A Flaming Christmas Tradition

(A repost from four years ago.)

This blog is primarily about Norwegian-American family history, so naturally, you might assume that I would write about a Christmas tradition that crossed the Atlantic Ocean with my ancestors a century and a half ago.  Or, perhaps a story from 80 years ago, when my farming family members were content with modest pleasures for the holidays: a box of apples, a bag of nuts, and a package of ribbon candy brought home by a horse-drawn sleigh through the snow. Then, there is always the puzzling tradition that Norwegian-Americans are still known for: the inevitable holiday consumption of lutefisk.

But, this time, I would instead like to tell you about a more recent holiday tradition: the "Flaming Ice Cream Snowballs" that were always served on the Christmas Eves of my childhood.

Flaming ice cream? Was this something like Baked Alaska--doused with alcohol and artistic flare, and brought to the table consumed in a glorious blue flame? Or, perhaps Snowballs were more related to international-flavored crunchy fried ice cream enjoyed in Mexican Restaurants? But no, the humble Flaming Ice Cream Snowball had a more commercial, blue collar beginning.


Soon after Foremost Dairy Foods created Flaming Ice Cream Snowballs, my mother discovered them in the frozen food compartment at the local Safeway store in Richmond, California. Each year during most of the Fifties and Sixties, they seemed to appear in the store right after Thanksgiving and disappear after the supply had run dry on about New Year's. Mom never failed to remind Dad, who did the majority of the family grocery shopping back then, to "be sure and bring home the snowballs!"

It was no matter that Snowballs were a simple, relatively tasteless, fast food treat. The fact that they were a once-a-year opportunity made them very special to my sister and me, but I think Mom enjoyed the fun of them even more.

Each one was a ball of vanilla ice cream covered with icing, and then dipped into fine coconut. The top was iced with green and red frosting in the shape of a sprig of holly. The snowballs came a half dozen to a box, with a paper doily and red candle for each. When Mom served the snowballs for Christmas Eve dessert, she placed each one on a doily, and pushed a slender candle into the holly-shaped icing. As soon as she lit the candles, she would turn the dining room lights out so that we could all admire the Snowballs in their brief moment of glory. A minute or two later, on came the lights again; everyone blew out their candles and slowly began scrapping off small spoonfuls of the coconut icing before finishing the ice cream.

I do not recall when Snowballs disappeared from the grocery store frozen food cases, but Mom still misses them to this day. I sometimes find myself waxing nostalgic over the memory of them, too, but, it certainly isn't because of their taste. Over the course of a few years, their limited epicurean value suffered even more when the holly-shaped icing atop each Snowball was replaced by a plastic insert. Instead, the nostalgia felt is more due to the realization that even the smallest, most unassuming traditions can bond people, especially during the holidays. Old or new, traditions mean family and security--something we all continue to long for from year to year.

Written for the 61st edition of the Carnival of Genealogy


Image: Flaming Ice Cream Snowballs

Dear Genea-Santa

This post is written for the 62nd (whew!) edition of the Carnival of Genealogy. The topic is Three Wishes.

This is your chance to write a letter to Genea-Santa*. Make a list of 3 gifts you would like to receive this holiday season from 3 of your ancestors. These have to be material things, not clues to your family history (we're talking gifts here, not miracles!). Do you wish your great grandmother had gifted you a cameo broach? Or maybe you'd like to have the family bible from great great grandpa Joe? How about a baby doll that once belonged to your dear Aunt Sarah?
This is a fantasy so you can dream up gift items. They don't have to be actual items that you know your ancestors owned. However, they do have to be historically accurate to the time period in which your ancestor lived. Do your research. No asking for a new computer from your great grand aunt! Genea-Santa wouldn't like that ;-) The deadline for submissions is December 15th.

*Genea-Santa is a non-denominational guy. He's happy to accept lists from members of all faiths and from atheists as well.

Dear Genea-Santa,

If I could have three things from my ancestors this Christmas, I have just the list.

First of all, I would love to have a Victorian remembrance card woven with some of my great great grandmother's auburn hair. She (Bertina Johnson Winje) gave a card just like that just to her son, Ole. My mother said that when she was a small girl on her grandparents' farm, that keepsake card was safely tucked inside the Johnson family bible. I have never seen the card myself, because it was lost some years later, before I was born. I have always been told that Bertina had lovely red hair, but since I do not have a color photograph of her. I would like to see it for myself.

Then, perhaps you would consider tracking down my great grandmother's wedding dress from 1886? Malla Johnson was a very frugal woman, so she may have cut off the train, let out the seams, and found a way to use it many times over in later years. But, I would want it just the way it appeared in her wedding photograph. It had a tiny, long-sleeved fitted jacket with cuff and collars, and a full skirt with resplendent layers of ruffles, all in black silk. It fit her perfectly, and, 17-year-old bride that she was, she looked so lovely with her big, wide eyes and freshly pin-curled bangs. I think it must have been one of the prettiest dresses any of my ancestors, modest farming folk all of them, ever wore, and I'm sure her mother helped hand sew it.

Last, but not least, is a funny sort of a request. My Great Aunt Mabel Johnson was the closest thing to a grandmother I knew. She had no children of her own, but somewhat of a kid at heart, she never turned down a card game of "Old Maid," a challenge in a coloring book, or the opportunity to go to the park. She distracted naughty children by using a clicker, rather than getting upset or scolding, and she loved to sing silly songs and tell jokes. If it wouldn't be too much to ask, I'd like to have that colorful decorative plate that always hung on the wall above her kitchen stove, serving no real purpose other than to catch cooking grease and dust. The plate was typical 1950s kitchen kitsch: it had two raised angel fish motifs and swirls of purple, black, turquoise, and yellow that didn't really go with anything else. Perhaps it is fixed in my memory more than many other things because it was so mismatched. But, thinking of it reminds me of Mabel's little house with the detached garage, the old ringer washer on the laundry porch, the sea green Depression glass cups and saucer that always came out with coffee and cookies, and her dogs, Tula, and then Buffy, curling up on a towel that protected the seat of the biggest overstuffed chair I had ever seen.

Anyway, Dear Genea-Santa, I have tried my best to be a good girl this year, but if you can't manage all three wishes, I understand. Sometimes the wanting of things is better than the having, and you of all people can appreciate the power of imagination.

Happy Holidays, and please watch your cholesterol levels on Christmas Eve; we want you to be around for a long time to come...

Chery

Animal Friends on the Johnson Farm

From the 1920s-1930s, the formative years my mother spent with her grandparents in rural Minnesota, there were always many pets and working animals on the farm. There was hardly a story-telling that did not include a funny or poignant bit about one of those animals, such as the time when little Birdy, a cherished pet dog, was an unwitting participant in teaching some naughty children a lesson.

