‘‘Sophie Knutson, if Mor scolds you, don’t you dare blame me.’’ Grace slid the scissors back in place and snipped. The newly released long tresses slid through the comb and drifted to the floor. Both girls studied the results in the mirror, mouths matching in perfect Os.
‘‘Do you like it?’’ Sophie asked, breaking the silence.
‘‘Not much. Do you?’’
‘‘I think it will take some getting used to.’’
‘‘What will Mor say?’’
‘‘What will Mor say to what?’’
The voice from the doorway spun Sophie around with a shriek.
‘‘Ah, I . . . ah . . .’’
Grace followed, her eyes as round as her sister’s.
‘‘Sophie, what did you do?’’ Kaaren stood stock-still.
‘‘Ah, Grace . . .’’
Grace gave her a shove and stepped backward, her fingers flying so fast even Kaaren couldn’t keep track.
‘‘Sophie made you?’’
Grace nodded vigorously.
Sophie felt like she was three years old again and caught with her finger in the cookie dough. She straightened her shoulders and huffed, ‘‘I’ve wanted a fringe for a long time.’’
‘‘I see.’’ Kaaren crossed the room to peer more closely at the damage. ‘‘Is it supposed to look ragged like this?’’
‘‘No-o.’’ Sophie turned and stared in the mirror again. ‘‘The pictures in the magazine showed them even and puffy. Maybe we should cut it all off, right at the roots.’’
Kaaren shook her head, the lamplight catching highlights in her golden coronet that had always reminded the girls of either crowns or halos, depending on what they were reading at the time.
‘‘Mother, don’t laugh,’’ Sophie wailed.
‘‘I’m trying not to.’’ Kaaren took the scissors in one hand and the comb in the other.
Sophie backed away, her hands splayed in defense in front of her. ‘‘What are you going to do?’’
‘‘I’m going to fix the mess you made. Now hold still. Unless you’d rather leave it the way it is.’’ She turned to hand the scissors to Grace, who backed away, her hands locked behind her back. When she offered the tools to Sophie, she got the same reaction. ‘‘All right, then, go the way you are or let me fix it.’’
Sophie gulped and nodded. Surely her mother could redeem the efforts. She’d always been able to do so with everything else. She scrunched her eyes closed and offered her face as if going to the guillotine.
‘‘Just look at me like you usually would, or I will not be responsible for the way it looks.’’
Sophie opened her eyes wide, then blinked and focused on her mother, her shoulders tense, arms rigid at her sides. Kaaren snipped a bit here and trimmed a bit there. The hair fell, and Sophie sneezed.
‘‘Sorry.’’
‘‘Good thing I wasn’t cutting right then.’’ Kaaren trimmed up the sides, dipped the comb in water from the pitcher, and combed the hair up and over her finger. ‘‘There, I think that will do.’’ She stepped back. ‘‘Not bad if I do say so myself.’’ She turned to Grace. ‘‘What do you think?’’
‘‘Better, much better, but I’m still not sure I like it.’’
‘‘I’m afraid it will take some getting used to.’’ Kaaren studied her daughter. ‘‘But I think it looks good on you.’’
‘‘Now it’s Grace’s turn.’’ Sophie gave herself a doubtful look in the mirror one more time.
Grace shook her head. ‘‘I am not cutting my hair into a fringe.’’ She signed at the same time, her fingers slashing the air.
‘‘But you said . . .’’
‘‘No. You said I would.’’ Grace knelt down and swept the fallen hair into one hand with the other.
‘‘I’ll bet you a penny that the other girls will have theirs cut like mine within a week.’’
‘‘There will be no betting in this house.’’ Kaaren brushed short bits of dark hair off her daughter’s chemise. ‘‘Now, it is bedtime, and you should be grateful your pa is off with the threshing crew. The shock of this might be too much for him.’’
‘‘Ma, you really—’’ Sophie caught the glint of teasing in her mother’s eyes and tone. She shook her head and turned back to the mirror. ‘‘I think it does indeed grow on one.’’ She fluffed the fringe with her fingers.
Kaaren kissed each of her daughters good-night. ‘‘You get to sleep now. Morning will come far too soon, and the cows need to be milked before you leave for school.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Sophie left off studying her new hairstyle and pulled her cambric nightdress over her head, then shimmied out of her chemise and camisole underneath it. She tied the blue ribbon at the neckline and folded back the blue-and-white nine-patch quilt they’d helped their mother make years before. ‘‘Come on, Grace. ’Night, Mor.’’ She slid under the sheet and puffed her pillow behind her.
