praying before all else. That thought made her smile. Such wisdom in the middle of the night. Now to remember it during the day and all it brought.
When she woke to a rooster crowing, she realized she had fallen back to sleep. Before she went out to the privy, she put on her shoes, which was a good thing, since some of the hail was still on the ground. And still large after all these hours. She wrinkled her brow, trying to remember what it was she had promised herself she would remember. Or had she dreamed that up too? Probably not, since the hail was indeed real. So she had been awake.
Back in the kitchen, she opened the fireplace damper and, with the poker, rattled the grate and firedogs. She laid bark and bits of tinder on the now-glowing coals and blew gently. Smoke spiraled upward, and soon she saw golden flames, so she added bigger kindling and small pieces of oak. They should keep the fire up better at night. It was cold in here. She filled the coffeepot with water from the bucket sitting in the dry sink. Having to go out to the creek this early did not appeal to her, so she always made sure someone was assigned to that daily task. After adding more wood to the nowsnapping fire, she set the coffeepot on the hearth close to the fire. Another full bucket of water sat on the floor near the door, so she picked it up to move it to the counter.
“Oh, ugh! Ick!” By reflex she set it down hard enough to slop over the edges and stepped back.
“What is it? Ingeborg, what is wrong?” someone called down from the sleeping loft.
“A mouse drowned in one of the water buckets.”
“Oh.” A giggle turned into a snort, joined by another.
“Frightened by a dead mouse.” Had to be Hjelmer. His voice was the only one that had started to change, a baritone that sometimes cracked with soprano. More giggles, and in a moment Gunlaug backed, laughing, down the ladder.
“All you who think that is so funny, just come on down and get at the chores,” she called back up.
Ingeborg tried to ignore her but instead handed her the contaminated bucket. “You take care of this on your way out to the backhouse.”
“We can still use the water. Just fish the mouse out and we can add it to the wash water outside on the fire.”
“Fine. You fish the mouse out.”
“You know I—”
Ingeborg rolled her eyes, grabbed a big spoon, fished the body out, and threw it out the door. The barn cats would find it. Good thing they’d brought cats along too. She forced herself to keep a stern face as the others came giggling down the ladder.
“Since you think this is funny, you do the milking and all the chores this morning without me.”
“What are you going to do?” Mari asked, looking at her big sister suspiciously.
“Oh, I am going to sit at the table with my feet up, drink coffee, and eat gorobrød. With butter and sugar, of course. What else do you think I am going to do?”
At that, Mari started to giggle again, a contagious giggle that even Ingeborg with her sternest look could not ignore.
“We have gorobrød here?” Tor gave Hjelmer a confused look. “I didn’t think we brought any along.”
“She’s teasing.” Hjelmer shook his head, clearly saying his cousin must be lacking something in the brain department to not get the joke. He handed Tor a bucket.
“But I don’t know how to milk a cow.” Tor took a step back.
“Ah, Tor, you need not worry about learning to milk until your hands get better. You can do the other chores. Go out with Hjelmer. He’ll tell you what needs doing.” Although he should know these things by now. Ingeborg never failed to marvel at how much more of the vital things in life that country-raised children learned from the time they could toddle. It was a shame not everyone was raised on a farm.
As the boys and Kari left for the barn, Ingeborg went to the door and called after them. “Tor, we have to remember to tend to your hands when you get done out there. Do you have gloves
When she woke to a rooster crowing, she realized she had fallen back to sleep. Before she went out to the privy, she put on her shoes, which was a good thing, since some of the hail was still on the ground. And still large after all these hours. She wrinkled her brow, trying to remember what it was she had promised herself she would remember. Or had she dreamed that up too? Probably not, since the hail was indeed real. So she had been awake.
Back in the kitchen, she opened the fireplace damper and, with the poker, rattled the grate and firedogs. She laid bark and bits of tinder on the now-glowing coals and blew gently. Smoke spiraled upward, and soon she saw golden flames, so she added bigger kindling and small pieces of oak. They should keep the fire up better at night. It was cold in here. She filled the coffeepot with water from the bucket sitting in the dry sink. Having to go out to the creek this early did not appeal to her, so she always made sure someone was assigned to that daily task. After adding more wood to the nowsnapping fire, she set the coffeepot on the hearth close to the fire. Another full bucket of water sat on the floor near the door, so she picked it up to move it to the counter.
“Oh, ugh! Ick!” By reflex she set it down hard enough to slop over the edges and stepped back.
“What is it? Ingeborg, what is wrong?” someone called down from the sleeping loft.
“A mouse drowned in one of the water buckets.”
“Oh.” A giggle turned into a snort, joined by another.
“Frightened by a dead mouse.” Had to be Hjelmer. His voice was the only one that had started to change, a baritone that sometimes cracked with soprano. More giggles, and in a moment Gunlaug backed, laughing, down the ladder.
“All you who think that is so funny, just come on down and get at the chores,” she called back up.
Ingeborg tried to ignore her but instead handed her the contaminated bucket. “You take care of this on your way out to the backhouse.”
“We can still use the water. Just fish the mouse out and we can add it to the wash water outside on the fire.”
“Fine. You fish the mouse out.”
“You know I—”
Ingeborg rolled her eyes, grabbed a big spoon, fished the body out, and threw it out the door. The barn cats would find it. Good thing they’d brought cats along too. She forced herself to keep a stern face as the others came giggling down the ladder.
“Since you think this is funny, you do the milking and all the chores this morning without me.”
“What are you going to do?” Mari asked, looking at her big sister suspiciously.
“Oh, I am going to sit at the table with my feet up, drink coffee, and eat gorobrød. With butter and sugar, of course. What else do you think I am going to do?”
At that, Mari started to giggle again, a contagious giggle that even Ingeborg with her sternest look could not ignore.
“We have gorobrød here?” Tor gave Hjelmer a confused look. “I didn’t think we brought any along.”
“She’s teasing.” Hjelmer shook his head, clearly saying his cousin must be lacking something in the brain department to not get the joke. He handed Tor a bucket.
“But I don’t know how to milk a cow.” Tor took a step back.
“Ah, Tor, you need not worry about learning to milk until your hands get better. You can do the other chores. Go out with Hjelmer. He’ll tell you what needs doing.” Although he should know these things by now. Ingeborg never failed to marvel at how much more of the vital things in life that country-raised children learned from the time they could toddle. It was a shame not everyone was raised on a farm.
As the boys and Kari left for the barn, Ingeborg went to the door and called after them. “Tor, we have to remember to tend to your hands when you get done out there. Do you have gloves
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