The Last Letter Home

I. THE MAP OF LJUDER

Charles O. Nelson, a Swedish-born farmer in Minnesota, was lying quietly on his back in his bed in his house at the Nelson Settlement. It was midday, midweek, at the height of the harvest season. In the fields the crops were ripe, or drying in shocks; innumerable farm chores waited to be done. But they no longer waited for him; he stayed inside, in his bed.

In the evening the laborer takes his ax under his arm or his scythe on his shoulder and goes to his home. Charles O. Nelson was the laborer who had gone home from his work forever.

His bed was turned so he could see through the window and look out over his fields. What were the boys doing today? Were they mowing the wheat? Were they busy with the fallow? He could still perform small chores if they asked him. He could mend a harness, sharpen a plane, put a handle in a hoe or hayfork. But they must be chores he could do in a sitting position. He moved slowly, with much difficulty; he could not move without his stick. The old injury to his left leg had turned into a limp, and pains and aches assailed his back. It was because of the ache that he mostly stayed in bed in the old house, the one he himself had built. But when he built it he had not imagined that he would one day occupy it single and alone.

About a hundred yards away a new white main house had been raised, and there lived the new owner of the farm. It was a fine house, with two stories. It was the house he himself had wanted to build. In his mind he had built it many times, figured out how everything must be. He had placed the doors and windows, put on the roof, separated the space into rooms and closets to the smallest detail. And how many times hadn’t he described it to his wife: Next time I build. .!

But it had not been granted him to raise that house. He had wanted to build it for his wife, and he wanted to occupy it with her. But after he had used some of the planks for her coffin he never did anything more about the house. The piled-up timber was used for other purposes, and at last the boys had built the house, and now there it stood. His sons had grown up, they were men in their best years, yet he never called them anything but the boys.

A new generation had completed his plans — it was John and Dan Nelson who had built the house he had planned. He himself was Old Nelson, the old man, in the old house, lying in his bed and looking out through the window at the men working out there.

Nelson Settlement was known as the oldest place at Chisago Lake, and sometimes curious people came to look at it. Some even wanted to see Old Nelson himself, since he had been the first to settle here. But he did not wish to see people he didn’t know; he might admit a neighbor or a friend, but he preferred to be left in peace. And he did not want to be in the way of the young people on the farm. He stayed by himself and followed the life at Nelson Settlement, his old claim, through the window.

The day seems longer to one who has left his work, the hours drag without occupation. In the past when he went to bed he used to plan his work for the following day. He lived through the morrow’s chores in advance. But this he need do no longer. He knew what he would do tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, he knew what he would do on all the following days — the same as today. He would lie here in his bed and watch life on the Nelson Settlement.

If time dragged too much for him inside, he tried to follow what was going on outside. He kept track of what the boys were doing, he participated in their chores: How many bushels of corn had they harvested? How many bushels of wheat had they sown? How many gallons did the maples give? What was the price of pork in St. Paul? What did they get for the potatoes they hauled to Center City? All this concerned him as much as before. This he couldn’t give up. But whatever the boys replied to his questions he knew what they meant: It was none of the old man’s business.

His past had been filled with activity. Every day had been a measure, running over with work. He had lived for his labor, it had been his lust, his worry. In his old age his concern was that he had nothing to worry about any more.

He had lived and worked one day at a time, and thus the days had fled and gathered into one great, heavy pile: old age. And that pile pressed a person down to the ground. A day came when one was no longer useful, when one lived to no one’s joy, when one was only in the way here on earth, an annoyance to oneself.

When his good days of work were over, he became awkward, irresolute, stood there fumbling and helpless as if he had dropped something but hadn’t noticed how or when he lost it. He was closed out from the present and had nothing to hope for from the future.

This suddenly came over him one day when his life was near its end.

Charles O. Nelson lifted his head from the pillow and looked out. Loud laughter and mirth echoed from the new building — healthy, young exclamations, cries of joy from children’s throats. The little ones were playing among the fruit trees that had been planted round the new house.

Old Nelson’s grandchildren were playing in their home at the Nelson Settlement. The laborer who had gone home was lying here listening to still another generation. Their laughter and cries and noise disturbed him, yet the sounds were good to hear. They would not have been heard if he hadn’t lived.

