"Kom hem, Pappa, för vi längtar efter dig!" Kirsten Larson begged as she held on to her father's striped work shirt. "Come home, Pappa, because we miss you!"
Mamma laid a thin cold hand on Kirsten's brow briefly before resuming her weaving. The loom clattered through the whole morning, and Mamma thumped the weave down so hard today that Kirsten was afraid the loom would fall apart.
"Do you think Pappa will come home today?" Kirsten asked, flopping on Mamma's bed. She kicked the bedframe with her heel and stared at the low cottage ceiling.
Ugh, nothing to do in the winter while Pappa was gone. She could only wander around the house and see how much the floors creaked, or help with the cleaning and cooking. She didn't want to play with her doll, Sari.
"I don't know, Kirsten!" Mamma stopped her weaving, stumbled off the weaving bench, and stood in front of Kirsten. "I'm tired and I need to finish those shawls before it gets too cold. I don't know when Pappa, or Lars, or Peter will come home." Mamma sighed and crossed her arms. "Please, I need one moment's peace."
Why was Mamma being so unfair? Kirsten flopped back down on Mamma's bed and almost literally bit her tongue trying not to scream. What had Kirsten ever done? Mamma shouldn't be mad at her!
Kirsten sat up. She was being so mean to Mamma, Mamma who had to clean the house, look after her, do the chores, and do her own work. But still. Mamma shouldn't yell.
The one-story house was not warm today. Mamma wanted to save wood, so both of them had to put on their woven shawls and blow on their fingers. And underneath her wrinkled muslin shirt, wool stockings, petticoat, and dirndl, Kirsten still had to put on itchy flannel underwear. She itched everywhere, including embarrassing places.
Kirsten turned her focus from itching to their little quaint hutch of a place. A fuzzy glow of pallid sunlight struggled through the smudged windowpanes.
Why did their little house in Småland look so gray and washed out in the winter? The worn floorboards were painfully drab, the golden wood walls were light beige, and even the colorful quilt Mamma had stitched seemed somehow drained of color. The house seemed too small, too, even though Mamma and Pappa had their own room.
"Mamma, I'm going out." Kirsten gladly threw on a second shawl, pulled on her muffler, gloves, and hat before she headed out. She was growing sick of staying inside. The air was too stuffy and cold, although it was better than summer.
It was that period of snappy cold air without the suffocating blank snow. As Kirsten headed toward the stone wall Pappa had made, a stray breeze attack her dress hem and froze her legs. She should have put on a second pair of stockings.
How strong Pappa was to have built a stone wall! Kirsten nearly forgot about her annoyance with Mamma, the emotion fading away like an itch scratched, and scrambled up to the wall. She sat on top and swung her feet, looking at the foggy forest in front of the house.
The fields were going to be soggy and bitterly cold today. She remembered the golden summer, when the air was warm, the crops were growing, and everyone could run around in bare feet. The ground had been pleasantly warm and the grass had tickled their feet. How much she hated winter sometimes.
But it was nice to take a "think-walk" in the winter, when no one was around to interrupt her.
How funny. She used to call what she was doing a "think-walk". It was more a "think-sit" now, because no one wanted to trudge through the weather. And now all the boys and men trudged through the blankness to find the town.
Mamma suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Come in before you catch cold," she called. She didn't sound mad anymore, and the corners of her mouth weren't turning down.
Kirsten shook her head. All the annoyance toward Mamma had suddenly rushed back, and she squirmed at the prospect of having to be with Mamma in the enclosed house again.
"At least put on an extra pair of woolen stockings!" Mamma held up the stockings.
At this Kirsten really did have to run back. Her legs were getting far too cold. She went into the house, put on the stockings as fast as she could, and was about to head back out when Mamma announced it was time for dinner. Kirsten groaned inwardly, pulled off her extra clothing, and went to the stove.
"I think Pappa and the boys might come home today," Mamma said cheerfully, rolling up her sleeves and putting on her apron. "Now, would you help me bake the bread and heat up the gravy and meatballs?"
"Yes, Mamma," Kirsten said sulkily, and grabbed a scrap of towel to pull out the warmed bread dough from the oven. She dumped out the dough onto the table, spread out flour, and began to pound the dough.
Here was one thump for Mamma being so fussy. Here was another thump for the boys for not coming home sooner. Here was another, and another, and another! Kirsten could feel the muscles in her arms aching and her lower lip jutting out.
Mamma came over to Kirsten and kissed her brow. "Kara, dear, I'm sorry I lost my temper at you earlier." She stroked Kirsten's hair and took over the kneading. "My, you're getting to be such a good bread-maker!"
"Yes, Mamma." Kirsten hated Mamma's way of consolation too. She left Mamma at the table and sat down on the bench opposite, leaning her elbows on the table and putting her chin in her hands.
Mamma stopped kneading. "I know you're mad at me. I'm sorry. I get tired too, and I miss all the boys, including Pappa. I get homesick as well."
Kirsten sat up. Here was something she didn't know about Mamma. "You get homesick?"
"Mm-hmm." Mamma threw the dough at the table several times.
"But we're only two miles from Mormor!"
"I know, but that's not to say I don't get homesick. I miss the trees in the summer, the wheat fields, that little swing I used to have in the barn..."