After Kaaren left the room, Sophie turned on her side to watch her twin finish getting ready for bed and waved to catch Grace’s attention.
‘‘I haven’t heard from Hamre for more than a month now.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Grace tied her pink neck bow. Their light nightdresses matched, including the deep ruffle edged with lace at the bottom and the bodice trimmed with a dainty row of tatting, but for the colored ribbons. ‘‘He is either fishing or forgetting.’’
‘‘Hmm. Hmm.’’ Sophie pursed her lips and slitted her eyes. ‘‘We’ve been corresponding regularly. Why would he forget?’’
‘‘Maybe he found a girlfriend. Can I blow out the lamp now?’’
Sophie nodded and sighed. ‘‘I guess.’’ She stared at the ceiling in the darkness. Hamre wouldn’t forget her, would he? Unless he had indeed met someone else. The thought made her roll over to her other side and clutch her pillow. Seattle was so far away. He’d said there were lots of Norwegians there; there must be plenty of attractive Norwegian girls. And he always signed his letters, ‘‘Your friend.’’ Did he care for her or not? She tossed to the other side, and Grace reached over to pat her shoulder. Sophie rolled on her back and held her sister’s hand until they both fell asleep.
‘‘
Y
OU WON’T BELIEVE what Sophie did!’’
Ingeborg, her golden hair now shot with silver, turned as her daughter barreled through the doorway the next afternoon. ‘‘She cut her hair in a fringe.’’
‘‘Tante Kaaren told you.’’ Astrid, her Bjorklund blue eyes flashing, set her lunch bucket and two books on the counter. ‘‘Now the girls are all talking about cutting their hair in fringes too.’’ She shook her head, setting the single wheaten braid she wore to swinging. While the other girls her age were putting their hair up to look older, Astrid, like her cousin Grace, chose convenience, both in fixing it and keeping it out of the way.
‘‘You aren’t wanting to do that too?’’ Ingeborg knew she wasn’t ready for fringes or short hair like some of the women she’d seen, and she hoped her daughter wasn’t either.
‘‘No.’’ Astrid’s tone dismissed Sophie and the fringe as she galloped off to a new topic. ‘‘Just because this is our last year, Pastor Solberg is going to work us to death. You should see all the assignments he wrote on the blackboard.’’
Grateful for the change of subject, Ingeborg returned to rolling her molasses cookie dough. Jars of pickled beets lined the counter, ready to be carried down to the root cellar. She had relish, using up the last of the cucumbers, simmering on the back of the stove, ready to pour into jars shortly.
‘‘As soon as you change your clothes, please bring in the rest of the wash, unless you’d rather fill the jars.’’
‘‘The wash. I’ve been inside all day, and I need the sun.’’
Astrined around her mother and sneaked a piece of rolled dough. Laughing at her mother’s halfhearted grumble, she mounted the stairs to her bedroom to change into work clothes. She hung her new red-and-white gingham dress on the hook on the wall rather than in the clothespress because she would wear it again tomorrow. The blue calico dress she’d started sewing the week before had yet to be hemmed and so still hung down in the sewing room. While she’d not had to cut her dresses longer for the last couple of years, she’d had to add more fullness in the bosom area. There hadn’t been a lot of time for sewing with the rest of the garden ready for canning and drying. The race to finish before the first frost arrived happened every year. Sometimes they won, like this year, and sometimes the frost caught them unprepared.
Back downstairs, clad in a faded shift that often needed the ministrations of needle and thread and a full apron with deep pockets on the front, she poured herself a glass of buttermilk, grabbed a handful of cookies, and headed for the clothesline. The world outside seemed strangely silent with all the men and machinery gone threshing. The dried sheets and towels barely flapped in the lazy breeze. Though halfway to the horizon, the sun streamed warmth onto her head and shoulders. Instead of lying flat out on the grass like she might have a few years earlier, she sat down and leaned against the post that held up the clotheslines while finishing her drink and cookies. A robin fluttered down and, keeping a beady eye on her, watched for worms with the other one. She tossed him a bit of cookie, and he snatched it up, watching to make sure she didn’t make any rash moves.
Astrid stretched her arms over her head, pulling out the tightness that came with starting school again and sitting for so long on the wooden benches. There had been some new students this year, including a boy named Heinz Geddick from the German family that had recently moved to the area. He was a senior but spoke very little English. While Pastor Solberg spoke Norwegian for him at times, he had asked Astrid to help also. Though they communicated well enough because of the similarities in Norwegian and German, she could see he was frustrated. There were several German pupils in the lower grades too, so she would most likely be tutoring them all in English. It was a shame her older brother, Thorliff, didn’t have time. He spoke all three languages fluently.
