The East Wind
1
The East Wind
Life feels very different from this side of sixty, thought Jahn, sitting on the side of the bed he shared with the woman he’d wed so long ago. That place, that time, seemed a distant dream now.
The days accounting, an 86,400-second cache of irretrievable time, granted daily, lay ahead in the darkened room. Would it also be wantonly squandered on anxious and fruitless monetary acquisition? “Time is money and getting money takes time, so isn’t avarice the thief of your heritage,” queried some unwanted thought? “What is there to show for all this labor?” Jahn’s thought angrily.
His discouraged heartbeat slowly, as he sighed deeply, his only answer to the frustrating glum now his constant companion. “Poor is poor he silently answered these unvoiced, unwanted questions? Reminiscing, regretfully, he gazed at the unfinished, hand-carved pipe, sitting idly on the window ledge. A name day gift for his Far-pappa in Norway. As the rhythm of the age out-ran his ability to keep pace, Jahn felt slightly marginalized. Once thrilled questions of how and where had been replacing by disheartened questions of when and why?
His eyes surveyed their small bedroom, curtained off from the main parlor of the tidy, upstairs apartment in which they now lived. Noticing the new jacket hanging on the peg next to the bedroom’s privacy curtain, Jahn marveled at the craftsmanship of the garment. Guri must have finished their son’s gift.
Here, in this unfamiliar country, money brought survival and its partner, greedily sought-after comfort. “How unlike his home,” he mumbled as he stomped on his remaining boot. “You made what you needed and used what you made!” Again, the same downhearted thoughts came to him. “You did not need these coins,” He grabbed the loose change laying near the unfinished pipe shoving them into his pant pocket. Jahn seemed to be waiting for something. As he swallowed now-familiar despair felt from within, he turned to leave.
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The East Wind
Suddenly, almost as if a giant creative hand was reminding one time to ruminate about another, Jahn again heard the silent whisper; “Sit back, let go,” “Remember what was said, what was planned and why.” “There is value in the telling,” the cold Chicago wind seemed to whisper from outside the bedroom window. There is a much-needed legacy there.”
“You need not move forward at the frantic pace of this age.” the voice melodically continued. “Allow me to show you the treasures created by your life. Others need to know who you are, how you came to be here. The pain endured, the sacrifices made. The struggles and victories that bought your heritage, encouragement from ages past and for ages yet to come.”
It’s odd how easily customs can change in such a short time, Jahn thought. The movement of time seemed so swift from the vantage of old age. Perhaps he should write it down? But he was no teller of tales like his brother Jurgen. He hoped Jurgen would continue to document the priceless treasure of wisdom gained from their adventures and history. Centuries-old traditions, told and retold, can bequeath an identity, a purpose. Strength and wisdom for life’s storms to come.
However, for Jahn, busy with daily survival in a strange land, little time was left for the family’s history, now mingling, and becoming lost in the cold wind of this dusty, dirty, busy city; time spent on dull purpose with a small gain.
“An inheritance, a legacy, a treasure, to leave behind and to honor those who have come before,” urged the voiceless thoughts.
“What treasure? I can barely remember the why,” Jahn dejectedly sneered back; this time aloud to the spent silent voice.
“What are you talking about?” sleepily murmured Gurine, “and to who; this time?” she asked, while still bedded with a sleeping child; A slight, pale, blond-headed, six-year-old, who had kept them up most of the night with mysterious leg pains and tears.
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The East Wind
“I don’t know, old woman?” Jahn snapped. “I didn’t mean to say anything to anybody.” “Go back to sleep!” Jahn barked back annoyed.
“A man can’t even talk to himself without you having to interfere with his thoughts!” Jahn continued grumbling.
“And don’t bother with my breakfast either,” he dejectedly whispered, “as if you care,” Jahn mumbled even more quietly.
“I’ll get some rolls and milk from Jurgen’s bakery downstairs.”
He spoke pathetically as if he were an unappreciated, long-suffering, martyred saint.
“Oh! Such a mood already?” Guri smiled. “I doubt if any of us got much sleep last night and you’ll get yourself arrested with that attitude; even if you and Hjalmar, manage to get to the factory on time,” Guri forcefully whispered in answer to her annoyed husband. Her eyes moving warningly from Jahn to the still sleeping child.
“And no morning coffee?” she snorted wistfully, raising one eyebrow. “How will you survive?” She gently moved the sleeping child, out of her arms and slipped gracefully from their small warm bed.