Yes, those kids playing there were his grandchildren. His oldest son John and his Irish wife had presented him with four, and his daughter-in-law was carrying a fifth. Two of them were so redheaded one could almost fire kindling with their locks. Who could have imagined that he, the farmer from Småland, would become related to Stephen Bolle, the Irish miller at Taylors Falls. The first time John had seen the girl he was still so Swedish that he was called Johan. That was the time they had been caught in the blizzard and almost lost their lives. Johan had thought the girl, thumbing her nose, looked ugly as a troll. She had made faces at him and stuck out her tongue and he had been afraid of her. But later, when he met the miller’s wench after she was grown, she didn’t make faces at him but probably something much nicer. Anyway, he went almost crazy if he couldn’t see her every week. And when she finally moved in as mistress there was nothing left of the sniveling child at the mill.

Dorothy Bolle became young Mrs. Nelson, not half as angry and irritable a woman as her fire-flamed hair would lead one to believe. She had a mind of her own which both old and young Nelson respected, but father-in-law and daughter-in-law got along well as long as they didn’t interfere with each other’s business. Nor could they understand more than half of what one said to the other, they couldn’t meet through words. And people can’t fight if they don’t understand each other’s invective.

Mary — once known in Sweden as Lill-Marta, later as Marta — had borne him three grandchildren with her husband Klas Albert Persson, the storekeeper in Center City. These three were begotten by Swedish parents, Swedish brats all through, yet they weren’t half as lively and clever as the four Johan had with his Irishwoman. Nor were they as good-looking, whatever the reason was. Some people said there weren’t better traits than Swedish traits in all the world but they might be mistaken. Those half-Irish brats out there made a hell of a stir and noise, as bad as the Indians in the old days when they camped at the lake. If they couldn’t get along in the world no one could.

The third son, Dan, was still single; he had stayed on the farm to help his brother and probably would remain there. But Harald had gone into business in Minneapolis and had married a German girl; he had two children. Old Nelson had met the girl a few times but there weren’t many words he could exchange with her, for she mixed German with her English and he used Swedish words. But he felt that this daughter-in-law was a kind, quiet, and capable woman. She was fair, and reminded him in some way of his dead wife.

Frank lived in Chicago and had married an American woman. Frank had not yet helped make him a grandfather. But Ulrika had married a Norwegian farmer in Franconia and she had three kids and was probably carrying a fourth, as far as he could judge last time she was home. This Norwegian son-in-law was bull-headed and difficult. He was stubborn as hell, like most Norwegians. He always bragged that it was the Norwegians who had shot Charles XII.

Old Nelson would soon have a full dozen grandchildren if he counted those on the way. And they were begotten and sprung from the four different races. When the parents came to see him he would always lift up the grandchildren and put them on his knee; he wanted to make sure they were healthy and weighed as much as they should. The children were unlike and spoke differently, but this was not to wonder at: a Swedish father, an Irish mother, a Norwegian father, a German mother. What a mixed group of children they were! No one could guess they belonged to the same family. But they did have something in common: the same grandfather. He was the father’s father or the mother’s father for all of them. Through Charles O. Nelson, the old one in the old house, these human plants were linked together.

When he emigrated his father had reproached him: You drag my family out of the country. Today he understood better than at that time what his father had meant: You take with you also coming generations and decide their fate; you decide for both the living and the unborn. If Nils Jakob’s Son now could have seen the great flock of his great-grandchildren at the Nelson Settlement he might have said: Karl Oskar, you have not only dragged my family out of the country, you have also mixed up my descendants with foreign races. In these brats not much is left of my race.

And the Lord only knew what might come of all this mixture of people with different roots from different lands. Would they form a race of their own? But there was no use speculating about this, he himself would soon be gone. At the most for only a few years he would see his grandchildren play around the house. Already a third generation was shooting up from his root, and soon the world would spin its turn without the originator of this family, without the old one in the old house. Nothing would change when he disappeared. People returned to dust every moment and nothing would change when his turn came.

Charles O. Nelson listened, annoyed and pleased, to the hubbub his grandchildren raised down in the yard. Undoubtedly they were up to something, perhaps ruining the new saplings his boys had planted last spring. He was proud of these new plum and cherry trees, he felt responsible for them in some way. They were tender yet could easily be broken; those kids should get a good spanking if they hurt them.

