The Last Letter Home (38 page)

A last searching look over the grave, then he turned and walked up the path. He took one long step with his healthy leg and two short with the other; he limped back the same way he had come.

The fourth and last of the men who had selected this place returned to live the life still remaining to him.

Charles O. Nelson, the old farmer in the old house, was in his bed while the slow drip of the seconds and the minutes filled his roomy bowl of pain, his long hour of ache. It was persistent today, the auger. He turned a little, tried another position, first on the right side, then on the left; he lay with his legs pulled up, with his legs stretched out. It was the same however he turned and tried, today it made no difference.

Through his window he looked at the big field of wheat in shocks; beyond, toward the forest, they had planted corn which stood tall and straight. The crops he saw from his window would make many loaves of bread, would feed many hungry people. Those crops would not have grown there if he hadn’t lived. Crops would continue to grow out of the earth after he had been buried in it. It was his hands that had changed this piece of ground, and as he thought of all the crops that would be harvested after he was gone, he was well pleased.

But there was little honor in breaking land and tilling fields. Honor was reserved for those who wielded the sword, the gun, or the cannon—not for a man using ax and plow, the implements of peaceful labor. Felling trees and turning turf was for simple folk, but a dirty occupation for lords and masters.

The old man looked out on the farm he had wrested from the wilderness: He had not been able to accomplish fully what he had set out to do. The big main house, the crown of his work, he had not been able to build. He had used some of the lumber for a coffin, and after that he couldn’t build anything more. The boys had put up the house instead. His workday had been cut short, he had been carried home by his sons on a litter of oak branches, and they had finished the work. There must be others besides him who had been forced to stop too early.

At the gable near his window grew an apple tree, an Astrakhan tree, which blossomed every spring and bore fruit every fall. It was an old tree now but still youthfully green, a pride to the old house with its laden boughs and abundance of fruit. Now at the end of summer the fruit was ripe; the ground under the tree was covered with big, yellow-white apples, their skin transparently clear.

Fallen Astrakhan apples didn’t keep long, he must hurry and gather them. Tomorrow morning he would find a basket and pick them. It was quite remarkable all the fruit that came from that tree, year after year, and now it must be quite old. It was a tree that had grown from a seed from Sweden which blossomed and bore fruit at the Nelson Settlement.

Sweden, the old homeland—well. Perhaps he should have taken one of the new steamers and gone over to see it once more while he still was able to move about. Now it was too late. There was nothing to do about that. Old Charles O. Nelson had to be satisfied with his map of Ljuder.

Here he found all the roads he once had walked. Here ran the county road from Åkerby to the neighboring village of Algutsboda. That road he had walked many times that spring and summer when he had courted Kristina Johansdotter in Duvemåla.

It was a good distance from Korpamoen to Duvemåla, a whole Swedish mile, almost six of the American miles. But he had walked with light steps and never thought of the distance. One spring and summer he had walked that road twice a week: Saturday evening to Duvemåla, Sunday morning back to Korpamoen. His fingers followed the red line across the map. He would never lose his way on that road; he knew it better than any road he had ever walked. There was Sjubonale—the Seven-Farmers village—with an old-fashioned gate made of birch wattles. When he had passed that gate he was almost there, the next farm was Duvemåla. He did not go all the way to the house, he must not be seen by anyone on the farm. He must wait under the huge mountain ash if he should be first. But he knew in advance he never had to wait: In the lingering twilight he could see her light-blue shawl at the garden gate from a long distance.

The old people hadn’t gone to bed yet, it was too early to go with her to her room. They walked down the meadow, through a birch grove; at this time of day they never met anyone here. They walked with their arms around each other but they did not say much. What she wanted to know he had already said many times, and what he wanted to know she had said as often. Yet it happened that they repeated it, not to help each other remember, but only because they wanted to hear it again.