She folded the towels and sheets as she took them down, inhaling the clean fragrance that came from the sun and the wind, and laid them in the oval willow basket. One of those Metiz, a French Canadian Sioux woman who became their friend and mentor, had woven for them before she died several years earlier. With her hands busy, Astrid’s mind roamed across the small pasture to think of Sophie. Why Sophie wasn’t happy here she just didn’t understand. And dreaming about Hamre Bjorklund. Astrid shook her head. While she was sure Hamre, a distant cousin, had grown up since he left Blessing years ago and went to Seattle to go fishing, all she could remember was his silence. Getting him to talk more than a sentence or two was harder than splitting kindling with a dull ax.
Off in the distance she could see Andrew, the brother closest to her in age, striding across the fields. He’d stayed home from the threshing crew to keep the home chores done. Milking forty cows and hauling the milk to the cheese house took full-time male help, not that the girls couldn’t have handled it, but not along with school starting. Besides, his wife, Ellie, was very large with their first child, and Astrid knew her sister-in-law had some deep fears about having a baby. She waited for Andrew to join her before taking the wash inside.
‘‘How was school?’’ he asked, pushing his straw hat back on his head.
‘‘Sophie cut her hair in a fringe.’’
‘‘A what?’’ Andrew made a noise of disgust, matching the look on his face.
She motioned across her forehead. ‘‘Short here above her eyebrows.’’
‘‘Why would she do that?’’
‘‘You know Sophie. She wants the latest thing. Before you know it, she’ll be wanting a horseless carriage.’’ Astrid raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Anything to be different and in the fashion.’’
Andrew snorted and shook his head. ‘‘Leave it to Sophie.’’
‘‘You should see our reading list for this year.’’
‘‘Most likely the same as ever. I didn’t think I’d get through it all.’’ Andrew whistled for his dog, Barnabus, who came running from inspecting a gopher hole. ‘‘Go get the cows, Barney.’’ He waved toward the pasture, and the dog charged off.
‘‘I’ll be out pretty quick, soon as I gather the eggs and feed the chickens. How’s Ellie?’’
‘‘Looks like she swallowed two watermelons.’’ Andrew held his hands in a circle, way out in front of him.
‘‘I know that. I meant any changes?’’
‘‘Nope, but she sees Dr. Elizabeth tomorrow.’’ Andrew headed for the barn, and Astrid took the wash inside.
‘‘Mange takk,’’ her mother called. ‘‘There’s a bucket of scraps on the back porch for the chickens.’’
‘‘I’ll get it. Do we need to take eggs to Garrisons’?’’
‘‘Andrew can take them in tomorrow along with the cheese. I have a big shipment going out.’’ Ingeborg’s cheese house had grown through the years and now shipped wheels of cheese to many of the major cities of the United States. The Norwegians, especially, enjoyed being able to get their favorite cheeses made here just like in their homeland.
Ingeborg threatened Haakan often that they should invest in goats so she could make gjetost, but her teasing only got teasing back. They fattened many hogs for the market on the whey and had expanded the cheese house itself twice. Garrisons’ Groceries, the new store in town, bought eggs, cheese, and smoked hams from the Bjorklunds. Penny had turned her mercantile into a dry goods store and no longer carried the foods needed in the community.
‘‘We’ve got a hen that’s eating eggs,’’ Astrid announced when she
brought the eggs to the well house, where her mother was cleaning eggs and packing them into crates to ship. ‘‘Thanks to her, some of
these are pretty dirty.’’
‘‘If we can find who it is, she’ll go in the stewpot.’’ Using a damp
cloth Ingeborg wiped a spot of manure off an egg and set it tip down
in the slatted wood crate that held twelve layers of twenty-four eggs.
‘‘We need more straw in the nest boxes.’’ The chickens too ate the whey
from the cheese house, and as soon as the garden was finished for the
season, they would be loosed into the fenced plot to clean up the garden
residue.
While some people burned back the tip of their hens’ upper beaks to prevent them from cracking eggs or pecking at each other, Astrid refused to do that to hers, choosing instead to keep an eye on them and discover the culprits. The chickens were her responsibility, and she and her mother split the money from the eggs, which gave Astrid some school money. She was still intent on going to Chicago to train as a nurse with Dr. Morganstein, the same doctor her sister-in-law, Elizabeth, had trained with for her physician’s license. Astrid had spent much of the summer helping at Dr. Elizabeth’s surgery.