For the time being they settled in their shanty, much smaller than Anders Månsson’s cabin, but now they were only six people instead of sixteen, and this hut was their own. In the center of the earth floor sat the large clothes chest, half as long as the shanty itself and occupying much of the space. At home it had been called the America chest, here it was called the Swedish chest. It was their one piece of furniture in their first American home. The chest bore the scars of its emigration adventure; it had been used roughly on the journey, in New York one corner had been smashed in, it was marred and scratched all over. But within its oaken planks, held together with heavy iron bands, it had protected its owner’s indispensable belongings. Men who had had to handle the chest, lifting it by its clumsy iron handles, had been surprised by its weight, and cursed and complained about what it might contain.
The clothes chest contained exactly the articles which the owners could not be without if they were to survive in the wilderness — so thought Kristina as she now unpacked them all. How could they withstand the winter’s cold without the woolen garments she now lifted from the chest? Camphor and lavender had protected them against moths and mildew; she found to her satisfaction that all the pieces of clothing were unharmed, though they had been packed this long time, from spring to autumn. Carefully Kristina handled woolen jackets, wadmal coats, linen sheets. She could have caressed the well-known pieces of clothing from home, in gratefulness that they had followed her out here, that they were ready for her now that she would need them. And it seemed almost incredible that they could be here with her in these foreign surroundings, so far away from home; they were like strangers here, they belonged to another home, in another country.
It was so long since she had packed the chest, she could not remember what was in it, and now she found objects she had not expected; she made discoveries, many times she was pleasantly surprised: Did she pack that? Had she brought along this also? What luck!
She found her carding combs, her wool shears, her sewing basket with balls of yarn, knitting needles, tallow candles which she herself had dipped last Christmas, her tablecloth of whole linen, woven by herself as part of her dowry, the small bottle of Hoffman’s Heart-Aiding Drops, children’s playthings. All these came now as unexpected gifts, at a moment when she needed them. She was most pleased when she found the swingletree which Karl Oskar had decorated with red tulips — his betrothal gift to her: through this her youth was brought back to her, such a long time ago, she thought — her betrothal time.
In the Swedish chest were also Karl Oskar’s carpenter tools; without them he could not have attempted to build a house for his family. Had he known how expensive tools were out here, he would have brought along much more edge iron: planes, augers, chisels, more axes. He also regretted not having more powder and shot, for it was costly to load a gun here. For once Robert had shown foresight — his hooks, fish traps, nets, and other fishing gear would come in handy for them, living as they did on the shores of a lake.
The odor of the camphor and lavender that had kept the packed clothing in good condition filled the shanty as the lid of the chest was thrown open. It was pleasing to Kristina — it smelled like home.
It had been in late March that she packed the America chest — it was in early September that she unpacked the Swedish chest. During all the months in between she had been moving; she had traveled from spring to autumn, and she had experienced so much during this time that it seemed more like years than months since she had left home. Was it only last spring that she had packed her possessions? To Kristina it seemed the packing had taken place in another life, in another world. And it was indeed true — they were living a new life, in a new world.
Many were the memories awakened in her as she unpacked the chest; every object was linked with some happening at home, some experience with people close to her, friends or relatives. The wool cards had been given her by her mother when she moved into her own home, the sewing basket she had bought at the fair the first spring she was married, the knitting needles had occupied her hands during winter evenings in company of friends around the fire. So many intimate things were here thrust upon her; from the old clothes chest she now unpacked Sweden.
And with these objects came many thoughts of little value to her — rather, they annoyed her. She knew that nothing could be more futile than to let her thoughts wander back and dwell on what once had been and never could be again. Her family must begin anew, they could not bury themselves in memories of the past. She had taken it as a warning when Karl Oskar had said: If their thoughts were too much on their old homeland, on things they had once and for all given up, this would hinder their success in the new country.
From that point of view, it had been disturbing to open the lid of the America chest — now the Swedish chest: their old home and their life there had thrust itself upon her; yet, it was as distant as ever.
But the chest was the only piece of furniture in the hut. And now she used it as a table; she spread food on the lid, and it became the family’s gathering place at every meal. And the old homeland odor remained; the chest occupied the center of the shanty and smelled of camphor and lavender — a lingering reminder of Sweden.
— 2—
Karl Oskar arranged his work according to the sun; he began early, before it was too warm, rested during the noon heat, and continued his work in the afternoon and into the cool evening as late as daylight would permit him. He was felling pines near the stream for house timbers. He felled the straightest and most suitable trees, stripping them of bark so the logs would dry while there was still warmth in the air. He cut young lindens, which he roughhewed for a roof and floor boards; he dug sod for the roof, he gathered and dried the birch and pine bark that was to hold the sod, he collected the stringy linden bark for ropes, he burned debris and cleared roads, he built a simple baking oven near the shanty, he dug a hole in the ground where they could keep food in a cool place and where it was protected from wild animals and insects, and he daily performed innumerable small chores. But even though he used the last reflected rays of the sun, the day was not long enough for him, he wished to do still more. And he complained because he had only two hands.
“Be satisfied with your two hands!” Kristina said. “You might have had only one.”
So much of the work was new to him, he was constantly learning new ways, he was ever improving the knowledge of his hands. All that specially skilled workmen had done for him at home, he himself must do here as best he could. Necessity was the best teacher, his father had said, and necessity forced a settler to try his skill at all kinds of work.
Karl Oskar had always learned easily and quickly imitated others. Now everything depended on his hands’ knowledge — unable to help himself with his hands, a settler would soon perish in this wilderness.
Kristina too must learn new ways: how to make beds without bedsteads, wash without proper soap, keep food without a cellar. And she was much concerned about their clothing, badly worn during the journey; some garments were completely worn out, all were soiled, all must be darned and patched, mended and washed. Her bridal quilt had fared ill in the hold of the Charlotta, it was spotted and torn and would never be the same; Kristina took this very hard. The working clothes for every member of the family needed attention, they must last a long time; she must be careful of every single garment, as she thought it might be a long time before new things could be obtained to cover their bodies.