Tonight it was light in the Duvemåla meadows; they could see the lilies of the valley under the birches, where the birds still chirped—they were always noisiest right after sunset in May. They walked all the way to the edge of the bog, and then they walked back to the house and now it was silent. They stole in through the kitchen without a sound, she leading him by the hand to her room, now and then stopping to put her fingers on her lips and whispering: Quiet!

Then he lay down on the bed beside her, both with their clothes on: they were engaged and one could sleep with one’s fiancée on “promise and honor.” But their hands caressed and petted, a girl’s fingers stroked the youths neck, the youth found the girl’s braids. Sometimes they trembled as they caressed and their breathing became faster.

They kissed until they were tired and out of breath. But they knew how far their caresses could go, and no further. They must not get closer before the wedding night. She was a virgin and would remain so until they were married. His honor demanded that he leave her intact, and hers that she be left so.

Both had just entered their youth. He would be of age this year, she was eighteen. They wouldn’t lose anything by waiting. Everything awaits those who are in the beginning of their youth.

But their caresses were insufficient for their growing desire. Each night they were together in her room they felt less satisfied with it, and at last their caresses grew painful to their aroused bodies. But as they waited expectation also grew, and it was delicious thus slowly to prepare for what would happen later, all that which they had denied themselves.

Her breath flowed hot as it entered his ear and her lips whispered: I wish something . . . That it soon were . . . And that was just what he wished. That it soon were. He replied when his mouth was on hers, she with the heat from hers.

When daylight began to break he remembered the long way home and rose to leave. Then Kristina stretched out her arms toward him: Stay a little longer! Don’t go! Just a few minutes more!

He did as she asked him. He returned to her arms, he stayed.

He would stay only a short moment, but it became a long moment. It was daylight outside the window, the sun was up, and he remained. But at last he must go. Nor did she wish him to be there when her parents got up.

But they would not part yet, she would walk a bit of the road with him. Sjubonale gate was their parting spot, farther he could not coax her. Their farewell took time, it was prolonged even though the sun was high in the heavens and people were coming out to attend to their cattle and do the morning chores. Leaning against the gatepost they would kiss and kiss until their breath gave out. It was so when lovers parted.

But at last he was alone again, on the six-mile road home. He hadn’t slept a wink, he had been lying awake in a girl’s room, in his hands he still retained the warmth of her skin, in his mouth he still had the fragrance of her breath. The clear morning air he inhaled was cool with dew and fresh birch leaves. He did not feel tired; after his walk he could have gone right to his work. He worked six days, and in the evening of the sixth he went to see the girl in the blue shawl who waited for him at her parents’ gate. So it was week after week; what had happened this night would happen again and again.

Karl Oskar and Kristina waited and while they waited their expectation increased. They were happy to be alive.

He walked to her in daylight and on dark nights; the seasons changed with the year’s turn.

Then a day came when he didn’t have to walk the road: The both of them sat together on a spring wagon and drove to the church, followed by other wagons, filled with their wedding guests. They stood together at the altar, arm in arm, a bridal couple. Once during the ceremony he felt her arm tremble. He wondered about it and asked her afterward: Why did your arm tremble at the altar? She replied: I thought—suppose we had to part and couldn’t do anything about it—that was the reason. He said that up to now they had had to part every Sunday morning, but it would not be so in the future. From now on they would never part. She was his wife and they were joined for life.

After their marriage they settled in Korpamoen, his parental home, until they emigrated to America to settle a second time. And in that country he had sat beside her bed on an August morning just as the sun rose and listened anxiously for her breathing. And he had prayed to her: Don’t die away from me! Stay with me still a little longer!

She had not stayed.

The day was done, the sun had set, and under the vaulted heavens Ki-Chi-Saga’s water grew dark.

Charles O. Nelson, the old man in the old house, pushed away the pillows from his aching back, rose slowly, awkwardly, from his bed. It was time for his evening walk over the farm, while there was still enough daylight.