He could hear his son’s woman yell at the children; Stephen Bolle’s girl had a strong, piercing voice, but he couldn’t understand a word she said, she must be talking Irish. She and Johan shouldn’t be so soft with the children.

His own children hadn’t entirely forgotten their mother tongue. If they wanted to they could speak it. He reproached himself that he could no longer speak his native language well; when some newcomer arrived from Småland he realized how much he had forgotten. How could a man’s tongue change so much that he no longer could use words clearly which he had spoken thousands of times?

He looked up at the old creaking clock on the other wall. Only a quarter past two. Still many hours till evening and blessed sleep. But tonight it would be hard to sleep, the ache was coming alive. For a day or two his back would be all right, and then it would start again. The ache sat like an auger in his back, it had its home there, its designated place which it never left. The auger’s sharp, steel edge turned steadily, inexorably. It was drilling a hole in his back, but one that it never finished.

Cartilage had grown between the vertebrae, said the doctors in St. Paul and Stillwater. He had once received a blow across his back from the oak he was felling, and in that place the gristle lumps had grown. None of the doctors’ many salves, plasters, and liniments had been able to drive out the pain. He had tried all the remedies known, even those of the old country — lying on cat skins and dog skins, rubbing himself with sheep fat and pork bile, or concoctions of flowers and herbs, moss and ferns. Anything neighbors and friends suggested he would try, but nothing really helped. The auger remained in his back and kept on turning, and would keep on turning as long as he lived.

His backache was the final reward for his labor, for the farmer’s toil. He drew his pay daily in his old age, the sure reward for the oldster.

Charles O. Nelson moved a little in his bed, made his back more comfortable, turned and twisted a little to escape the auger. It hurt most in the afternoons, by evening it eased a little, and then he would walk about over the farm. This was an old habit, to inspect the Nelson Settlement before he retired for the night. At day’s end the old farmer walked to the houses that had been his, saw to it that every door was closed, everything put inside that might suffer from a change in the weather, that the animals were well, that all things — living and dead — were in good keeping. This was a farmer’s daily chore, and he had performed it through the years. Now, as he walked about and saw that all was well, he felt he was still the master of the Nelson Settlement.

The evening inspection would take quite a while for old Charles O. Nelson. His limp made him move slowly, he had to lean on his stick each time he moved his left foot. He took one long step with the healthy leg and two short with the injured one. He walked with bent back, he limped; shuffling along he found his way. It was a great effort for him and when he returned to his room he was completely exhausted. But it was his best hour of the day.

Today he was waiting for that hour, and he had an occupation that helped speed the time. He sat up in bed and pulled out a drawer in the table beside him. He picked up a large folded paper and began to unfold it, slowly, methodically, as if in so doing he would cheat the pain.

It was a map of Ljuder parish. It was his home district that was spread before him here on the blanket. Charles O. Nelson always had the map handy, was always eager to look at the thick, heavy paper with a miniature of his home village. Many years ago he had acquired this map from his son-in-law, Mr. C. A. Persson, “in exchange for his daughter” as he called it. He had lost his oldest daughter but he had received instead a map of his home village.

The map of Ljuder during the years had become worn from frequent handling by the old emigrant. It was made of good paper, but he had fingered it so often and turned and opened it, that it was wrinkled and barely held together at the creases. That was why he handled it so carefully.

Here before him he had his whole home parish with well-marked borders, from Lake Laen in the north to Lake Loften in the south. Across this paper his index finger found the markings, followed the roads he once had walked, stopped at places he knew well, familiar names of farms and cottages. Here was the crossroads where he had danced in his youth, the grove where they had celebrated sunrise picnics, wastelands where he had hunted, lakes, rivers, and brooks where he had fished. He followed lines and curves, he stopped at squares and triangles. There was so much to look for, so much to find. And at each place where his finger stopped his memories awakened: This was his childhood and youth.

How many times hadn’t his fingers wandered over this map. But he was never through with it. Each day he started his search anew. When he had found everything he was looking for, he began all over again. He had been thumbing and reading the map of Ljuder day in, day out, at night with the help of his oil lamp, when the ache assailed him, when sleep fled his bed, weekdays and holidays, summer and winter, year after year, until the thick paper was worn thin from all the thumbing and was ready to fall apart.

The map of Ljuder, spread over the blanket before him, had the shape of a heart. Somewhere near the center of that heart lay a farm where the old emigrant had taken his first steps on earth.