My mother and her cousins were in the habit of mercilessly teasing a hired man, Ingemon Thompson, as he tried to carry out his daily chores. They teased him in part because they liked him so much, but also because he was so patient and never scolded them for misbehavior. One day, Ingemon felt he'd had enough. Not one to mince words, he grabbed the unsuspecting Birdy, climbed the ladder to the top of the water tank, and dropped her in.

Shocked by the action, my mother and her companions began to yell and cry, begging Ingemon to get their precious Birdy out of the tank before she drowned. After giving the children a couple of minutes to consider the consequences of their actions, Ingemon again climbed the ladder to retrieve Birdy, who had been confidently paddling around and around. The children were frightened and angry, but they had to laugh when they saw Birdy looking so drenched, and saw that she was none the worse for her unfortunate experience. But, the harsh lesson took, and the children never teased Ingeman with quite the same abandon after that.

Doris Johnson (my mother), age 14, holding "Speedy," a cat who never became indignant about being dressed in doll clothes, and Birdy, a beloved family dog. Leonard, Minnesota, 1934.

Here are some other members of the Ole M. Johnson family with animal friends over the years:

Uncle Frank Johnson with his dog and a calf he raised.
Fosston, Minnesota, ca. 1915.

Mom's cousin, George Johnson on "Colonel": a special horse that belonged to their grandfather, Ole M. Johnson. Colonel was an exceptional horse that lived a very long time and was fondly remembered by the entire family. Leonard, Minnesota, ca.1929.

Uncle Bennett Johnson with farm puppies and a cat.
Fosston, Minnesota, ca.1910.

Bashful Bathers

It looks like the camera was just a little too quick for these modest bathers, catching them before they had the chance to duck all the way into the water. Left to right: Phyllis Johnson (my aunt), Doris Johnson (my mother), and their friend, Lila Rhen, ca. 1940.

This photograph was snapped with a Brownie camera while the girls went wading in Clearwater Lake, near Leonard, Minnesota. Family and friends often had picnics out at the lake while my mother and aunt were living with their grandparents on a local farm. The ladies' makeup was obviously a carry-over from the 1930s. I've never seen my mother with her eyebrows drawn in so heavily before! Her look during the mid-1940s was much softer.

A Gem That Sparkles Still

The topic for the 47th Carnival of Genealogy is: A Place Called Home.

It's time for a geography lesson. Pick out a city/town/village where one of your ancestors once lived and tell us all about it. When was it founded? What is it known for? Has is prospered or declined over the years? Have you ever visited it or lived there? To a certain extent, we are all influenced by the environment we live in. How was your ancestor influenced by the area where they lived? Take us on a trip to the place your ancestor called home. The deadline for submissions is May 1, 2008.

Leonard, Minnesota
The area surrounding Leonard, Minnesota in Clearwater County is the kind of place you'd want to raise your children... a place where time stands as still as you want it to. Though the population of the town proper now hovers at less than 30 people and the median age resident is 61.5 years, the area is still as good a family environment now as it was 91 years ago. In 1917, my great grandparents, Ole and Malla Johnson, packed up their children and belongings and moved from their farm near Fosston in Polk County to three miles east of Leonard in northwestern Minnesota. (See the Google map.)

My mother and aunt were officially born in Dudley Township, since the village of Leonard was not incorporated until after their births in June 12, 1922. Leonard was named after the first child of an early settler, George H. French. French’s trading post and post office was a log house on the shore of nearby Four-Legged Lake.

"Many settlers came and some stayed, but many moved on. They were well acquainted with the saw, axe, grub hoe, shovel, grass and brush scythes. Fields came slow in the rocks and stumps. This was a difficult land to make a farm in."[1]

I suspect that my great grandparents moved to the Leonard area from their lush farm near Fosston because they had helped their two eldest sons, Bennett and Ernest (my grandfather) acquire cheap farm land there in about 1914, and then moved to be near them.

Leonard was, and still is, a rather secluded village, and looked a bit like a "one horse" town is the early 20th century photograph shown below. But, it was active hub for farmers who made a living from the surrounding territory. The early village included a Trading Post, a Soo Line Depot (beginning in 1911), Cooperative Creamery Association, Community Hall, a blacksmith shop, two Lutheran Churches, and later, Strand's Store, Monson Oil Co., and the Leonard Cafe, and not a whole lot more. Anybody who is anybody can still be found at the Leonard Cafe at some point during the day.

The area conjures up visions of "rolling farmland, green pastures, verdant forests, and placid blue lakes and streams abounding in wild migratory birds and variety of game fish." The soil runs from very sandy, sandy loam to heavy clay--suitable for hay, pasture, livestock, and farming, but the land will not carry anyone with cash crop farming. Success was derived only from individual farming. [2]


Five years ago, I visited the place where my mother was born and grew up. It was like a homecoming for me, though I'd never set foot on the soil before. Every building seemed familiar, though a bit more worn than what I'd imagined. The first stop was the farmhouse my great grandfather built in 1917. Though the property now lacks a barn and many of the original outbuildings, the house still stands straight and true with a dignity that shines through peeling and graying layers of paint.



The house built by Ole M. Johnson near Leonard, Minnesota.


Ole and Malla Johnson have not lived there for many decades, and it shows. (The photograph here was taken during the 1930s.) Gone now is the garden where Malla grew vegetables and little yellow ground cherries to make sauce with. Gone is the windmill that heedless young grandsons used to try and climb when Grandma Johnson wasn't looking. And, where was Colonel, the farm horse who lived to be as old as Methuselah, and constantly carried children to and fro on his dark, gleaming back? I could picture it all in every detail--standing on the very soil where my mother's paternal grandparents raised a large family, toiling every day and never letting up until the day they died. I could almost hear my great grandmother humming Norway's National Anthem as she made her daily crossing in the yard to the chicken coop in order to scrap the roosts clean.

The entrance to the Johnson farm on Rural Route One used to have maple trees that turned beautiful colors each autumn. Across the road was the Old Mogster Place, which served as the home for several Johnsons in turn, including Bennett and his sons, and Oral and Agnes and their large family. The local church and cemetery were just down the road from the farm, on the way to town, and the little schoolhouse was a hop, skip, and a jump in the opposite direction.

The land for District No. 31 School was donated by the Mogster family, who were early settlers in the area. Ella Stevens was the first teacher, receiving $5o a month as her salary. Among the 15 or 16 students who attended the school's first year were my grandmother's four younger sisters: Cora, Mildred, Clarice, and Stella Berge.

