The parting was a quiet one. Gunnar told the boys to mind their mother and not stay out late at night. “Get strong muscles on your legs and shoulders,” he told them. “A man is not too good at thinking, and he never knows what will happen next. The muscles will keep him going, and after the muscles are gone a fighting heart will carry him a little farther.”
No tears were shed. They talked of little things, and laughed at old jokes that Gunnar’s grandfather had told them. One of those family jokes that never seem very funny to an outsider.
After that, Freida worked the conversation around to the voyage that Gunnar would soon be making.
“They say it is cold out there,” she ventured cautiously.
“Oh, yes. Very cold.” Gunnar agreed.
“Then you wrap up good, Gunnar. We wouldn’t want you to have a chill.”
Gunnar scoffed, “I never had a chill in my life.”
“Oh, such talk. Don’t pretend to be so big. I have nursed you through many a chill.” Then she produced her parting gift—a muffler that would have swathed poor Gunnar from chin to belt.
“You promise you wear this if it gets cold,” she urged.
“I tell you, mama, I don’t need such things. You don’t know how tough old Gunnar is.”