The old man in the bed was shut out from the present and had nothing to expect from the future. To him remained only the past. Again he found the paths of his childhood. Charles O. Nelson, Swedish-born farmer in Minnesota, was old, lame, and stooped, and moved with difficulty over the ground of his new homeland. But here in his bed he walked freely and unencumbered over the roads of his native village.

MAP

of

Ljuder Parish, executed 1847–49

by

Frans Adolf Lönegren, Official Surveyor

The map was well drawn and colors had been freely used. Lakes, brooks, fields, meadows, hills, groves, moors, bogs — each had its own color. The lakes’ surfaces glittered blue, like large ink spots, while smaller ponds and pools were only specks. Rivers and brooks showed their blue veins across the white skin of the paper. Meadows blossomed in green like fresh spring grass, and tilled fields were as yellow as buttercups in bloom. Hills and wastelands lay black, almost like dirty thumbprints. The pine forest was indicated by narrow black lines, like pine needles, and the deciduous forest with light rings, resembling the crowns of lush trees. In the meadows the surveyor had placed men with scythes, and in the wastelands horses, oxen, cows, and sheep grazed. Moors and bogs were gray stripes across the paper, almost like a splash of mud. Everything was there, everything was recognizable to the old one in the bed.

It was a well-illustrated map — he almost smelled the ripe crops, the pungent pine pitch, the sweet birch leaves, fresh milk, sheep wool, bog myrtle, meadow flowers.

The fat, red line across the map was the county road through the parish; village roads were marked in smaller lines of the same color, even paths, disappearing in the wastelands. The borders of farms were marked in red, each place was there, even the bridges, the cornerstones, the rights-of-way. Everything had its proper name in the right place, and the old emigrant found and recognized everything; he was again Karl Oskar of Korpamoen, strolling over his native ground.

The timber road through the pine forest, used only in winter, led all the way to Lake Loften. When the birches were just in leaf he had run barefoot on that road to fish in the lake, where the carp played in schools in the shallow bays, their yellow scales glittering in the sun as he pulled them out. From an alder bush he had cut a fork on which he hung the fish through the gills, and he could feel them dangling on his back as he carried them home, proud and whistling. Dried strips of bark in the ruts, from the winter timbering, scratched against his bare feet; some ruts were still moist and cool, sending shivers up his back. But he carried the glittering burden of carp, he was on the right road for a boy in spring; he was walking the barefoot path, the softest, the easiest path in the world.

He took a side road through the dark forest and came to a pool, all in shadow under the tall pines. The pool water was black-brown, the surface motionless. The ground swayed under his feet as he walked along the muddy edge. If you sank down here you would never get up again! He jumped in — the pool was bottomless. He would feel cold and shiver for hours after a swim in the ice-cold water. In that pool he had baited his hook for eel with white worms from the dunghill, and the fat, greenish eels he had pulled out were so old they almost had moss on them. Once he had caught a pike, and he had had to kill it with a stone it was so big — eight pounds it weighed, at least. So well did he remember the pool that he almost felt the chill vapor that always hung over it.

He continued on a road through a clearing to the sheep meadow, but first he had to climb two fences, which he did very easily by placing his hands on the top rail and swinging over it in one leap. It was fun to jump fences and stiles that way, but it was no sport for lame, aching old farmers.

Near the stile was the rabbit run, the finest in the village; he was always sure to get a rabbit there. On clear mornings in the fall, after the first frost-glitter on the grass, he would stand at this stile with his gun, waiting. He could hear the dogs pursuing the rabbit across yellow fields and through the underbrush until the sound echoed against the cliffs. This was the wonderful morning song of the forest, the sound of adventure to the boy, who stood motionless, tense, waiting for the rabbit to come along the fence toward the stile. He held the gun cock with his thumb — in a moment it would happen! The gossamer over bushes and branches glittered in the sun and the ground smelled of healthy autumn frost.

The boy had discovered the rabbit run at the stile by himself. And now the old man sought for it on the map and found it, and many other places that belonged to the time when he moved easily on the earth. His finger on the map was sure to find them.

