
Wild Rice River Wild
By Richard Skaare
Olaf Sneen stared dazedly into the mottled mirror behind the rows of dusty liquor bottles. His third beer and shot sat untouched in front of him like strangers wanting but reluctant to start a conversation. Dull sunlight pushed its way through the grime of the two small windows high to his right on the street side of the bar, and spread across the dull-green wall behind him. Silted warm air waited patiently at the front screen door, stopped by the bar’s coolness and brutish odor from years of cigarette smoke and sweat.
On the wall hung posters promoting war bonds and productivity. Several photos featured smiling local boys, arms tossed over each other’s shoulders as they waited for the train at the Stogle station. That train would take them to Minneapolis and then New Jersey and then off to Europe to fight the Kaiser’s soldiers and whoever else got in America’s way.
Tonight, parents and relatives would eat supper at the tables below those images and exchange their paraphrased versions of battle news from the Fargo newspaper. Several would one-up each other with the drama of fabricated facts and conjectures.
It was an unusually hot mid-afternoon for an early spring Saturday, and Olaf and Torfin, the owner and bartender — or “tavern-keeper” as he liked to call himself these days — were the only occupants. Torfin was back in the storeroom filling the ice chest with bottles of beer in preparation for the supper crowd
Despite the time pressures of planting season, around 6:00 p.m. on Saturdays, most farmers would unhitch their horses from plows and guide them to the barn. Wives would have clean, go-to-town clothes hanging on nails by the well houses. Their husbands would shake off the rich North Dakota dirt from their overalls, strip naked, and redeem themselves with the pump’s cold water.
An hour later, families would hitch up wagons and make their way to town for the weekly special of lutefisk or pot pie or roast beef at Torfin Amundsen’s Bar and Supper Club. Some farmers would bring an extra horse should they want to stay later to drink and argue and guffaw with the Norwegian-American crowd.
Olaf had been sitting a long time without moving on the hickory-hard bar stool. He shifted his bulky weight to a less uncomfortable position. But he couldn’t shift his uncomfortable thoughts about the previous night’s visit to his brother-in-law’s farmhouse and about the broken plow blade in the back of his wagon.
* * * * * * * * * *
O laf had started plowing one of Walter Heglie’s fields near town at dawn. Walter, who was Olaf’s brother-in-law, was laid up at home with a wrenched back, and, without being asked, at least not directly, Olaf volunteered to help out. Walter would have done the same for him, Olaf convinced himself, though mostly because Walter’s wife Ingrid would guilt him into it just as Olaf’s wife Berit had done with him. But that was okay. Each to his own, a phrase Olaf liked to tell himself so often that he wasn’t sure now what it even meant.
Almost immediately after arriving at the Heglies’ farm the previous evening, Berit started into another of her man-slapping comments to Ingrid about foolish husbands doing what they shouldn’t and ending up getting themselves hurt. Since the damaged husband was also Berit’s brother, Ingrid took no offense. Olaf and his sister-in-law Ingrid exchanged furtive smiles while Berit continued to chatter on.
Berit pulled turnips out of the burlap sack she snatched from Olaf. She instructed Ingrid to store the turnips right away, and, within a few days, prepare the vegetable the way she remembered her brother Walter liking it as a boy. Berit then marched into Walter’s bedroom.
Olaf lingered briefly to offer Ingrid help in storing the turnips in the cold cellar under one of the outer sheds. He hoped she would accept so he wouldn’t have to engage with his brother-in-law and Berit. Besides, he liked spending time with Ingrid. They were easy with each other. She smiled sheepishly at him. “You should go see Walter,” she said reluctantly. He moved slowly to the bedroom.
Though Walter lay flat in his bed without a pillow and looked at the ceiling, from the bottom of his gaze he could still see — or imagined — the expression on his sister’s face when she entered. “I know, I know,” he said. “Dumb Norwegian. I should have known better than jumping down from the hay loft as if I was 20 and not 50 years old. I’ll never learn, will I, Berit”? Berit grimaced in agreement and with satisfaction.
“Hello, Olaf,” said Walter. How’s the cultivating coming over at your place?”
“Is good,” Olaf replied.
“Without no rain,” Walter said, “you should be on top of the work. I was … well … until … you know.”
“I’m doing alright,” said Olaf. “Not sitting around waiting. I seem to be on schedule. But the wheat seed will soon be sprouting in the bags if I don’t get planting.” He chuckled awkwardly knowing that his upbeat words only intensified Walter’s frustration with his immobility. He stepped aside, anticipating that Ingrid would soon be entering the room.