The school was never closed because of weather, since there was no communication and small children walking up to several miles needed an open building and warmth on arrival. However, my mother told me about a day when she and her sister and two cousins bundled up in 50 degree below weather to make the walk to school. The snow was so hard it was like walking on cement. When they finally made it to the school house, they were red, raw, and stiff. But, the teacher had not made it to school that morning and the door was locked, so the children turned right around and backtracked to their grandparents' farm right away.




Johnsons on the back steps of the school house, ca. 1930.  L to R:  Phyllis Johnson (holding a Brownie camera), Wesley Humberstad, Doris Johnson (my mother), Bennie Johnson, Mabel Johnson, Harvey Moen, and Marie Rinde--a neighbor.  Standing in front:  George Johnson and Thea Humberstad.



School District No. 31, outside Leonard, Minnesota, where
 my mother, aunt, and many other relatives attended school.

When I visited East Zion Church, the Lutheran Church my mother attended as a child, I was amazed to find the door unlocked. The minister's podium stood right where is had for years and years. Instead of pews, the floorboards held bunches of flowers, both real and artificial, each carefully laid out. Every time the caretaker prepared for mowing the cemetery lawn, new floral groupings appeared. Walking outside, I visited my great grandparents double headstone, where they were buried together in April 1948, having passed away within a few hours of each other. If they could raise up and take a nostalgic look around, they would be content to still find their farmhouse just about in sight across the road.

When my own mother passes away, it is her wish to be buried in that little East Zion churchyard next to her grandparents. In her heart, she has never left her childhood home. Leonard is the gem that sparkles in the memories of many of my relatives, some of whom still live in the area. It is an icon of days gone by, and a tribute to the dreams and efforts of pioneering settlers who sought an honest living on land they could call their own.

Life was simple and very few felt deprived. They had their card parties, quilting bees, Ladies Aid, church services, school programs and picking blue berries in groups, and picnics. Families worked together sawing wood and threshing, with a few ladies helping with the cooking. A good deal of time was spent getting ready for the Fourth of July and Christmas holidays, easily the big events of the year. [3]

The local historical society for Leonard, Minnesota is the Clearwater County Historical Society in nearby Shevlin, of which I am a proud member and supporter.

[1-3] George and Winifred Boorman. The History of the City of Leonard, Dudley Township (self published), 1982?

(The Boormans were neighbors of the Johnson family and were acquainted with my great grandparents, Ole and Malla Johnson. I obtained a copy of this self-published book directly from Winifred Boorman, who passed away last year.)

Giving Credit to Gene

The topic for the 46th edition of Carnival of Genealogy is: What traits run in your family? Which of them did you inherit? Do you have your mother's blue eyes? Your grandfather's stubbornness? Your aunt's skill with knitting needles? Is there a talent for music in your family? Or do you come from a long line of teachers? Have you ever looked at an old photo and recognized your nose on another family member's face?

I puzzled and puzzled over this Carnival of Genealogy topic, and put off writing about it until nearly the last minute. But, the voices of my usually modest and self-effacing ancestors began to tug at me: "How about giving some credit where credit is due?" I'm sure they didn't say anything about blame, but I promise I'll be kind.

I've often wondered if, given the time machine opportunity to go back into the past, I would hear my own voice in one of my female ancestor's, or while talking to another would suddenly realize that I was looking into my own eyes. One needs to keep in mind that it can be difficult to know where genetics leaves off and cultural/behavioral memory begins. Some tendencies are picked up only through the repetitive behavior of others. For example, the fact that "Geez Louise" sometimes drawls out of my mouth when I'm mildly frustrated has little to do with genetics, and everything to do with being around Dad enough to have his favorite phrases ingrained in my brain's catalog of useful responses.

Funnily enough (as my English friend would say), I can only address my mother's side of the family when it comes to genes, and don't think I haven't been tearing my hair out over that from time to time. But, here's what I know about 50% of me:


Blondness:

Central Norway, the home of my immigrant Norwegian ancestors, is one of the areas with the highest percentage of natural blonds in the world. Folks with light-colored hair have lived there since ancient times and circulated their recessive genes generally among themselves for a good, long while. There is an interesting, but questionable Blond Map of Europe on the internet. Please view it with a healthy dose of skepticism, as all statistics without background facts should be viewed. And the blond(e) joke? SO uncool!


Fertility:

Without the aid of modern science, I too, would probably have been the proud mother of ten children, just like my mother's maternal and paternal grandmothers. I called it quits after three. My maternal grandmother was a fraternal twin, so I knew the roulette wheel was spinning with short odds.


Shyness:

There is something about Norwegian females and shyness. I know that this has been handed down to me through genetics, because I have experienced it and heard about it in connection with just about every female ancestor within my family's extended knowledge. It must have come straight from the soil in Norway, or something. (Or, could it have been the herring?) Although shyness is not necessarily a bad thing in itself, a shy person's self confidence is usually in some stage of teeter-tottering, and this makes things difficult while trying to get stuff done. If my great grandmother was working around the farmhouse and a stranger came to the front door, she could take herself away to hide in the kitchen under the guise of having to cook from scratch. My kitchen is open to the living room, and there is no excuse whenever there's a frozen lasagne in the fridge.

I don't even want to talk about those oral reports in school. Acckkkk!


Stamina:

There were no weaklings among my mother's family, though there were a few unfortunates who suffered the ravages of fatal disease, like my grandmother who died from tuberculosis at a young age. When I don't allow myself to get lazy from all the amenities associated with modern life, or make bad food choices, I am capable of physical labor on the same level as a fjord horse. For that, I thank my "lucky genes."


Sense of Humor:

My grandfather and his nine brothers and sisters could sure play pranks on each other, and they were sometimes more painful than funny. It isn't as though they never showed anger, or even rage, but, I never knew any of them to talk without either a twinkle in the eye or a subtlety of humor. Humor took the edge off the more unpleasant things they had to do, and it was also a way of showing they could cope with whatever life threw at them.


Running the Information Underground:

There are many teachers and librarians among my Norwegian-American family, especially on my grandmother's side, the Berges. Had my mother and aunt been given the chance to attend high school, they, too, would have liked to have been teachers. Farming was a natural and necessary pursuit for 19th century Norwegian immigrants, so it does not come as a surprise that my family has included many farmers. But, there is also a complement of male ancestors who worked for the railroad in America and loved it.

Books, crops, and iron wheels: knowledge, growth, movement. It seems I am always running on a track to learn more and make use of it in some practical fashion. I suppose that is why I am working in a library, and writing about history and genealogy.

Brave Heart Yields a Gentle Touch

A Tribute to Esther Agnes (Berge) Johnson


Written for the Carnival of Genealogy

. . . In keeping with the month of March being National Women's History Month, and March 8th being International Women's Day, the topic for the next edition of the Carnival of Genealogy will once again be: A Tribute to Women. Write a tribute to a woman on your family tree, a friend, a neighbor, or a historical female figure who has done something to impact your life. Or instead of writing, consider sharing a photo biography of one woman's life. Or create a scrapbook page dedicated to a woman you'd like to honor. For extra credit, sum up her life in a six-word biography.