There was Åkerby Junction, on the county road, where boys and girls met on Saturday evenings and danced under the open sky, and where those not yet men or women fumbled for each other in childish shyness. There were the crossroads, shortcuts, hidden, narrow paths where youth sought its way, and where he once had swung himself over gates and stiles. And of everything he had rediscovered on his village map he could say: Here I was rich and well pleased with my life. Of what use are my poor days now?

Charles O. Nelson adjusted the pillow behind his head. The auger of pain gnawed and dug into his back. An hour of pain had passed while he thumbed the old map. It was not a violent pain he suffered, but it was persistent, it never left him, it stayed where it once had lodged itself. On this he could rely: It would stay with him, for sure, as long as he lived.

But it was no danger to life: He would not die from his backache. Some people took a long time to die. Their strength ebbed but not their life. They kept on dying, day after day, through many years. They became useless, and lived to no one’s joy, least of all their own. But they were not allowed to die. They died stubbornly, through the long years, with plenty of time to stroll through old places.

A person ought to die when he becomes useless and not worthwhile any longer.

The old farmer folded the map and put it aside. He looked out through the window, up toward the sky, wondering if the good harvest weather would last. They had grown fine wheat this year, tall, heavy sheaves, shocked out there as far as his eyes could see. Now if they could only get it in all right.

Sometimes heavy rains fell in Minnesota this time of year. Once it had rained so violently that half his crop washed away.

Now he saw that the sky was cloud-free as far as he could see from this side of the house, and perhaps the dry weather would hold. But everything changed so quickly in America, here no signs were to be relied on. When the sunset was clear in Sweden you could count on fine weather the following day, and when the sun set in a cloudbank you were sure of rain. But that didn’t hold true here, perhaps because America was on the other side of the globe.

With his eyes and ears he followed as much as he could of what happened outside. As far as he was able to, the old one took part in the young people’s life.

He saw his sons leave the field and go into their house; he raised his head and looked after them. The Irish wench usually had coffee and sandwiches for the boys about this time in the afternoon. But he couldn’t see the grandchildren, they had left the garden; now he heard them down at the lake, where they were playing and carrying on.

He tried to keep track of those brats, for some reason; he wanted to know where they were and what they were doing. If he didn’t hear their howling or shouts for a while he began to worry.

The auger kept drilling, today his ache didn’t give up for a second. Today he certainly received his full pay, his reward for toil and struggle. This was his pay for clearing forty acres of land in America. And much was still due him, many days’ pay; he didn’t doubt he would be paid in full.

But then again there would be days when he didn’t feel it, and those were good days. As yet he could take care of himself, he required no help. He cooked his own food and washed his own dishes and kept his room clean. His daughter-in-law helped him with the laundry and the worst scrubbing, and the grandchildren ran errands if he needed anything. And occasionally an old neighbor dropped in; such changes were good. He didn’t do much visiting himself, hardly ever left the Nelson Settlement. It was now several years since he had gone as far as St. Paul. But he remembered well that last time, for he had been with Harald and they had seen a panorama in a tent outside Fort Snelling for twenty-five cents. It was perhaps the most remarkable thing he had seen in all his life.

The panorama was painted on long sheets of sailcloth, ten feet tall, and a man explained what the pictures meant. There was a battlefield of the Civil War — bloody bodies all cut in pieces, fallen soldiers lying across each other, long rows of corpses piled like firewood. It made him feel as if the war itself was in his throat, he had a nauseating taste of blood as he looked at those pictures.

They had also been shown how the Southern rebels had tortured their prisoners: They pushed the Union flag into the mouth of the Northerners: Men who fought for the Union ought to be made to swallow their flag! If the victims choked or lost consciousness, cold water was poured over them to revive them.

The panorama was remarkable, yet repulsive.

If Old Abe had lived and remained in the presidential chair he would surely have forbidden fools to travel about and show such bloody, cruel pictures. The settlers’ own President meant the South and the North to be friends again as soon as the war was over, to live as brothers in the Union. Those who raked up the old dried-up blood from the battlefields and put it on sailcloth to show for money, such people were fostering new hatred. Jesters who made money from spilled blood ought to be flogged thoroughly. They weren’t any better than grave robbers. But people did exist who would sell human flesh if they could gain a quarter by it.