Jahn watched the old woman move quietly across the room toward him. He was still amazed at her beauty. Not the slender red-blond youth who had captured his desire, however still graceful, with her long, thinning, silver-blond hair, hanging in disarray. She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes as if to kiss him. He bent his head, as if to answer that sweet kiss, but received instead, a wicked smirk and a gentle swat on his balding head.
“Go get the wood from the back porch and start the stoves, you ill-tempered Viking,” she chided. Guri rolled her eyes, wrapped herself in a ragged old robe, checked her woolen socks, and walked swiftly through the small parlor and into their still dark, cluttered, cold kitchen.
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The East Wind
It wasn’t that the room itself that felt small and cluttered. It was the enormous table, centered in the room with eight chairs placed around each side and one at the head of the table that made the room look small.
Placed on the back wall of the kitchen was a long, narrow, side-table, where the day's fresh bread dough sat rising and apple streusel awaited baking. Next to the side-table was the door to the only bathroom in the small apartment. The free-standing sink with assorted dishes drying sat centered between an ice-box, and a wood-burning stove with an oversized oven. This arrangement completed the left side of the room.
Directly opposite from the side-table, across the room, was the “pantry.” A closet-sized room meant for storage of dry goods and supplies. This had long ago been converted into a curtained, tight, one-bedroom that the three youngest girls shared.
Oddly placed, next to the converted pantry, and near the head of the table, was a door that continually banged into the head table chair when opened. Behind this mysterious door were shallow stairs leading up toward a converted attic. Even this space had been split, of necessity, into two curtained-off rooms. The room on the left was filled with beds, clothes, and assorted belongings for the three remaining single boys. The room on the right was occupied by one married daughter and son-in-law, thus accommodating the eleven-member family group.
The boys’ room also allowed for the many visiting relatives who wintered there, earning money, while in the city. Life was much slower on farms in the winter which allowed time for the young cousins from Wisconsin to come to Chicago to earn money, while on the side, looking for wives.
Lastly, a back door, next to the ice-box. This leads to a small enclosed porch and steep stairs accessing the city alley. The porch behind this efficient tenement apartment was filled with hand-washed clothes, drying clothes on lines, the coal
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The East Wind
and wood box, and cans for garbage, among other boxed necessities for this large Norwegian immigrant family.
Guri moved swiftly and confidently around the kitchen, beginning morning preparations for her family, while Jahn sat at the table, grumbling about having to wait for morning coffee and the cost of everything.
Guri smiled as she slopped Jahn’s morning coffee down in front of him, spilling steaming water over the sides. Jahn quickly glanced at her, carefully returning her smile, as he reached for the bowl of sugar placed almost out of his long-armed reach. “Ah,” he inwardly gloated. “The game was a-foot.” How he loved coaxing out her temper. His feisty, tough, tender-hearted bride of 30 years.
Jahn opened the family bible to choose a verse for his children to memorize that day, gratefully sipping his hot, sweet morning coffee he now held in his hand. The Nord’s deeply loved their sugar.
He casually thumbed through the warn, stained, pages to get to the section he wanted. This a nice short book, he thought as he read the beginning text from one of the minor prophets.
He had been teaching his family from the prophetic books in the old testament and was amazed by the verses before him. How it reflected his early morning thoughts. Rereading the verses, Jahn felt that inner itch he’d felt earlier while putting on his boots. Surprised by the coincidence he felt compelled to pay closer attention to what God’s Word was saying that morning. Jahn found himself reading the complete short book of Joel. Was God directing him in some way? Could it just be a coincidence that the scripture reading for his family mirrored the voice he had heard in his head?
“1The word of the Lord that came to Joel, son of Pethuel.
2Hear this, you elder;
Listen to all who live in the land.
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Has anything like this ever happened in your days
or in the days of your forefathers?
3Tell it to your children,
and let your children tell it to their children,
and their children to the next generation.”
Book of Joel 1: 1-3
Jahn sat very still looking at the words written before him. Carefully placing his cup upon the breakfast table, he began to softly sing the traditional morning table prayer. Guri stopped her meal preparations and turned to gaze at her quiet husband’s bowed head. Her eyes filled with tears of longing, a desperate lonely loss, tugging at her heart, as she silently shared Jahn’s prayer for blessing over all who would sit at this table today. She sensed the importance of this moment, though no words of explanation had been shared between them. Their clear blue eyes met while they shared this special private moment, a silent shared soul gaze.
