dinner bell that called them in to her well-laid table. There was prosperity and happiness, so much food, such luxuries in the barn alone—cows, milk, butter, and cheese. There were hens in the henhouse laying eggs, clucking and cackling. His mouth watered thinking of two fried eggs with a side of scrapple after the hog butchering.

  Suddenly, a longing to return seized him and shook him to the core. Just hitch up these horses and travel back home, resume life, swallow his pride, learn to listen to the arguments, and learn to appreciate other men’s opinions.

  His hands shook. Sweat poured freely from the agitation in his soul. He felt elated, ashamed, humbled, and uncertain.

  What would Sarah say? Where did this thought come from, this seizing of his emotions? Only yesterday he had felt so certain of God’s will leading them safely through adversity to the prairies of North Dakota. They were blessed indeed.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with fingers that fluttered, his mouth gone dry, his heart racing with a deep, unnamed fear. He looked up, expecting to see a black cloud covering the sun, turning the land gray and cold and barren. The thought of a flowing sea of green corn was replaced by a sick and colorless despair.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hannah snorted as she watched her father’s pathetic progress, bouncing around on that ill-constructed harrow, the jaded horses plodding along. “Look at him, Manny. He is so determined to grow corn out here. There’s an impossibility if you want to see one, and I mean it.”

  She had taken to hitching up the belt of her dress, imitating the way Hank and Clay tugged at their belts on their patched jeans. She stood with one leg crossed over the other, foot propped on the toe of her cracked and worn shoe. If she would have had belt loops, she would have hooked her thumbs into them. As it was, she balled her fists and pushed them against her narrow hips.

  Manny stopped cutting branches from felled trees, shaded his eyes with his hand against his forehead, squinted, and nodded. “Horses are shot.”

  “I know. It’s ridiculous. He’ll kill them yet.”

  Manny shook his head and turned away. “He’s our father,” was all he said.

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t have too many good ideas. He never did. Do you know why we came out here to live? ‘Cause he lost the farm and then tried to use up the leftover grain to make whiskey.”

  “He did not do any such thing, Hannah.”

  “Yes. Yes, he did, Manny. They kicked him out of the church. He had to join up again and do all that repentance stuff that sinners do. Then we left.”

  Manny drew himself up to his full height and addressed his sister in clipped tones. “I don’t care what you say, Hannah. You lie. You say anything you feel like saying. You don’t respect our father.”

  “Why should I? He’s a dreamer. A loser. Not even Hod Jenkins can tell that man anything. Dat thinks Hod is a man of the world, so he doesn’t amount to anything. He’s not gonna listen to him. Hod knows he can’t grow a decent crop of corn, not with those two spindly horses. And certainly not without bigger equipment. Hod’s just humoring Dat, lending him that plow.”

  Manny stood, a man not yet formed, an ache in his youthful heart brought on by a young man’s devotion to a godly father. He respected him, refused to believe in the hard, accusing words of his sister. She was the one with the problem, not his Dat.

  The sun shone hot and bright, pressing down on his shoulders as he watched Mose slap the reins down on the horses’ backs. They dutifully responded and clawed forward, their haunches lowered by the force of their efforts. He tried not to see the futility of his father’s form bouncing around on top of the poorly built monstrosity on which he balanced. Beside him, he felt the prickly disapproval of his sister, but he sai
d nothing when she snorted.

  After that, they went back to work trimming branches from felled logs meant for the barn, tedious back-breaking work that kept them perspiring all morning. Hannah wanted that barn in the worst way, so her efforts were relentless, her energy unbounded. She was determined to have her own horse, a corral, to learn to rope and ride, and to drive cattle—all of it. She had a goal in mind and nothing would keep her from it. Nothing. If she had to build that barn with her own hands, then so be it.

  Her dat was on the wrong track, so she figured it was up to her to keep things going if they were going to survive out here on the prairie. The only way she could see it work out was to employ Hod Jenkins and his boys, try and lay down her pride and accept whatever they saw as necessary. Otherwise, they’d never make it.

  She straightened from her job, kicked a pile of branches, and watched as three riders approached from the south, their horses’ heads lowered as they rode down the gentle incline toward the creek bottom. She swiped the back of a hand across her forehead and turned to watch.

  How easily they sat astride their horses! If she never attained any other skill in life, it was all right if only she could learn to ride like that. It was an amazing feat, to become one with such a beautiful creature, to know its mind and become attuned to its instincts. To sit astride so high above the ground, to feel the wind and smell the endless fascination of the earth and the waving grass, the great nothingness of the landscape, knowing she was only a dot, a miniscule form in a vast, mostly unexplored region.

  Who knew what lay twenty, thirty miles west? Or east? No doubt there were more ranches, folks like the Jenkinses, who ran cattle, some without fences to retain them. It was the way to make money, these cattle, tough, skinny creatures that plopped a calf on the still-frozen earth every spring, as regularly as the season changed.