in time. Mentioning this at supper would cause Mor to be rude again, but . . .
Why was she always the one who had to bring up contentious subjects?
Far and Gilbert split wood with Hjelmer until dusk, while Ingeborg, Mari, and Berta stacked it.
“We’ll start again after morning chores.” Far dug out a file and sat down to hone the two-bit ax, so Gilbert followed suit. Ingeborg straightened from the stacking and kneaded her back with her fists. Shame they’d not been able to load the wagon at the same time, but it would be needed for other jobs before the big trek.
Far glanced over at the two remaining logs that awaited the crosscut saw. “We need to drag the green logs down here.”
“Is Onkel Frode going to send wood up too?” Hjelmer asked.
“He said so, but . . .”
Ingeborg knew Far hated to say anything against his two brothers. But then, he hated contention like a cat hated puddles. Not that they had any hesitation in their griping. So much so that sometimes it got in the way of their work—and living.
“I hope we can leave soon.” Hjelmer eyed the piles of wood. “Can we roll that log up on the sawbucks yet tonight?”
“Is right now soon enough?” Gilbert asked, nudging his little brother. “You grab one end and I’ll take the other.”
Far chuckled, something he didn’t do often enough, in Ingeborg’s book.
“Go tell your mor we’ve worked up an appetite again. See if she’ll set something out for a bedtime snack.”
Hjelmer glanced at Ingeborg, a bit wide eyed.
Mari rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell her.”
Or will most likely do it herself. Ingeborg knew that was an uncharitable thought but didn’t wish to erase it—like she so often wished, when her mouth or mind got away from her. If only she could do as the Bible said and bridle her tongue—always. Mor had pointed out that verse to her more than once. It rankled like a sliver under the skin.
When they gathered around the kitchen table, where Mari had set out the fresh ginger cookies and små brød, Mor acted like nothing had ever bothered her, all but looking at Ingeborg. When Hjelmer brought up the date for leaving for the seter, Far nodded.
“We will ride up tomorrow and see how the snow is melting. If we can see the bare ground, we will decide. We’ll leave the wood chopping to the others.”
Ingeborg felt her heart leap. Please, Lord, let the snow be melted and let no more fall. Wishing she could go along would do no good. But hopefully Far would take Hjelmer and leave Gilbert here to man the other end of the crosscut saw. Getting the wood ready was a big part of the preparations. Good thing they had dragged logs up the hill into the seter yard last fall. Cleaning out the buildings was always a big job too, especially the house. Who knew what had taken refuge in the snug building during the winter? One time theyfound a den of foxes in the cheese storage cellar cut into the hillside, and often mice, rats, or squirrels chewed their way into the house.
After milking, Ingeborg spent the next day at the woodpile and even pressed Gunlaug into the heavy work. Gunlaug soon said she had things to do at home and left before Ingeborg could try to talk her into staying any longer.
Gilbert leaned on his ax handle on the chopping block and shook his head. “She never has cared much for the heavy work.”
Ingeborg refrained from reminding him that most women didn’t like using a crosscut saw or an ax. If that was what he expected in a wife, he’d never have to worry about getting married. “She works hard in other ways.”
“Sitting at a loom doesn’t take a lot of muscle.” He hefted his ax and set another chunk on the block, neatly splitting it with one mighty whack. The whack and thunk of wood chopping resumed.
No, but swinging an ax does not produce the splendid weaving that Gunlaug can do. Ingeborg didn’t say it aloud. She reached for the file to touch up her ax. Chopping with a sharp ax was hard enough, but
Why was she always the one who had to bring up contentious subjects?
Far and Gilbert split wood with Hjelmer until dusk, while Ingeborg, Mari, and Berta stacked it.
“We’ll start again after morning chores.” Far dug out a file and sat down to hone the two-bit ax, so Gilbert followed suit. Ingeborg straightened from the stacking and kneaded her back with her fists. Shame they’d not been able to load the wagon at the same time, but it would be needed for other jobs before the big trek.
Far glanced over at the two remaining logs that awaited the crosscut saw. “We need to drag the green logs down here.”
“Is Onkel Frode going to send wood up too?” Hjelmer asked.
“He said so, but . . .”
Ingeborg knew Far hated to say anything against his two brothers. But then, he hated contention like a cat hated puddles. Not that they had any hesitation in their griping. So much so that sometimes it got in the way of their work—and living.
“I hope we can leave soon.” Hjelmer eyed the piles of wood. “Can we roll that log up on the sawbucks yet tonight?”
“Is right now soon enough?” Gilbert asked, nudging his little brother. “You grab one end and I’ll take the other.”
Far chuckled, something he didn’t do often enough, in Ingeborg’s book.
“Go tell your mor we’ve worked up an appetite again. See if she’ll set something out for a bedtime snack.”
Hjelmer glanced at Ingeborg, a bit wide eyed.
Mari rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell her.”
Or will most likely do it herself. Ingeborg knew that was an uncharitable thought but didn’t wish to erase it—like she so often wished, when her mouth or mind got away from her. If only she could do as the Bible said and bridle her tongue—always. Mor had pointed out that verse to her more than once. It rankled like a sliver under the skin.
When they gathered around the kitchen table, where Mari had set out the fresh ginger cookies and små brød, Mor acted like nothing had ever bothered her, all but looking at Ingeborg. When Hjelmer brought up the date for leaving for the seter, Far nodded.
“We will ride up tomorrow and see how the snow is melting. If we can see the bare ground, we will decide. We’ll leave the wood chopping to the others.”
Ingeborg felt her heart leap. Please, Lord, let the snow be melted and let no more fall. Wishing she could go along would do no good. But hopefully Far would take Hjelmer and leave Gilbert here to man the other end of the crosscut saw. Getting the wood ready was a big part of the preparations. Good thing they had dragged logs up the hill into the seter yard last fall. Cleaning out the buildings was always a big job too, especially the house. Who knew what had taken refuge in the snug building during the winter? One time theyfound a den of foxes in the cheese storage cellar cut into the hillside, and often mice, rats, or squirrels chewed their way into the house.
After milking, Ingeborg spent the next day at the woodpile and even pressed Gunlaug into the heavy work. Gunlaug soon said she had things to do at home and left before Ingeborg could try to talk her into staying any longer.
Gilbert leaned on his ax handle on the chopping block and shook his head. “She never has cared much for the heavy work.”
Ingeborg refrained from reminding him that most women didn’t like using a crosscut saw or an ax. If that was what he expected in a wife, he’d never have to worry about getting married. “She works hard in other ways.”
“Sitting at a loom doesn’t take a lot of muscle.” He hefted his ax and set another chunk on the block, neatly splitting it with one mighty whack. The whack and thunk of wood chopping resumed.
No, but swinging an ax does not produce the splendid weaving that Gunlaug can do. Ingeborg didn’t say it aloud. She reached for the file to touch up her ax. Chopping with a sharp ax was hard enough, but
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