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.