“I’d like to think this setback will waste only a few days in the fields,” Walter said with some hesitation in his voice. “But bad-news Doc Iverson tells me today that I could be in bed all week.” He winced as he turned his body slightly toward Olaf while avoiding Berit’s skeptical expression. “The weather forecast don’t look so good for next week either. Doc Iverson says the guy on the radio talked about unusually high winds comin’. We sure could use some rain to hold down that topsoil from being blown away.”
Olaf rocked on his feet and looked anxiously out the window and across Walter’s unplowed fields. He could see from the corner of his eye that Berit was staring expectantly at him. He felt Ingrid entering the room and knew she would be watching him empathetically. Olaf’s throat went dry but he managed to mutter enough of a grunt to indicate he was thinking and maybe even had an idea. Berit gave him five seconds to recover himself before supplying the words he did not want to hear but knew had to be spoken.
Expressionless and in her monotone voice, Berit asked Olaf, “I’m sure you have some time to help out Walter, don’t you, Olaf?” She turned her head toward Walter. “If he could only get himself moving in the morning, he could have all of your fields plowed in three days, I betcha.” She quieted, letting silence tell much more harshly than words about the family-familiar story of Olaf’s late-night drinking out in the barn.
Walter looked for a reaction from Olaf. Walter liked his brother-in-law, much as he liked his aging German Shepherd Rex, for just being someone he could talk at and who wouldn’t disagree with his cynical views of President Wilson’s war and about the low prices for his harvest at the granary.
Though he would never admit it, even to Ingrid, Walter did appreciate a small gesture months back when Olaf was in Fargo for supplies. Olaf had taken Walter’s son Peter out for beer and small talk. A birth defect kept Peter out of military service. In exchange, he worked in a government-subsidized metals factory.
Berit had later whispered information about the meet-up to Ingrid, who told Walter one Sunday after church when he was in his Christian mood. Walter couldn’t have done what Olaf had done. His embarrassment over Peter’s inability to be a soldier and angered by his son’s defiance in recent years had paralyzed Walter’s soul.
“Sure, I can give you a couple of days,” said Olaf. “No problem.”
But it was a problem, he knew, because the extra workload would set back his own time to plow. And despite Berit knowing he was helping out her brother, she still would be irritable from looking every day at unplowed fields around their home.
“The only problem,” said Walter, “is that I need you to use my new plow, not the old one. Think you can handle it, Olaf? I don’t want no issues with it.”
Walter had bought the cultivator the previous spring after months of scouring The Farmer’s Journal and wrangling with dealers in St. Cloud and Fargo. No matter what the conversation — farming, sick cows, politics — Walter craftily wove the topic of his smart purchase into most every conversation.
Olaf got the message. No matter. He was a bumbler. He knew that, others knew that. Back in school, Berge Hendricksen and his gang would taunt him by calling him “Oaf.” Again, no matter.
“Okay, that’s settled,” said Berit. “So, let’s get movin’ Olaf. You have to get up real early tomorrow.”
Out the door, Berit turned and walked toward the Heglies’ vegetable garden, calling back to ask Ingrid if she minded her picking some of her squash. “Sure, help yourself” replied Ingrid, not hearing much of the question.
“Crazy night, crazy time,” said Ingrid to Olaf as they stood alone now in the dark.”
“Sure is,” replied Olaf. “Ever think when we were back in high school that this would be the life we’d have?”
“I never thought much about it,” said Ingrid. “How about you?”
“All I thought much about was getting out of school when I was of age and about girls … well, about one girl.” Though he knew Ingrid couldn’t see him in the darkness, he still turned away and smiled shyly.
“And who was that girl, may I ask?” She was surprised by her abrupt question.
Neither continued the conversation because Berit was coming back from the garden. In the quiet of the night, both Ingrid and Olaf knew she would hear what might be said next.
“Goodnight, Ingrid.”
“Good night, Olaf.”
* * * * * * * * * *
In the bar the next day, Olaf took comfort remembering that simple, sentimental exchange of words with Ingrid. But clanging loud in his head was the sound of his self-affliction. “No matter about anything,” Olaf kept muttering to himself as he visualized the blade from his brother-in-law’s cultivator lying twisted in his wagon outside Amundsen’s bar. He tossed back the shot of whiskey and then grabbed the beer bottle tightly to somehow stop the cacophony from rushing out into a scream or tears.
How could he have not seen the top of that boulder in Walter’s field. The plow horses hadn’t stumbled on it, though one of them had moved off course around a patch of tall weeds and gnarly vines ahead indicating that something was wrong. But there were lots of such places in fields this time of year. Let the plow do its work. Then he heard the sound of metal against rock as the plow suddenly lunged up and jolted sideways. He pulled back on the harnesses to stop the horses, sat motionlessly in denial for a few seconds, and walked over to face the damage.