His movements were stiff, he straightened his back with effort, pulled on his pants and socks, found his coat and stick, and shuffled out on the stoop. There stood his wooden shoes waiting for his feet. He bent down and turned them over, emptying out a few pebbles, and knocked the heels against the floorboards before he stuck his feet in them. The smallest grain of sand or dirt irritated the feet of one who walked so poorly. Then he straightened up, looked in all directions, examined the sky.

What kind of weather would they have tomorrow? Back over the pine forest, where the sun had just set, high, thick clouds were towering. The sun had set in clouds tonight, it must mean a change in the weather. And from the clouds pillars of light poked right down into the lake, like spears: The clouds sucked rain. That sign meant rain tomorrow.

And all the fine crop of wheat was still out. For eight days now it had been standing in shocks, and the sun had shone every day; the wheat must be dry by now. He had thought the boys would get it in today, but not a shock had left the field. Instead they had worked on the fallow for the winter rye—there was no hurry with that. The wheat was more urgent. The boys knew what terrible rains they could expect this time of year.

He would go a bit into the field and make sure the sheaves were dry. Then he would tell his boys they must start in the morning, if it didn’t rain.

Right above him light, feathery clouds scurried eastward while the sky darkened to the west. To the south, across the lake, the sky glowed like fire; that too meant a change in the weather.

The day silenced its sounds and blew out its light. But as yet twilight lingered over the wide field that sloped toward the lake. Tall and broad rose the shocks with the full sheaves that had grown this year on the oldest farm at Chisago Lake. The last reflected rays played and glittered on the full, heavy heads.

The farmer was out for his night watch, to see that all was well. He shuffled down the steps of the stoop, leaned on his stick. The wooden shoes clanged against the boards. He must be careful and not step too heavily on his lame leg. With some difficulty he reached the ground; now it would be easier. He took one long step with his good leg, dragging the other a little until he got going.

Thus limping and shuffling Charles O. Nelson began his evening walk over the Nelson Settlement.

II

THE LAST LETTER HOME

Chisago Lake Settlement

Center City Minnesota

December 20 1890

Missis Lydia Karlsson

Åkerby in Ljuder Parish

Sweden

Being an old neighbor to your Brother Charles he has on several occasions asked me to write to his Sister in Sweden and let her know when he died. No one else could do this for the reason that your Brother’s children have forgotten Swedish and write English and this might cause trouble for his relatives to read. Therefore I promised to write.

Speaking for his Children I wish to advise you that your Brother Charles O. Nelson came to the end of his life the 7th of this month in the Evening. At half past eight he was up and took his supper and washed Himself. Then he went to bed and at eleven o’clock his soul was liberated. He went to sleep peacefully, no one expected his time to be so near.

Your Brother’s Birthday was October 31. His life lasted 67 years, one month, and seven days. He had lived on this place since Anno 1850. Exactly 40 years ago he came from Sverige and we have been neighbors since Anno 1872.

Your Brother was brought to his last resting place the 15th of December. Many were gathered, 6 children, 4 Sons and 2 Daughters and Sons-in-law and daughters-in-law and Grandchildren and Neighbors were also there. The Funeral text was David Psalm 15, the verse that speaks of “He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart, he shall never be moved in Eternity.”

Nelson is regretted and missed much because he was a Man of Order and Just. He had much concern for Children and Grandchildren. He has also fulfilled his obligations rightly and with good sense and no one can step forth and blame him. I visited with him the evening before he left. He had told me many times he was ready to Die.

With those lines I have fulfilled my Promise to my neighbor while He was in Life that I would write and notify His Sister. Your Brother often spoke of you. I send the letter to the Address he gave me and would be grateful if you will let me know that it reaches you.

I apologize that my writing is so poor and disjointed. I am full of years and my hands tremble so it is hard to write. I am the oldest of 10 brothers and Sisters. All except me have forded the River Jordan, 3 rest in Swedish ground,
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in America's. I was the oldest and now I have been left to the last. I will be 80 next March if the Lord lets me live that long. I am ready when He wants to call me home to Him.