Free Waiting for Summer's Return by Kim Vogel Sawyer

Ja, I am hungry. I will not wait to be asked twice.”
    While Peter sat at the table and consumed a pile of roast pork sandwiches, he observed the interactions between his son and Frau Steadman. Never did the woman smile, but she looked at the boy with attentiveness when he spoke, and the boy hung on her every response.
    Grossmutter watched them, too. Occasionally she sent a look in his direction, and her brows would rise, as if communicating, See what is happening here? He sensed her disapproval. He wished he had visited with her before bringing Frau Steadman to the house. Tonight he would take her aside and explain why he had chosen to invite the woman to their home. Grossmutter ’s love for Thomas went deep. He knew she would accept the woman’s presence once she understood how much good the teaching would do their boy.
    Thomas and the woman discussed a book called Ivanhoe . The only hoe with which Peter was familiar was the one he used to eliminate weeds in his vegetable garden, but Thomas seemed to know of what the woman spoke. The boy contributed his thoughts, speaking of medieval castles and murderous maraudings and Robin Hood.
    Medieval? Marauding? Peter’s chest tightened with pride and anguish—pride in his son, anguish at his own inability to join in the conversation. When would his foolish head absorb all these words and meanings? Murder he knew, from the Good Book. But so many other ideas were beyond his limited vocabulary.
    And the woman knew it. When she had offered to teach him, all shreds of pride had flown out the window. How horrible to be a grown man yet unable to grasp the meanings of words that came easily to others.
    “I am finished. Please excuse me.” Peter’s voice boomed louder than he intended. When the woman startled and looked at him, he felt heat building in his neck. He cleared his throat and forced a softer tone. “I will spend most of the afternoon at the mill, readying it for winter. If you need me, ring the bell, Thomas.”
    “Sure, Pa.”
    Peter carried his plate to the sink as the two began discussing Sir Walter Scott. Peter’s heels dragged as he headed toward the mill, his heart heavy. Peter’s lack of education didn’t matter to the boy now—Thomas was young and still saw his pa as all-knowing. But how might that change in another year or two? The boy’s knowledge daily grew by leaps and bounds, while Peter probably would never know more than he did now.
    He kicked at a dried tuft of grass. “I will not hold him back,” he vowed aloud. “The boy will have all the education he wants. He will be more than me, for sure.” Reaching the mill, he stood for a moment, his gaze following the path of the stilled paddles that caught the wind and turned the gears that powered the grinder. A simple concept, yet so necessary for the people of this area. The mill provided well for his family. All the farmers came to him at harvest time. With only one grinder, it took time to turn their wheat into flour, but the wind-powered mill had not disappointed anyone.
    Peter boosted himself onto the platform and entered the mill. The area inside was snug, with just enough room for him to move around and see to operations. It was a one-man mill. Thomas wanted to one day be a miller, too. When that day came, they must either build another windmill or make a bigger mill and power it with something besides wind or water. Maybe they would use one of those steam engines that chugged locomotives across the land and pushed boats upstream.
    From its spot in the corner, Peter retrieved a half-filled can of sheep tallow and a brush made of strips of cloth tied to a sturdy stick. He dipped the brush in the tallow and painstakingly coated each gear as his thoughts continued.
    If Thomas gets an education, then he will know about such things as steam engines. What a team we will be, the boy and me . Peter knew allowing Thomas to become educated would be considered radical by many in town. Education beyond