Now, several hours later, here he was sitting with his familiar friend of alcohol and trying to find the words and fortitude to explain his screw-up to Walter, to Berit, to Ingrid. Ingrid would be the only one to see the incident as an accident. Berit would indict him for his sloppiness
And Walter … well, he would see it as a confirmation of what he knew would happen. With controlled anger, he would instruct Olaf to ask Ole Israelson to take over the plowing, and tell Ole he would pay him later. Olaf would object because he was commited to solving the problem. But, certainly, Walter wouldn’t listen.
In the reflection at the far end of the mirror, Olaf caught site of Eric Skarvold crossing the broad dirt expanse of Main Street toward the bar. A rush of relief passed through Olaf.
Olaf had stopped by Eric’s repair shop an hour earlier with the plow blade. He knew that Eric could bang, heat, and grind the blade to its near original shape. When Walter was up walking again, sure he would notice the slight difference in the blade and would say something about Olaf being more careful to see rocks. But that rebuff Olaf could stomach.
When Olaf had reached Eric’s workshop earlier, he saw Eric’s note on the door saying he would return in an hour. At first, Olaf thought he would wait for Eric. But waiting only got him thinking and worrying, and sweating from the heat. Why not wait in the dark coolness of Torfin’s bar? Dangerous, he knew, but he wouldn’t be there long.
Yet, he had lost track of time and there was Eric in the doorway. He wished he could evaporate into the bar’s darkness while Eric was adjusting his eyes from the sunlight. He didn’t want Eric to see him there in the bar looking tipsy and probably sounding at least slightly incoherent. Olaf couldn’t think of words right now to start a conversation. And, like others, Eric knew that booz was a lingering demon for Olaf. He had seen Olaf sleeping off a drunken binge behind the harness shop too many times over the years.
“Eric, I came by your place a short time ago,” Olaf blurted. “You weren’t there so I just stopped here for a few minutes to cool off. How are you doing?”
Eric had been sitting down the street in Ebert’s grocery store taking a break from work to talk with his good friend John Ebert about mostly nothing of importance. He had spotted Olaf outside his shop. If Olaf had stayed outside a while in the heat, Eric would have walked back to find out what Olaf needed. But he knew where Olaf would go and that meant he had time to smoke a bowl of tobacco with his friend John. Yet, he felt a slight responsibility not to let Olaf waste himself in liquor.
“Hello, Olaf. I’m good. “Hey, Torfin,” he shouted out to his friend out back. Torfin waved in response.
“How’s Ingrid?” Eric asked Olaf.
“She’s good, all’s good, don’t you know. Got time for me to buy you a beer?”
“Nah, but thanks. What you in town for this time of day?”
“Actually I came to get some help from you, if you can give it. I’ll pay you, of course. I was out plowing my brother-in-law’s fields because you might have heard Walter’s on his back for a while.”
“Yeah, the wife mentioned it to me this morning.”
“Well, Walter’s horses are getting age on them, you know. Oslo, the blond one, got spooked by something and started to bolt. Before I yank her back, the plow hit a boulder. And the rest is history as folks say.”
“How bad’s the damage?”
“I suppose I could have reshaped the bend in the blade, but you’re the skilled guy. And you know Walter, even normal wear and tear is someone’s fault.”
Eric gave a half-smile that said he knew Walter all too well.
Eric moved up onto a bar stool, knowing that it would be best to let Olaf finish his beer and talk at least briefly to ease his mind off the guilt.
“How’s Pauline,” asked Olaf?”
“Good.”
“And those eight kids of yours?”
“C’mon Olaf,” said Eric with a slight chuckle. “Just four.” Olaf’s nervousness was getting louder.
“Ha. Four’s more than I could handle.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Olaf wished he hadn’t said that. He had long smothered the details of the story of his young son’s death. Olaf was supposed to be keeping an eye on the six-year old for just a few hours as Ingrid attended the Christian Women’s Association bake sale at their church. Olaf played baseball with the boy for a while, enjoying teaching him how to swing the bat and keep his eye on the incoming ball, all lessons learned back when he was a kid listening to Twins games on the Motorola and not from a father who had better things to do than than spending time with his children.
After about forty-five minutes, the boy became bored and wanted to chase the chickens. Olaf would rather he didn’t rile up the chickens, but it might be short-time amusement while he recovered himself in the barn. An hour later when he shuffled back into the yard the boy didn’t respond to his calls. He looked everywhere. Nothing. He couldn’t have climbed up the water tower ladder, for sure. Or could he? He was strong, inquisitive, and determined.