I Jesu navn går vi til bords Og spiser, drikker på ditt ord Deg, Gud, til ære, oss til gavn Så får vi mat i Jesu navn. Amen.
The day suddenly burst forth with bright slivers of sunlight streaming through the porch door’s paneled window. Guri called to the girls to come to help prepare the table for the first family meal of the day. With memories filling their grieving, worried minds, Guri and Jahn turned to face this strange land they now called home. Only certain of their commitment to each other and, their faith that God’s love was real.
The busy kitchen is filled with the noise of energetic children and young adults. Teasing, pushing, arguing in their joined banter, the sons and daughters
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The East Wind
filtered into the room. Each child had an assigned place at the table, with the eldest son sitting to the right of their Father. Nikolai was always so sure of himself. He spoke perfect English with no hint of the Norwegian language of his birth. He spoke with Papa as an equal, discussing the duties of the coming day. Hjalmar, the second son, looked with envy, but also pride, at his older brother. He wanted to prove himself an equal to Niki in every way.
Next to Hjalmar sat Antonetti and her husband. They had been quarreling again. It was obvious to all by their stiff and overtly polite communication. Norwegians are not known for affectionate displays, but the quiet seething anger as they smiled through clenched teeth, was impossible to ignore. “Another day, the same argument,” Hjalmar thought. “When was the couple going to move out?” “Had the man found work yet?”
Guri, sitting on Jahn’s right, allowing easy access to the stove, smiled at Jahn and lifted a warning eyebrow. This was not the time to inject unwanted In-law advice. Jahn sighed and returned to his porridge, finishing his coffee in one gulp. The conversation and banter began again between the siblings as they teased and argued their way through the family morning meal.
“Well we better get going Hjalmar,” he announced loudly as he pushed himself away from the table. “I have to meet with uncle Jurgen to discuss some business.“ This was an obvious break with daily tradition and all eyes turned to gaze questioningly at Jahn.
“But Pappa, what verse do you wish us to meditate today?” queried young Marthin. “Leave it to the ‘saintly’ Marthin to remind their father of the daily dreaded memory verse assigned,” Hjalmar silently sighed.
“Well mine barn, I feel I need to meditate a bit on today’s scripture. The meaning was not quite clear to me today,” en pappa said thoughtfully. The collective sigh of relief around the table made Jahn smile to himself, however, he managed an angry look, shook his head, and continued his explanation.
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The East Wind
“Mamma and I will seek counsel and guidance. I know how disappointed my family is to miss a day of Godly reflection, ya mamma?” Guri bowed her head while barely able to stifle a giggle. “Ya, is true, pappa!” she agreed, while keeping her smile hidden.
This type of thing rarely happened, and when it did, it made everyone relieved, though nervous. The boys shuffled their chairs in, while the girls looked at each other with wide uneasy eyes. This did not bode well with any of them. It was just this type of delayed explanation that leads to some type of change. None of them were comfortable when pappa meditated too long on some seemingly insignificant passage of scripture. Then, as if to make them feel worse, Jahn quietly added, “I think I must discuss the ramifications of what I’ve read with Bestefar, min pappa.”
A collective gasp went through the group, as they all turned their eyes to seek out mamma. Guri, intuitively knowing this was coming, had somehow slipped out of the kitchen unnoticed and back to her bedroom and the sleeping child. Time and distance were the wise answer now. She would wait and pray, while Jahn sought out the needed guidance. (Word count – 2286)
The three girls, minus Antonette, began clearing the large table. Pappa had built it when they first moved into the apartment above Uncle Jugen’s Bakery. Made from scrap wood leftover from the remodeling of the bakery, it still shined smoothly and evenly under their wiping cloths. They worked together quietly, each girl knowing her position on the team and their assigned tasks. Twelve-year-old Gurine starting boiling the hot water for the dishwashing.
Antonette came down the stairs from the attic rooms, shrugged at her sisters, and went through the parlor pausing hesitantly before entering her mother and father’s small bedroom. She stood just inside the curtain, waiting quietly to talk with her mamma. She needed help and did not know what to do. She had a secret, one she chose not to share with her sisters. Guri glanced up at her slender dark-haired niece while softly patting the youngest of her eight children. “Growing pains,” she sighed in explanation to Nettie. “Kept us up most of the night.” “Ah,” acknowledged Nettie. “Tanta Guri, I need….” she stopped short trying to suppress tears. “Ya, I was wondering when you would come to me?” “I know Nettie.” Guri left the sleeping child and crossed the room to comfort her niece. “What am I going to do?”
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