Esther Berge Johnson, burping her youngest daughter, Doris.
Leonard, Minnesota, 1920.

 I've discussed many grandmothers in this blog, but today I'd like to honor a very special one: my maternal grandmother, Esther Agnes (Berge) Johnson. She died young--just over 86 years ago--and was never a part of my life, but I miss her every day. Her presence is found in the few treasured items my mother was given to remember her by, and in the photographs I am sharing. I have no personal experience of her touch, her smile, her voice, but my mother holds on to what foggy memories she has from when she was a baby.
Esther was a quiet, kind, dutiful woman with dark hair and spectacles. Her father, Ole Benhardt Berge, immigrated from Gudbrandsdalen, Norway, when he was a small child. Her mother, Anna Marie (Mary) Slaan (or Slaaen), was born in a covered wagon as her family migrated from Coon Valley, Wisconsin to Chippewa County, Minnesota.

When my mother, Doris, was a girl, she attended community dances in rural Leonard, where it was always common for young women to dance with each other. Once when my mother danced with a paternal aunt, Cora Johnson, Cora happened to mention that my mother held herself stiffly just like Esther (my grandmother) had always done.

My aunt Phyllis recalled that after my mother was born, Esther would sit in a big rocker and nurse the baby, while Phyllis sat alongside in her own little rocker and attempted to nurse her doll. There were no memories of any talking... just peaceful togetherness in the silence of the two room farmhouse.

In another memory, Esther was standing in the pasture next to the family's farmhouse, holding little Doris in her arms. They watched as some of the neighbor's cows came sauntering over the rise toward her garden. My mother was only about a year old at the time, but she heard her mother say to someone: "Here, take her," as Esther handed her over to a visiting neighbor lady and began to shoo the cows away. Doris then watched with startled interest as her father, Ernest, came stomping over the rise and proceeded to scold his wife vividly: "Don't you ever do that again!" It was her father's uncharacteristic shouting that cemented the memory for little Doris. Ernest had been afraid that by shooing the cows, his wife would draw the attention of the bull that was nearby.

My mother was less than two years of age when Esther lost her battle with tuberculosis. When close to death, all of her sisters and brothers except Bennie Berge, who lived too far away, were summoned to attend her. Her parents owned an organ, which Esther had always been fond of playing. Her last request was that someone should play the organ so they could all sing hymns together.

On January 2, 1922, Esther died, leaving Ernest a young widower. The previous spring, Esther had planted a flowerbed inside a wagon wheel laid on its side by the house. The flowers continued to grow and bloom for some time after her death, reminding them all of the hundreds of things she used to do from day to day.

My grandmother's obituary was published in a Chippewa County, Minnesota newspaper [1]

Mrs. Esther Johnson died Monday, Jan. 2nd of an illness of long duration. She is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. O. B. Berge of Maynard and has been home for the past several months when it was found that there was no hope for her recovery. The last days of her illness has [sic] been a trial both to the patient and to her loved ones and death came as a happy release from her suffering. She was ready for the summon, meeting it as bravely as she has endured her long months of sufferings. A brief obituary follows.

Mrs. Esther Johnson was born in the township of Leenthrop, on March 31, 1889, where she resided until at the age of two years, when her parents moved to the village of Maynard where they and children resided until in the spring of 1910. They then moved on to a farm in Clearwater County. On March 22, 1917 [she] was united in marriage to Mr. Ernest Johnson, to union of which two children were born, Phyllis, age four and Doris, age two. Deceased died at the home of her parents in Maynard Monday the 2nd at 12:45 p.m. at the age of 27 years, 9 months and 4 days. Besides parents of disceased [sic] four brothers amd five sisters live to mourn the loss of a dear sister; namely, George, Mabel, Cora, Mildred, Clarice and Stella of this village. Harry of Taylors Falls, Chester and Bennie of Ihlen.

The funeral was held Wednesday from the residence at one p.m. and at the Lutheran church at 2 o'clock. Rev. M. B. Erickson officiating. The News join[s] the friends of the Berge family in messages of condolences.


CARDS OF THANKS

We wish to extend our sincere thanks to those who so kindly offered us their consolation in our late bereavement, especially Rev. Erickson and the Lutheran Ladies Aid Society for the beautiful floral emblems.

Mr. and Mrs. O. B. Berge and family
O. M. Johnson and wife
Ernest Johnson

Thank you, Grandma, for caring for my mother, and for everything you did to start her and my aunt on the right path.

Esther Agnes (Berge) Johnson: Brave heart yields a gentle touch


[1] The copy of Esther Johnson's obituary in the author's possession has no publisher's info, however, it most likely came from the Chippewa County News.

Next to My Husband, I Love My Scanner Best

Written for the 43rd Carnival of Genealogy:

What technology do you most rely on for your genealogy and family history research? Select one piece of hardware (besides your computer), one piece of software (besides your internet browser), and one web site/blog (besides your own) that are indispensable to you. . .

Most Relied Upon Hardware

"If it draws blood, it's hardware" - Anon

I cannot tell a lie... (Shhhh! Don't tell my husband!) I have been involved in a love affair with my scanner/printer: the Epson Stylus Photo RX500.

Well, perhaps the affair is a bit one-sided, but I can't help myself. At first, it was just fond bantering, and then I found myself relying on the relationship more and more. When I am not near my beloved scanner, I am anxious, even depressed. Oh, what joy it gives me! How else could I quickly and inexpensively share those old maps and treasured family photographs and insert them into documents? How else could I begin to take a tired, sepia 1886 photograph and turn it into a vibrant, purple, Warhol-style piece of art (sometimes by accident)? I will be forever enamored, even if I can't be completely faithful.

Most Relied Upon Software

"The softest thing cannot be snapped" - Bruce Lee


Outlook Express is my top choice. Where would I be in my research and genealogy/writing related activities if I couldn't keep in rapid contact with everyone via e-mail? I'll tell you where I'd be: ten years ago, in networking, learning, and researching.





Most Relied Upon Website/Blog

"The Internet is just a world passing around notes in a classroom" - Jon Stewart

There are some excellent websites for Norwegian genealogical research, including online census records, but the one I keep returning to is: Norway Heritage: Hands Across the Sea. This site is a collaborative effort to accumulate information about early Norwegian passenger lists and emigrant ships, and it is in English! There is an exciting image gallery, and contributions are encouraged. There is also a forum where researchers can help one another.


Image of a bark-rigged sailing ship, just like the Norden--the ship my Johnson ancestors sailed on from Bergen to Quebec in 1866.