When Ingrid arrived back at the farm, Olaf was sitting on the grass weeping uncontrollably beside the wet, limp body of their son.
* * * * * * * * * *
Here at the bar with Eric, Olaf told himself not to slip into the past. He sipped his beer, and changed the subject.
“What about your boys, Eric? They’re getting big.”
“Yeah, Reuben is now seven and Arnold’s almost five. Arnold and his brothers do whatever Reuben says. They’re a handful for Pauline. When I left them this morning, Reuben was trying to talk them all into going swimming in the Wild Rice River. I told them that would be a crazy idea. But when Reuben didn’t say anything, I knew he was going to do it. He’ll see when he gets to the river that jumping into that cold water in early April isn’t what he thought.”
Olaf folded his arms, leaned against the bar sill, looked down at the beer and empty shot glass on the counter, smiled reminiscently and chortled.
“Kids. Crazy like we were at that age, Eric. Seems to me you took a dare once from Owen Petersburg at the Wild Rice River around this time of year. I remember your taking only one step before you slid down the bank into the water. Hell, three of us had to grab a broken branch and save your butt.”
Eric smiled broadly. “Let’s go take a look at that blade.”
“Sure, let’s do it.”
“I’ll be back shortly to settle up,” he yelled to Torfin, who was wiping tables in the back of the room. He didn’t want to tell him to hold what was left of his beer.
The blade was bent but not cracked. That was the good news. But it would take a day to get it back close to its original shape, said Eric. A day of lost work, a day of explanation to Berit, and a day of Walter wondering where Olaf was. Probably off boozing, he would believe.
“Don’t worry, Olaf,” said Eric, “I’ll fix it so even Walter won’t notice a difference. And, if Walter says anything to you, tell him I came by his field, saw the cultivator and suggested that it could use a sharper edge even if it was somewhat new. Besides, tomorrow is the Lord’s day. No work. So, go home, take the day off, and come back this time on Monday.
Olaf nodded and rocked anxiously. He thanked Eric profusely, shook his hand, and slowly walked back toward Torfin’s.
“Go home, Olaf,” Eric called after him. I’m sure Berit can find some work for you around the house.” Eric knew his attempt to humor Olaf was weak, but he wanted to discourage him from staying too long at Torfin’s.
Back turned and continuing to walk, Olaf raised his right arm and waved an acknowledgement and goodbye to Eric.
Where would he go now at 3:00 in the afternoon, Olaf asked himself? He needed more time to get the facts straight, then twist them slightly to deflect blame, link those facts to similar incidents from credible farmers, and stay consistent and committed to the story he would create. He would sit for just a short time inside and think for a spell before heading back to his farm … or somewhere.
His glass friends were waiting for him on the counter where he left them. Torfin was behind the bar talking with Anna who was moving about and picking up. Anna was the cook and also Torfin’s wife. She had arrived at 7:00 a.m. that morning as she did every morning but Sunday to begin preparing the menu and cooking for lunch and supper; lunch was mostly soup and sandwiches for a few customers, mostly store owners, and Torfin could serve that by himself. She then went home at 11 a.m. to gather vegetables from their extensive garden, which she carried to the bar to complete the supper menu.
Orville, the man who supplied their fish most days, was late with his delivery from Fargo, and Torfin and Anna were discussing what they would offer for supper should Orville not show at all. Walleye was a popular Saturday night special at Torfin’s, and there would be some mild grumbling and suggestions from customers about how they could have solved the delivery problem. Torfin and Anna would have to come up with an explanation that turned the situation into their choice. They wanted to appear flexible, accommodating, while staying impervious to whining.
“Afternoon, Anna,” said Olaf.
“Olaf,” Anna said huskily, flashing Olaf a polite smile and resuming the discussion with Torfin.
Olaf sidled onto his stool and wrapped his beefy hand tightly around his beer bottle, which was now warm. He wanted a cold one and decided to down the beer, then order another shot and beer as if he had never left. That would give him time to think without the distracting irritation of warm beer.
Nearly two hours passed and he had not moved from the stool. Still nothing had been resolved in Olaf’s mind. The incident and the stories he tried to fabricate were merely bobbing in his mind. Suddenly, he realized he had to leave. Some of the local merchants and their families would be drifting in soon for supper followed by farmer families. He wouldn’t want to be seen there alone as if drinking was his only reason for being in Torfin’s. He felt invisible but knew that he wasn’t.
