The Winter Helen Dropped By by W.P. Kinsella

Author:W.P. Kinsella [Kinsella, W.P.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 0002243806
Published: 2013-07-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

The Bjornsens had donated a small parcel of land at the northern corner of their farm as a cemetery for the community of Fark, and that was where Rosemary was buried. There were eight or nine graves, only one with a granite marker, and that one in Ukrainian or Russian, the raised letters all off-angle and upside-down looking.

It surprised me that so many people turned out in the cold May drizzle for the funeral of a baby, but I guess they came for Mama and Daddy, both of whom were first to offer a helping hand when others were in trouble or suffered a loss.

Daddy and Mama had discussed the fact that they didn’t want a preacher to conduct a service. That was about the only thing Mama had been able to make a concrete decision about since she came home, pale and empty-eyed. When she first saw me she looked at me for a fraction of a second as if I was a stranger turned up on her doorstep, maybe selling Raleigh Products or Fuller Brushes, a fraction of a second that scared me through and through, before Mama recognized me and reached her arms out to me.

Mama, Daddy pointed out, had to rest a lot, and wouldn’t be able to concentrate very well for a while. Which was true. Mama would start to do one thing, then all of a sudden stop and start with another task, only to abandon that in a few minutes, pour herself a cup of coffee, and sit at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table and stare off into space, her face and eyes blank. She would fuss over me, wrapping me in too many clothes and forcing food on me, then spend a day or more ignoring me completely, not seeming to hear when I asked her something or told her something.

Not having a preacher conduct a service was more difficult than Mama and Daddy imagined. Pastor Ibsen of the Christ on the Cross Scandinavian Lutheran Church was the first to appear at our door, and we all noted that he had changed from his farming overalls to his shiny blue serge suit in order to make the call in his official capacity as sometime pastor. He carried a casserole of Norwegian meatballs prepared by his wife, offered his condolences, and offered to conduct the service for Rosemary either at the now semi-abandoned Christ on the Cross Scandinavian Lutheran Church in New Oslo, or at the Fark Community Hall, or at our house, not leaving Mama and Daddy many avenues of escape.

“We’re not big on that sort of thing,” Daddy said vaguely, trying to be diplomatic, get his own way, and not offend Pastor Ibsen, who was a kindly man with good intentions who had taken a morning off from his farming to pay us a condolence call.

“I quite understand if you have someone else doing the duties,” Pastor Ibsen said, and I expect had Daddy left well enough alone the Pastor would have been on his way after a quick cup of coffee and a piece of Mrs.

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