It was on this site that I found the 1866 Norden passenger list, including Baard and Thibertine Johnson and their children, and Gulbran Olsen Berge's sea voyage diary. Berge is also a g-g-grandparent, and the diary translation has been in my family for many years. So, when I discovered it had somehow gotten online, my first question was: how? I wrote to the web author, and he put me in contact with two "new" cousins. Oh, I love sites that offer connections, as well as information! Thank you, Norway Heritage.

Not Without My Car

I wrote this blog article back in February after being socked by inspiration like a deer mesmerized by headlights. Happily, I find that the 45th Carnival of Genealogy topic fits the topic just like a whitewall tire on a shiny Chevy rim.

My Family History and the Automobile

"There's a Ford in your future," 1945 ad.

When I was very young, my mother recorded diligently in my baby book that among my first words, second to the ever-important Mama, came car, or ca, as I pronounced it.

My fascination with automobiles continued when, as a young girl, I found toy vehicles much more interesting to play with than dolls or games. A favorite activity was building cities with blocks and empty containers out on the lawn, using baby powder and baking powder cans, spools--whatever had been saved and recycled. I would then park and drive my little cars through the grass-filled streets and alleys. Among the toys that stand out in my memory were: a large green and yellow dump truck, and a turquoise and cream Edsel wagon--both given to me by my grandfather, Ernest Johnson, and a little red T-Bird convertible that came free from the Ford dealership when Dad bought a station wagon in 1957.

Even before peace was declared in 1945, politicians and industrialists had been laying plans for the postwar reconstruction of the economy; one cornerstone of those plans had been the assumption that there would be a seller's market for automobiles for quite some time. [1]

Then came the piece-de-resistance: when I was 11, there was no doubt that my favorite car in the whole world was the Jaguar XKE. What a surprise it was that Christmas when I found that Dad had spent many nights secretly piecing together a large, intricate model just for me. That XKE held center stage on my dresser for quite some time.

For those of use who drive, many of our personal and family memories are tied to car ownership, good or bad. The automobile has been an inextricable component of the Baby Boomer generation's experience; it transformed the world, especially America. Cars gave people freedom to explore their surroundings in ways they never had before, but at the same time, created a reliance that hasn't always been affordable, or even constructive.

The automobile and the mobility it brought to the individual was in large part responsible for the beginning of the breakdown of families. With the ease of travel, families began spreading out all over the map. Close relations who once lived together and depended upon one another began to find themselves increasing isolated, geographically, from other family members. The journey to Grandma's house was no longer just over the river and through the woods; instead, it was 250 miles distant.

. . . In the postwar years, as the American economy became increasingly dependent on the internal combustion engine, the price and the supply of fuel for that engine became increasingly dependent on the vagaries of international and domestic politics. [2]

Like many other women born before World War II, my mother chose not to learn to drive. She would ride in cars, but she was afraid of taking the wheel. Automobiles were not part of her early experience, since there wasn't a car on her grandfather's Minnesota farm until the 1930s. Even after Ole M. Johnson bought a 1932 Chevrolet, he never drove it himself. He got it for his sons so they could make faster trips into town. The family's usual means of transport into the 1930s was horse and buggy.



Ole M. Johnson taking some family members on an outing in his four-seater buggy.  Polk County, Minnesota, 1912.

Dad's '53 Ford sedan parked in front of our family home on Carlson Blvd., Richmond, California, about 1954.

When my parents married, Dad owned a navy blue 1953 Ford sedan. A few years later, he traded it in for a wagon. The '57 Ford Ranch Wagon came in handy for a family man. Almost anything could be tossed into the roomy back: furniture, a dead deer, lumber to build a new shed, the family beagle, trash headed for the dump, and even a kid or two. I remember many exciting trips to the dump in that wagon, watching as seagulls surfed the Bay breeze over a sea of fluttering, multi-colored trash, while my stomach suffered from a continual state of excitement as Dad navigated over and around bump after rolling bump.

During drives from the Bay Area to Oregon for summer vacations with relatives, Dad would throw a mattress in the back of the wagon for my sister and I. There were no seat belts or buckle-up laws back then. We slept as Dad drove all night, and Mom struggled to keep her eyes open to make sure he stayed awake. After arriving at Aunt Phyllis's house, Dad hit the sofa, snoring. The rest of us struggled through the day and looked forward to "hitting the hay" early that evening.

Our family's red and white '57 Ford Ranch wagon parked in front of my aunt's house in Salem, Oregon, 1965. In the yard are my cousin, Cheryl Rice, and my sister, Becky Wheeler.

A restored '57 Ford Ranch wagon, in living color.

Whether big or small, foreign or domestic, automobile ownership had become an economic necessity for most Americans by the 1960s.[3]


I learned how to drive in one of a fleet of nondescript white Dodge sedans, enrolled in El Cerrito High School driver's training class. It was full speed ahead on East Bay freeways: three lanes, side by side, inches to spare, and take no prisoners. My driving partners/classmates and I were all in the 10th grade, and I was the only girl. I was fairly petite in height, but the boys were all shorter than me. One of them could hardly see over the steering wheel, so the instructor made him use a cushion. Though I didn't have to resort to using a cushion, I did feel rather odd about being the only girl. But, I am proud to say there were never any "woman driver" remarks from the guys in the back when I was behind the wheel.

The photo from one of my earliest California driver's licenses. At the time, California took profile shots of anyone under the age of 25.

My early at-home driving practice time was spent in Dad's '57 Ranch Wagon: the red and white tank with a masterful-size steering wheel. When I was in possession of my new learner's permit--barely creased--Dad asked spontaneously one day if I wanted to drive him to the store. I was outside on the lawn and didn't have any shoes on, but thought he might change his mind if I took too long, so I got into the car as I was. Dad commented on my lack of shoes, but as a typical 15-year-old, I shrugged it off and started the car anyway.

My boyfriend in high school owned his own car, or rather, his parents did. They allowed David to drive it as long as he also transported his mother (who like my mother, did not drive), and six wriggling, younger siblings to medical and dental appointments, whenever necessary. It was pretty unusual for a high schooler in the suburbs to have a car then, but, oh how embarrassed he was that he had to drive a Rambler. Here was a tall, slender young man who wore a lettered jacket and fringed cutoff jeans on the basketball court--busily working on various stages of coolness--and he was stuck with a Rambler. Worse than that, it was a mauve Rambler. Well, time has a way of healing all things. We went on our first date in that car, to the Berkeley Theatre, and were later married. I swear I never held his driving a Rambler against him...