There was also another panorama that he liked better: The Mississippi River was shown in its full length on the sailcloth, from the falls at St. Anthony, now called Minneapolis, all the way to the Mexican Gulf. A clever painter had traveled on a raft all the distance to New Orleans and while he floated along he had depicted the beautiful shores on a roll of sailcloth, and here in the panorama tent one could see the great water in all its majesty. Looking at it was exactly like traveling on this river through the heart of America.

The old man would never make that journey in reality, indeed, he might never make any more journeys; not even to St. Paul, if another panorama should come again, it was too difficult for him to move about.

The old settler moved again in his bed, sought a place for his back where the auger might ease its work a little. Sometimes it was better when he stretched out on his back, other times on his left or right side. He never knew in which position he could best escape that torture tool.

But today he could find no escape, no comfortable position. And that was why he picked up the map, to wander those paths he never more would see, to return to the places of his past.

He had once moved from one continent to another. He had once been Karl Oskar Nilsson, at New Duvemåla. How many years ago was that? Now he was the old man at the Nelson Settlement, and only one last move remained for him — from one world to another.

Charles O. Nelson from Ljuder in Sweden would die here in America, he would die on the Nelson Settlement, in this house, in this room, in the bed where he now lay.

Seeking to escape his merciless torturer, his finger moved again over the old map, back and forth, up and down. It found the red county road and stopped at a crossing.

Here a group of people had met one cold April morning — several drivers, with heavy loads, men, women, and children; altogether sixteen of them. Their wagons had been loaded with baskets and bundles, sacks and satchels, like a gypsy pack, as they rolled south to Karlshamn. Those people were to travel a long road, they were leaving their homes for the last time, and he was one among them.

It had frosted over during the night, the ruts were icy and creaked and crunched under the wheels. People looked through the windows at the travelers. He is sitting on the front wagon, looking at this village for the last time. He looks carefully, searching for details, he wants to remember this place and that, for they were part of his childhood and youth; this is a farewell drive.

And now he is back in this village again, the map in his hands comes to life, filled with people and animals; he remembers who lived in each house, the cattle of each field. The mowers swing their scythes, the women their rakes, the hayricks rock on the narrow roads and leave tufts in branches and bushes along the wayside. He can hear the cowbells tinkle from the wastelands, he can hear sounds of busy tools in the houses and outside; scythes singing against grindstones, axes clanging against wood, flails against the barn floor, spinning and spooling wheels in cottages and kitchens.

Then he sees her and he recognizes her at once.

She is seventeen and she is busy at a spindle. She has flaxen hair and kind eyes, rose-hued cheeks, and a few freckles on her nose, like wild strawberries not yet ripe. He has met that girl before and never has been able to keep his eyes off her. She is very shy, she blushes when she turns toward him. He doesn’t want to embarrass her but he can’t help it! He looks at her again and she turns peony-red.

Now he has found the Klinta fair. Here he had agreed to meet the girl of the spindle. For two springs and one autumn he meets her here.

And where is the road that leads to another village, the road he has tramped so many times, walked so willingly through the nights? A long road, but short to him, shorter each time he walks it, he knows it so well, every curve, every hill, every gate. He walks it with easy feet, he runs when late, in a hurry. He is on his way to a gate before a house in a neighboring village, there she’ll be waiting, in a light-blue shawl; she has promised to wait if he’s delayed.

He searches for that road on the map, he knows he’ll find it, the road to the woman who will be his wife. .

Nowadays he goes to the cemetery, a few times each year, to visit her. In summer the road is easy; in winter he must stay home.

He had been to visit her a few days ago. Johan had an errand in that direction and he used the opportunity to ride along. The August day had been just right, not too warm; later in the evening it rained.

Before he journeyed to Kristina he washed and dressed with special care. He shaved and combed his hair just right. He put on a clean shirt and his Sunday-best suit, a starched collar. And he shined his boots. It took him a long time to get ready, what with his stiff back and lame leg. But he prepared himself as if he were going to a wedding or some important gathering.

It was barely two miles to the Swedish cemetery, only half an hour with the team.

Charles O. Nelson was usually alone when he visited his wife, and he was alone this time also. He climbed off the wagon outside the cemetery gate; Johan would pick him up after a couple of hours.

It was a calm day. The sun warmed but did not burn. It was shady and cool under the trees in that place set aside for the dead. A new fence had been put up, good-looking, rails stripped of bark glittered clean and white around the home of the dead.