He pulled a clutch of crumpled bills from the pocket of his bib overalls and let Torfin sort out what was owed. He left the returned money on the bar for Torfin as penance for keeping his transgression secret. He angled his frame toward the door and tried several times to stand but rocked back onto the stool each time.
Torfin watched him from a distance as he set condiments on tables. “Doin’ alright, Olaf?”
“Ya, sure. Just got to get my wits together. A pulled muscle in my back probably, that’s all.”
Still seated, Olaf took a deep breath and made himself tall. He held the edge of the bar with both hands and talked himself into getting upright. Having succeeded, he checked his legs by stepping slowly in place. He moved forward holding onto each barstool as he edged his way to the door.
His horses looked up from the watering trough as Olaf emerged from the bar. Olaf patted them, mumbled some affection, undid the reins from the rail and, after some effort, pulled himself up and onto the wagon seat.
Still, he didn’t know where to go to kill time. He certainly didn’t want to sit there pondering and have people think he was drunk … which he wasn’t, at least not real drunk. Yet he couldn’t go back to his farm, back to Berit, back to accountability. Having spent longer than planned in town, he would have to explain that as well as the accident hope to be at least half-believed.
The horses were reluctant to leave and maybe have to start working again in the heat. Olaf had to slap the reins on their backs and pull hard to get them to move backwards away from the rail and then forward down Main Street. Finally, the wagon was rolling slowly past the Millinery shop, past Ebert’s grocery story, past Eric’s place. He could hear metal against metal from Eric’s shop, which gave him some relief. If only he could wait somewhere, even all night, for the blade to be repaired. He could take it back to the field, attach it, and restart the cultivating. Heck, if he worked the field until sundown, no one would know that the work had been interrupted.
The wagon moved on, turning left on Primrose Street, then right on Sven, across the main road to Fargo and off into the wide open space where one could get lost.
When the wagon reached the fork at Abercrombie, the horses instinctively pulled left toward the farm and the barn that would give them oats and shade. But Olaf needed more time. He yanked the reins right, scowled at the reluctant team, and moved the cart slowly toward the Wild Rice River.
Soon he was nodding off, bent forward, hands loose on the reins. The horses plodded along until they realized no one was in charge. They pulled to the grass along the roadside, stopped and began eating. Startled by the sudden stop, Olaf tipped forward nearly falling off the wagon seat. He half-caught himself and recovered.
He let the horses feed for a short time. “Uff da,” he groaned. “What am I going to do,” he asked the horses?
He wished he could simply keep moving down the dirt road, across the bridge to Minnesota, get on a train to the East and sail to Norway, the wonderful place his grandparents had told him about in endless stories around the supper table as a boy.
“Grandmom, where are you now?” he muttered. His eyes teared as he pictured her reading her Bible in Norwegian to him as he melted in her lap.
It was all too much. He needed a drink. No, he wouldn’t pull out the whiskey bottle he had hid under the wagon’s undercarriage yesterday. That was for emergencies. But this was an emergency as he saw it. He couldn’t. He did.
* * * * * * * * * *
A half-hour later, the wagon moved slowly past another of Walter’s wheat fields as Olaf sang folk songs, patriotic songs, Broadway songs, children’s songs and anything else that flashed in his head. A sad thought got washed away by a swig. And as he downed the bottle and tossed it into one of Walter’s fields, he sang louder. What did he care? As he approached the bridge over the narrow Wild Rice River, the sound of the rushing Spring water joined in his chorus. He tried to take the lead in volume.
Then another voice joined in from a distance. It sounded like himmel, like heaven. Maybe it was helvete, hell, or help. Whatever the word, it fit the mood and Olaf shifted to “A Mighty Fortress is our God.” “Himmel” Helvete Help he heard in the background. Gurgle, gurgle, roar as the rushing waters of the Wild Rice River passed beneath the bridge.
It was well past supper time when he finally arrived back at his farm. He hadn’t remembered how he got there, but it seemed about the time he would often come in from the fields. He needed to keep his distance from Berit at least for a short time, just until the heavy odor of liquor mostly passed and he was stable enough to look like it had simply been a hard day working. He would take his time unhitching the horses and finding a chore or two to do before going inside the farmhouse.
The light in the kitchen window poured into the chicken yard. Berit was inside talking with someone. Ingrid?. They both saw the wagon pulling into the barn and rushed outside.
“Olaf,” Berit shouted. “Ann Sjonberg just left. She said Eric Skarvold’s boy Reuben drowned late this afternoon in the Wild Rice River, and they’re trying to get some men to help drag for his body. She wanted to know if you were home yet and could help. The other Skarvold children were too small to save him. They cried for help but, of course, out there, no one would have heard them. You need to get back in the wagon and go out there right away.”