In the same years that Americans were starting to worry about whether they could safely drive their cars, they were also starting to worry about whether they could safely breathe their air.[4]

The first car I could call my own wasn't any better than a Rambler. It was inherited from my grandfather when I was 16: a squat, dull beige 1962 Chevy Corvair. Yes, THE car famous for its carbon monoxide scare. I think the only reason it came to me is because no one else in the family would have anything to do with it. One summer, my grandfather, who was nearly 80 at the time, drove my aunt and three cousins from Salem, Oregon to the Bay Area for a visit with my family. But, somewhere in northern California, Grampa Ernest swerved to avoid some road construction he had not seen in time because of his failing eyesight, and he overturned the car in a ditch. Thankfully, everyone came away from that experience in reasonable condition, but it left a lasting impression of the Corvair upon my cousins that was akin to a bad taste in the mouth.

Ernest Johnson's '62 Corvair parked in front of his trailer in Salem, Oregon, 1965.

I welcomed the Corvair into my life and drove along happily in my fake, belted Leopard-fur coat and black Italian leather lace-up boots. The question circulating around high school back then was: "Are you a surfer, a mod, or a rocker?" I may have been driving a Corvair instead of an XKE, but there was no doubt that I was a mod, and one who aspired to be like Jane Asher: long hair, white lipstick, mini-skirt, and all. Before raising an eyebrow, you should be made aware that for the average school girl around 1970, miniskirts were not incredibly short. The mini-minis were left to the super-skinny models in the magazines. We were just acquiring the right to wear jeans to school, let alone super-short hemlines.

I have to admit that I also did my share of escorting my mother on errands. But, I liked the Corvair well enough; it was small, like me, and easy to get in and out of. My first husband and I even took it on our honeymoon, to the Northern California coast. It ran just fine, as long as you pretended not to notice when it struggled up freeway hills at 40 mph, as semi-trucks and loggers honked and swerved menancingly into a passing lane.

Married life became a march of steady and predictable Fords. Dad owned the same Ford successfully for over 15 years, so why go against the grain? It was a virtual festival of Fords; Henry would have been proud:

Maverick--totaled by a drunk driver after 3 months of ownership
Pinto hatchback--something new on the scene
Pinto wagon--not bad after adding multi-colored, tie-dyed curtains
Mustang ('76, 2-dr)--just try and take two kids in and out of car seats in the back
Escort wagon--beige and boxy, but easier on the lumbar region
Tempo--typical, boring sedan that never turned a single head
Tempo, again--a wee bit more noticeable than the first one, with red trim
Probe--great car, but low & gray-matched the pavement and had to be driven with the lights on at all times

Since the 1980s, American policy makers, politicians, manufacturers, and consumers have all been behaving in roughly the same way--with roughly the same lack of success--trying to develop solutions to the problems without giving up the automobile. [5]

Then I met John, who came into my life along with his 1990 red Volvo wagon. I'd never been with anyone who had a European car before. On that first date, the wagon spoke to his commitment as family man and business owner. I must admit, it made a nice secure impression. The red color indicated to me (along with his fast and unpredictable driving habits) that here was a guy who liked to have fun... as long as the work got done first. Red Volvo and all, John captured my heart and we were married shortly after.

John waves goodbye as the two of us depart the scene of our wedding in his '90 Volvo.  Snoqualmie Pass, Washington. 1992.

After marrying John, life then became a succession of German cars: Audis, in particular. One main reason is that we moved to the mountains, and our long commutes demanded cars with all-wheel drive that could take on plenty of mileage with few pitfalls. But, even more importantly, they had comfy seats, and could be found used for less money than Volvos. And, I won't even mention the toy that currently sits in the garage right now. No, I won't mention the _ _ _ _ _ _ _, because we have no real excuse other than we wanted one. But, when I remember that my g-g-grandmother's second husband spent equivalent income to buy a steam launch in which to putter around the 1890s waterways of Duluth, then I don't feel quite so alone.

Technological systems, once they are in place, have enormous staying power. [6]

Please don't get me wrong. For me, car ownership is not about keeping up with the Joneses. If something works, I stick with it until it becomes unreliable, or impractical. But, the freedom and privacy of movement made possible by the automobile is something I would miss if I had to give it up completely, even though, as we speak, I am taking steps to be able to make far better use of public transportation.

My '91 Ford Probe, dwarfed by winter snow build-up.  Snoqualmie Pass, Washington, 1997.

I can't think of anything else to replace the feelings of freedom I had, when as a new and youthful driver, I cruised alone out a county highway for the first time. Though my destination was a public library, I told myself that the drive to a distant branch was okay because of its uniquely large science fiction collection. In reality, that long country drive was my initial flight from the nest. I had stepped off the edge, and I was learning to fly.

I have many fondly remembered driving experiences, including one of joyful, innocent abandon when my then 13-year-old daughter and I were stopped at the I-5 bridge bordering Washington and Oregon. It was a warm summer's evening on one of those long trips to Grandma's house. With the windows rolled all the way down to let in the coolness of the Columbia River, we waited for the draw bridge to come down as "Billie Jean" blared from the CD player in full bass, and smiles darted our way from inside neighboring vehicles.

There were also moments of revelation about human nature, involving automobiles, like the first and only time I remember seeing my grandfather angry. I was just a toddler playing on the lawn with my cousins in Campbell, California. We all watched in alarm as Grampa began running and yelling, brandishing a big stick after some boys who had been snooping and hanging inside the driver's window of his big and toothy early 1950s Buick: a car I always thought of as angry-looking itself.

A 1950 Buick sedan, similar to the one my grandfather owned.

No simple, single set of incantations will make ['automobility' and its problems] go away. [7]



Let's face it, automobile emissions are in large part responsible for the negative human impact on our planet. There are many strikes against our faithful servant, the car. But, it has been an undeniable part of my generation's social and family history. The very word is fixed on the lips of our newborn children. Depending upon the future needs for society and the ecosystem, the automobile, as we know, it may become a thing of the past.

I do not deny that change is in order. But, during the heydey of the automobile, and during my lifetime, it's been quite a ride.


To read further about automobiles and their cultural/social impact:

Cowan, Ruth Schwartz. A Social History of American Technology
Flink, James J. The Automobile Age
Flink, James J. The Car Culture
Foster, Mark S. A Nation on Wheels: The Automobile Culture in America Since 1945
Lewis, David L. The Automobile and American Culture
McShane, Clay. Down the Asphalt Path
Mintz, Steven. Domestic Revolutions: A Social History of American Family Life
Scharff, Virginia. Take the Wheel: Women and the Coming of the Motor Age
Volti, Rudi. Cars and Culture: The Life Story of a Technology
Wollen, Peter. Autopia: Cars and Culture


[1-7]. Ruth Schwartz Cowan. A Social History of American Technology. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997, pp. 224-248.