"But we have trees, and wheat fields, and swings here too."
"They're not the same." Mamma took out the bread knife, but for a moment she looked out the window, staring into the foggy morning. Her crisp blue eyes were muted and pink-rimmed. "I remember this lullaby my father used to sing to me. En gång jag seglar i hamn..."*
"One day I sailed into port..." Kirsten hummed along. "En gång är du i min famn, en gång berättas, min vän..."
Kirsten remembered it. It pulled her back to some unknown, warm and safe period when the whole world revolved around warmth, Mamma and Pappa, and the simple joy of being together. She remembered it very well, even though she could not remember the words.
"So you do remember. 'I once held you in my arms, I once told you, my friend...'" Mamma smiled. "You know, I think I used to sing that to you when you were in the cradle."
Mamma looked out the window again, and suddenly she grinned so widely Kirsten wondered if she wasn't dreaming. Mamma's whole careworn face lit up. Her mild eyebrows were raised in surprise, her upturned nose turned up even more, and for a moment Mamma looked like a young girl again. Her freckles stood out even more.
"Pappa is back home!" Mamma looked ready to run out the door, and she did. Kirsten followed. "The boys are with him. Packages and newspapers!"
Pappa and Lars and Peter back home before noon! Kirsten couldn't believe it! She ran as fast as she could, disregarding the fact that she only had a muslin blouse on, and ran into an armful of hugs.
"Oh!" Pappa's arms were suddenly filled with Mamma. His white-blond hair was scruffy and his beard was ragged, but it was of no matter. He was back home. Kirsten ran up to him and hugged him tightly, smelling the sweat and dirt on his body. "Jag är hemma," he sighed. "I'm home."
Lars somehow seemed to have gotten more handsome. His tall, lanky body flexed with muscles, his same upturned nose and fine cheekbones seemed even more delicate. "We're back, and we're home sound. Don't worry, little mother." As a teenager, he had begun to swagger and answer back.
Peter's angelic face and bird-thin limbs were a welcome sight. His pink cheeks were smudged with dirt, and he kept trying to pat off tree leaves from his shirt. "Mamma, Mamma! You wouldn't believe what news Pappa has!" He tugged at Mamma's skirts.
Mamma managed to detach herself from the whole group. "Kirsten and I were being very good and were just about to make dinner."
"Were you?" Pappa's eyes twinkled. "Oh, Kirsten, I missed you the whole way and back."
"Were you really?" Kirsten teased, smiling up at him. "You probably thought about other things." She knew Pappa had missed her; she just liked teasing him about it.
"Lars, you're saying you didn't miss me much?" Mamma mock-scolded Pappa.
"Of course I missed you too," Pappa smiled and kissed Mamma on the nose.
"Come in, everyone! Oh, and big Lars, not little Lars, would you believe what Kirsten said about you earlier in the morning?"
Oh, no! Mamma was definitely going to tell Pappa about her whispering. Kirsten couldn't restrain herself; she ran into the barn, shouting, "I forgot to milk the cow," and sat on her swing. She was too childish for a eight-year-old, she knew, but she absolutely didn't want to hear Mamma tell Pappa about it.
"...she said, 'Kom hem, Pappa'..." Mamma's gentle laughter drifted into the barn.
"Really?" Now Pappa's deep chuckle.
Åh, Gud! Now Kirsten would be humiliated! She couldn't stop breathing rapidly and put a hand on her chest.
But really, what was she worried about? If she was going to grow up—and she would be married ten years from now, she needed to stop being so silly.
She exhaled and started to swing, imagining she was Mamma and swinging from an apple tree in high summer. Mamma had once been a pretty, fresh young girl with plaited golden hair. Mormor told stories of how Mamma shirked her chores to go swing, and Kirsten rather liked Mamma as a young girl better than Mamma as a grown-up.
"Oh, Kirsten?" Pappa's voice rang out into the barn.
Agh! Kirsten stopped swinging and hid behind a hay bale.
"I think she's still embarrassed about missing you, the silly girl." Mamma's steps rustled over the hay-strewn floor. Kirsten could see Mamma's feet disconcertingly near the swing. "She has to be near here. I heard the swing creaking a second ago."
"I know where she is..." All of a sudden Pappa's hands attacked her hair!
Kirsten flew out shrieking as Pappa tickled her and collapsed on the hay bale with laughter. "Pappa, Pappa, stop!" she gasped. Suddenly she sneezed; the barn was a few degrees colder than the house.
"Oh, let's get her back home before she catches cold," Mamma sighed. She pulled Kirsten up and patted off the hay stuck in her skirt and shirt.
"You worry too much," Pappa chided. "Our own girl's going to be grown-up soon." But he turned to Kirsten and took one of her hands. "Why don't we walk back to the house? The boys are waiting and hungry! Mamma, you take the other side."
Kirsten walked back home with her mother and her father on either side, and as a ray of sunlight peeped from over the stiff tall trees, she forgot her embarrassment. There could be nothing better than being home and with the family, she thought happily.
*Note: Yes, En Gång Till is definitely anachronistic, since it was written in 1990, but I thought it would be a nice touch when the Larsons leave their own port later. Plus, the translation may not be very accurate; I'm just going off my basic knowledge of Swedish.