Leaning on the stick in his right hand he limped up to the gate, opened it, and walked inside. Above the entrance a white-painted board had been put up, with an inscription in black:

Blessed are those who here sleep.

Eternal Peace is Death’s Gift.

Each time he came to the gate he would stop and read the inscription, as if wishing to assure himself that not a letter had been changed since last time.

The cemetery sloped toward the shore cliffs and below them the sky-blue lake began. On three sides this little peninsula was washed by the lake water. Stately, lush silver maples shaded this last resting place, a joy to the eye on a summer day like this.

Charles O. Nelson, leaning on his stick, slowly shuffled his way along the path between the graves. No other visitor was in sight today. He knew this place well, it was a long time since he had buried his wife here, and he recognized everything. The graves lay in straight rows, some with fresh flowers, others neglected, overgrown with weeds; others again had dry, withered flowers in overturned pitchers or ordinary drinking glasses; on some not even weeds grew.

He had once been among those who selected this place as the burial ground of the Swedish parish. Four of them had gone out a morning in June to choose a plot suitable for the dead. They had come onto this little promontory at the old Indian lake, Ki-Chi-Saga, and had sat down to rest under the silver maples. They did not have to seek any further; their mission was accomplished.

Three of the four now had their graves in this place, three had been lowered into the ground they themselves had chosen as their last resting place. But the fourth was still alive, walking here between the graves. He moved with great effort, he took one long right step and two short left ones. Surely no one moved more slowly over the earth than the fourth man who today visited here.

The first years very few graves had been dug. The immigrants were mostly young people, the greater part of their lives before them. Yet, the very first grave had been opened for a young person, Robert Nilsson, aged twenty-two. But the years ran by, time did its work, the parish members grew old and the hour of death caught up with them. By and by the rows of graves grew longer.

Here lay all those who were older than Karl Oskar at the time of their emigration, and many of his own age group had already moved here. He recognized the mounds. The longest life had been granted to Fina-Kajsa, but she had been old when she arrived in America. Jonas Petter had been almost fifty when they came and had lived to a great age. Only a few years ago had his grave been dug; it was still the last to have been opened for one of his Old Country friends.

The dead had been laid in their coffins, their faces toward the east, toward the rising sun, for it was in the eastern sky that Christ would come on the day of resurrection. Their faces must be turned toward their Redeemer so their eyes could see him at once.

Karl Oskar stopped, resting his left leg as he leaned on the stick, blinking in the sun. Kristina’s grave was a few hundred paces from the gate, he would soon be there — about thirty more steps. He could already see the cross he had raised over it. The grave was halfway down the slope under a wide-spreading silver maple.

At a distance of a few paces he stopped and read the words he had carved in the oak cross:

HERE RESTS

KRISTINA JOHANSDOTTER

Wife of Karl Oskar Nilsson

Born at Duvemåla, Sweden 1825

Died in North America 1862

WE MEET AGAIN

On the grave he had planted sweet williams, blue doves, and marigolds, some of the flowers Kristina herself had planted at Korpamoen in Sweden. He tried to keep the grave well attended but weeds were sticking up among the flowers and he bent down to pull them.

The pain cut through his back, and he stiffened at once. He was unable to raise himself. This happened frequently. Slowly, cautiously, he sat down in the grass beside the grave. He must sit a few moments until the pain eased.

Around him the world was silent. A faint sighing in the maple crown above Kristina’s grave, like calm, quiet breathing. The blades of grass bent gently in the soft wind, rose as gently again. Down on the lake, below the cliffs, a flock of ducklings played swing on the waves; the eternal motion of the water; the waves broke against the cliffs, were diffused, and glided back into the lake, returned again to wash the same stones. They moved as they had done since the beginning of time.

Not so for a human being; he did not move as easily today as yesterday. To lie in the earth, or crawl over it — which was preferable? When he entered the cemetery gate he had read the words above it, the promise they held out for him, the gift of peace. He wanted so much to believe that this good promise had been fulfilled for all those who were buried here, that it would be fulfilled for him too. This was his wish every day: Afterward no more suffering.

Karl Oskar sat in the grass at his wife’s grave, listening to the rustling in the silver maples, to the ceaseless purl of the lake surf. Here was a good, peaceful place. Toil and strife were ended for those having their abode here. Nothing more could happen to them.

Nothing more could happen to Kristina.