2007 in Review

It's time for the 42nd edition of the Carnival of Genealogy, hosted by Jasia at Creative Gene


Well now, doesn't this feel funny -
nominating my own blog entries for a prestigious

iGene Award


My little Norwegian g-g-grandmas will be turning in their graves, collectively thinking: "Where did we go wrong?" But, what the heck, it's time to make a run for it and hope that the Viking God of Humility can be forgiving, as well as humble.

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Best Picture

Who's the Gal with the Legs? 12/31/2007

Pictured (l to r): Doris Johnson, Bennie Johnson, George Johnson, and Phyllis Johnson. Leonard, Clearwater CO, MN, ca. 1930.

Cousins in drag. Even farm kids have to find some comic relief now and then. This is one of my favorite pics in my mother's large collection. One summer day, my mother and aunt decided to trade clothes with their boy cousins. Someone grabbed the old Brownie and snapped a photo. I'll bet the boys were cringing a few years after this one!

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Best Screen Play

Wish Books and Hardwood Floors 12/19/2007

Pictured: Downtown Richmond, CA, 1959.

Christmas shopping with the Wheeler family in the early 1960s: anticipation, Richmond rain, early Montgomery Wards, wet wool, figgety little sisters, and more rain.

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Best Documentary

Woolly Dog Nights: Tale of a Prairie Blizzard 11/15/2007

Pictured: Saron Lutheran Church, Chippewa CO., MN, ca. 1900.

The January 1873 blizzard in the Midwest was of devastating proportions. Read about its effects on the charter members of the future Saron Lutheran Church of Chippewa County, Minnesota. What happened when 35 men were stuck at Ole Anderson's cabin for several days during the big storm?

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Best Biography

Thanksgiving on the Other Side 10/29/2007

Pictured: Bill Wheeler & his turkey, El Cerrito, CA, ca. 1966.

Thanksgiving with the "other side" of my family: my dad's non-Norwegian side. Uncles, aunts, and cousins form a different sort of a grouping for one young girl.

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Best Comedy

No Ode to Lutefisk 12/3/2007

Pictured (ugh): reconstituted cod.

Do not pass the lutefisk, please:
the history behind the custom of serving reconstituted cod at holiday meals, plus a family story or two.

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Dearest Grandma: Hyggelig å møte deg?

The topic for the 41st edition of the Carnival of Genealogy is: If you could have dinner with four of your ancestors who would they be and why? Would you have dinner in the present day or in one of their eras? Would you dine out or opt for a home cooked meal? What would you discuss at the dinner table? What would you most like to share with them about your life?


After reading about the next Carnival topic, I came to the quick conclusion that I would have to get together with all four of my mother's Norwegian-born great grandmothers. I actually got tears in my eyes on the drive home that day while thinking about meeting them. It will never really happen, of course, but I feel a little closer to it by fooling myself with my own imagination.

Why so much emotion? Some of it might be attributable to mid-life hormones, who knows. But, you see, I've never had a grandmother, and the thought of meeting four at once is pleasantly overwhelming. My own grandmother passed away when Mom was less than two years old, and her presence in our lives has been sorely missed.

But first, let me introduce you to my maternal great-great-grandmothers: four Norwegian immigrant pioneer women who sacrificed all for the benefit of their families. (The child that is my great grandparent is in brackets.)

Thibertine Johnson Winje

Thibertine (Bertina) Johnson Winje

Born: Thibertine Olsdatter Lassemo,
Grong, Nord Trondelag, Norway; 8 Jan. 1841.
Died: Detroit Lakes, Becker CO., MN; 15 Feb. 1930 (age 89).
Spouses: Baard Johnson (1835-1872); Eric L. Winje (1850-1930).
Ten children: [Ole M.], Julia, Regina, Louis, Lena, Emma M., Emma T., Edward, Hattie, and Annie.
Immigrated to Goodhue County., MN in 1866.

Kjersten Vigesaa Larson

Kjersten Vigesaa Larson

Born: Kjersten Olsdatter Stromstad,
Helleland, Rogaland, Norway; 15 June 1823.
Died: Granite Falls Township, Chippewa CO., MN; 28 Jan. 1917 (age 93).
Spouse: Erik Vigesaa Larson (1808-1891).
Seven children: Severine, Karen, Louis, Ole, Andrew, Ivar Ludwig, and [Malla].
Immigrated to La Crosse County, WI, in 1862.

Karen Bue Berge

Karen Bue Berge

Born: Karen Olsdatter Bue,
Faaberg, Oppland, Norway; 19 Aug. 1839.
Died: Yellow Medicine CO., MN; 4 Sept. 1914 (age 75).
Spouse: Gulbran Olsen Berge (1835-1882). Seven children: Othilie, [Ole Benhart], Gunda C., Gunda Caroline, Bertha, Jorgen, Sophia.
Immigrated to Chippewa County, MN in 1869.

Anne Vaterland Sloan

Anne (Slaaen) Sloan

Born: Anne Thorsdatter Vaterland,
Faaberg, Oppland, Norway; 20 May 1833.Died: Chippewa CO., MN; 11 Jan. 1918 (age 85).
Spouse: Hans Thorsen Slaaen (1826-1898). Six children: Thor H., Mathia, Karen, Thorvald, John T., and [Anne Marie].
Immigrated to Coon Valley, Vernon County, WI in 1853.


I selected these ladies for several reasons. Having lived in Norway, they would have a living memory of people and early conditions there--the "old ways." They would also be able to tell stories about the risk-filled, eventful transatlantic journeys aboard disease ridden sailing ships and reveal trials and successes they encountered once on American soil. And, if I did skip over the chance of meeting my great grandparents in favor of the next eldest generation, I would still learn about them because my g g grandmas would certainly be willing to talk about their own children. Also, if no men are within earshot during our visit, they might even reveal a few foibles about their husbands and brothers, too.

I would choose to go back in time to about 1900, when each tippoldemor (great grandmother) was old enough to have lived a pretty full life, but young enough to be vibrant and clear in their memory. Why not bring them into the future? Because the object is to get to know them and their ways, and not to scare them silly.

We have seen more change over the past few decades, since my parents first marveled at "I Love Lucy" coming through our old Packard Bell television set, than our pre-20th century ancestors experienced over centuries of rural living in Norway, with the exception of perhaps the steam engine. Malla Larson Johnson (daughter of my g g grandma, Kjersten Larson) was actually afraid of electric lights when they finally arrived on her Clearwater County, Minnesota farm in the mid-1940s. Power lines were a long time in coming because it took many years for work crews to dig holes for all the necessary light poles in rural areas. Can you imagine the intense stimulation and fear someone from the past would feel if dropped into our century, especially an elderly person? I have to close my eyes and grimace at the thought.


Dearest Grandma, Hyggelig å møte deg? (how are you)?

This is a phrase I might never be able to use, since I would choose to learn about my little grandmas by blending into their time period as much as possible. Sure, I would probably mangle my masquerade as a good Norwegian-American pioneer girl, but let's give it a whirl.

Chippewa County, Minnesota is the location where my four g g grandmas eventually all settled with their husbands and family. Thank goodness, or my great grandparents would never have found each other. I have always loved the transitional feel of September, when the lowering afternoon sun shines like fire through tree branches, and the mornings are misty and mild. A Sunday in mid-September would be perfect. Though summer was the busiest season of year on a homestead, it was also the time that farming families could enjoy good weather and make rounds of visits with friends and relations.

I would invite each grandma to kaffe on a Sunday afternoon when they are more relaxed than normal, let's say, Sunday, September 16, 1900. Scandinavian-Lutheran pioneer women aspired to keeping the Sabbath holy, since the other six days of the week were sure to include endless rounds of back-breaking work. I'm not sure how they succeeded, but that was the general goal.

For the first meeting, I would put on some comfortably-worn blue calico, pull my hair back, and remove all of my jewelry. I would pretend to be a distant cousin who is, surprisingly enough, related to all of them through an ancestor who left Norway many years before they did. Due to my lack of the appropriate accent, I'd probably have to say that I was born in the wild west... which is the truth, come to think of it.

Do you think they would buy it? I'm sure they would be skeptical. They would be stiffly polite at first, but sweet, and they might ask a few indirect questions. I think they would at least be curious to see what this newcomer has to say, and whether or not she is full of herself and should be avoided in future (now, there's an interesting thought).

My mother grew up on a Minnesota farm belonging to her Norwegian-American grandparents, and although she did not personally know the generation of which I am writing, she had a few pointers for me on how my g g grandmothers might react. You bet I'm going to take advantage of her as a resource! Mom says that if the ladies are shy, like most Norwegian farm women she ever knew, they would probably not accept an invitation from a stranger, even if I claimed to be related.  I surmised that the invitation would have to be extended by a mutual friend of theirs, perhaps someone they went to church with.

Dear Mrs. [Berge],

Would you be so kind as to join me and several other ladies for coffee on Sunday, September 16, at 2:00 p.m.? A relation of yours will be staying with my family for a few days, and I am hoping to introduce you to her. Please r.s.v.p. to me through the post office, or at church next Sunday.

Respectfully yours,

Mrs. Lars Petersen

Surely there must have been a "Mrs. Lars Petersen" somewhere in Chippewa County. At the home of Mrs. Petersen, I would set a buffet table with some offerings a Norwegian might expect to find, including some of the following: vafler (waffles) with lingonberries, goat cheese, hard-boiled eggs, lefse, breads, ham, herring, fruit salad, and Norwegian cookies and cakes, including fattigmann and krumkaker. Oh, and plenty of kaffe, of course!

On a separate table, I would lay out all of my old photographs in the hope that some unknown persons might be identified. The photos could also serve as props for conversation. The problem is that coming from the future, these photographs are bound to look a little worn. This might lead each of my grandmas to raise an eyebrow ever-so-slightly and sneak glances at one another, wondering how I could take such poor care of my belongings. "Strike One" for the wannabe Norwegian-American pioneer girl.

You may notice that all four of my g g grandmas look quite similar. I'm sure they were similar in their ways, as well. They were all Norwegian, all about the same size (around five feet in height), and all of a quiet, measured countenance... shy, even. They all wore their hair pulled back with the part in the middle, as was the practical custom for Scandinavian females in the 19th century. They lived hard lives, and it showed in their faces. They owned no cosmetics, used no fine lotions, had no botox treatments, and consumed no vitamins or fortified drinks to help protect their health. They spent countless hours outdoors in the wind, sun, rain, and snow. Caffeine may have been their only vice, since Norwegian-Americans learned at an early age to love coffee. It was a luxury seldom available in Norway, but it was easily attainable in the United States.

Pioneer living was especially hard on women, and even though it colored every nuance of their physical expression, it does not mean that Bertina, Kjersten, Karen, and Anne were not capable of great warmth, generosity, and even humor when appropriate. But, when they were motivated to set things right and see the work done, they could probably also be a bit critical, aloof, or demanding. They had 24-7, never-ending jobs in caring for their children, feeding and clothing their families, and supporting their husbands, neighbors, churches, and community: all from scratch. There was no "time out" for good behavior, no day at the spa, no weekend with the girls, no new spring wardrobe, and sometimes, no shelter or food either. What they had in abundance was know-how, determination, strength, faith, and sheer resilience.

I would want to hear what my grandmas have to say about their lives and families--telling their stories with those wonderful rolling accents and funnily adapted Norwegian-English phrases--and take my cues from there. Firing off questions like a reporter would be taken as prying, and I'm supposed to be a good Norwegian-American pioneer girl, remember?

I'd like to hear from Bertina about her transition from homesteader's wife to town life as the wife of an attorney and judge, and how she managed to keep on going after the loss of so many children. Karen would, no doubt, tell me of her husband's wild and woolly experiences aboard the Hannah Parr, the emigrant ship he sailed on from Bergen to Quebec in 1868. The ship was devastated in a storm and had to limp back to Limerick, Ireland for month-long repairs. Aside from the near catastrophe, this was a rather jolly stopover for some of the Norwegian travelers. You can read about it in The Irish Adventure of the Hannah Parr, my 8/10/2007 blog entry. Kjersten's life in America began in a La Crosse area sod house around the time of the southwestern Minnesota Indian massacres. Whenever her husband had to make a trip into town, some of the children would sit on the roof to watch for hostile Indians. She would have plenty of early homsteading stories, I'm sure. And, last but not least, Anne, about whom I know the least, can tell me what it was like to give birth to my great grandmother in a covered wagon as the family moved from Wisconsin to Minnesota. She would also have a lot of information about one of the earliest Norwegian settlements in the midwest: Coon Valley. I can tell right now that it's going to take longer than one afternoon!

Not too long ago, I had the experience of meeting some of my Berge cousins for the first time. I have not met many relations from this family line, and before a word dropped from our mouths, I felt like I knew them. I am hoping that this same sort of genetic attraction will take hold and draw my little grandmas into feeling immediately at ease with me. Then, I can come to know a bit about their world and how it fits into the perspective of history, but also how it fits into the here and now, and with who I am--a crumb of truth and understanding sought after by all genealogists and family historians.

When all the kaffe is gone, and everyone has had their fill of pastries from the floral china platters, how successful do you think my masquerade might have been? My guess is that my little grandmas might be willing to meet with me again.  In the meantime, they would spend hours discussing my spotty Norwegian sensibility, as well as the mysterious family connection. I can hear them now: "Ja, she was nice enough... but, goodness, how nosy!"