While alive she had felt and understood something he could not feel and understand: She believed fully they would meet after death. She spoke of it many times the last spring she was alive. Then everything would be as before between them. But perhaps she had sensed her time would not be long. One night, after they had enjoyed each other, she had said to him: I don’t want to be alone in eternity. I pray to God we’ll meet afterward. We will meet again. When we can’t die any more.

WE MEET AGAIN

With his own hand he had carved those words in the oak cross. He had put them there because he knew Kristina wanted it. After all, they were her own words. She had said them to him, he had inscribed them as he remembered them. It was Kristina herself who had written over her grave the words of meeting.

She had been so afraid they wouldn’t meet afterward that she had been concerned about his eternal salvation.

But how was it after death? What had God prepared? What was His plan for the human beings he had created? No one could answer that question for sure, no one could know for sure about any life except this one. Karl Oskar understood neither the eternal bliss of heaven nor the eternal suffering of hell. His understanding was not sufficient.

But it was good to sit here and read those three words on the cross, Kristina’s own words. Then he could also hear them from her mouth. Those, or others with the same meaning. She was not in doubt, or hesitant, when she said: We meet again. She was sure, she was convinced they would meet in a life that had no ending.

Perhaps. Perhaps there was a life afterward where they could be together. Another kind of life, not comprehensible to human understanding; perhaps one must die in order to understand it. He did not know. But neither could he deny it; if he denied it he would also have to be sure.

When we can’t die any more. To Kristina eternity was only permanent rest. And she had been so tired the last years of her life; nothing had helped her against that.

Kristina had surrendered herself to God and humbly resigned herself to her fate. But that he had never been able to do, nor would he ever. And it didn’t matter. God treated him anyway as he saw fit — and what could he do about it? The Almighty had bent his back, made his body stoop to the earth, filled him with pains and aches, made a lame wretch of him. But why should he resign himself to this and say it suited him? No, he would always make one more try. A human being was indeed helpless, but he need not resign himself to this, he must always try to live as if he could be of some help to himself.

There had been times when he had been close to giving up. That morning on the Charlotta, when Kristina. . But after that they had lived many years together. And during that time a devoted woman with a good heart had shared his days of toil and his nights of rest, all the joys of youth and health. A better lot a couple could not be granted perhaps. Why must he ask for more? Why wasn’t he satisfied and resigned to the fact that the joys of life were over and would never return? So terribly difficult was it to reconcile oneself to the fact that life was over.

Where did it now belong, his old, worn-out, useless body? It would arrive at this place, that much was certain. Beside his wife’s grave he had reserved enough space for his own resting place; here he would be buried. He was sitting on his own grave. His body would rot and disintegrate beside Kristina’s, in the same earth where she had turned to dust. At least this much was sure: Here they would both meet. That much he knew: The wide silver maple would shade them both. And then nothing more could happen to him either.

Down at the lake the surf played against the cliffs, sank down, and returned. It had done so as long as this water had existed, and would do so as long as it would exist. And this motion without ending was to him like generations growing up and dying. What was the purpose of this repetition — to come and go, to live and die? Why must this happen? Of what use was it?

Like the fading smoke of a dying fire, so seemed to him his days gone by, the good as well as the bad. His body had stiffened in old age’s cold, was withering like the leaves in autumn. Perhaps at last the leaf resigned itself to falling. But it bothered him that he must leave this life without knowing its purpose. In that way it was a disappointment to die.

Karl Oskar sat beside his wife’s grave for a couple of hours. When at last he rose to return home it seemed to him the cross on the grave had started to lean a little. He looked closer; indeed, it was leaning. It was almost twenty-five years since he had put it up, and in that time the ground might change and sink a little. No post in the earth would remain exactly in the same position for that length of time.

He took hold of the cross with both hands. It wasn’t leaning much, only a few inches, but it looked bad on a grave. After he had straightened it he took a few steps back and looked. As far as his eyes could see, the cross stood straight now. Next time he came to the cemetery he would bring a spade and put some support against it.

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, 6 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.

Your Brother Nelson’s family who are close blood relations to you all send their heartfelt greetings to you. I am an unknown Stranger in North America writing these Lines to you, I reach you my hand in Friendship and Wish you Well,

Over my Old Native Land I call down at last Lord God’s Blessing and Eternal Peace.

With Respect

Axel J. Andersson.