With a Name Like "Johnson"

The latest Carnival of Genealogy, hosted by Jasia at Creative Gene calls for stories about living relative connections. All of us know how valuable family networking can be to obtain additional data, stories, and photographs to supplement our research, but also to satisfy our intense curiosity, which we all have or we wouldn't be doing this, now would we?

Most of my discoveries came a few short years ago, when I began to seek out and document the history of my mother's side of the family: the Johnsons. That journey eventually took me to nearly all points of the compass.


With a name like "Johnson" - where does one begin?


I wrote my first letter of inquiry to an older cousin who revealed my great grandfather's Norwegian surname, which was a start. But, in itself, the info did not lead anywhere without also learning to use the Norwegian census, Digitalarkivet, and other genealogical databases, including immigration records.

My mother was raised by her grandparents, and I learned that her grandfather, Ole Martin Johnson (my great grandfather) also had a full sister and eight half-siblings that I hadn't been aware of. The central figure in this family was, of course, the mother of all of them: Thibertine (Bertina) Johnson Winje.


What's In a Name?


The thing to remember about Norwegian ancestors is that a surname can be deceptive. One really needs to get a handle on the location of origin, right down to the farm. Often, this means finding church or immigration records first. If the location of origin is not certain, then research can literally run in circles. Fortunately, early Norwegians also identified themselves by their farm name, which was often tacked on to a patronymic surname. In the case of Ole Johnson's mother, her maiden name was Thibertine Olsdatter Lassemo. "Olsdatter" meant that she was the daughter of a man who also went by the name of Ole, and "Lassemo" referred to the farm in Grong, Nord Trondelag where she lived.

I am thinking of one cousin (who shall remain anonymous) who took his wife on a long awaited vacation to Norway, only to spend a large amount of time walking through cemeteries near the old homelands searching for ancestors by hunting down "Johnson" or "Larson" surnames among the higgledy-piggledy rows of worn tombstones. Ack! If only he had known back then...

Patronymic naming practices make it impossible to go by surname alone, or what you get is a collection of hundreds of unrelated "John's son," or "Lars' son." Fortunately, Cousin stopped his cemetery cavorting after his long-suffering wife threatened divorce and exclaimed, "I won't go back to Norway!" He came away from the trip with his marriage still intact, and an intimate impression of lovely old Norwegian cemeteries, especially, how tiny the plots all seemed...

For more detailed information on navigating the maize of Norwegian surnames, see Norwegian Naming Practices.



The Immediate Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje

............................................................................................................

Baard Johnson & Thibertine Olsdatter Lassemo
married 1860, Grong Parish, Nord Trondelag, Norway

Two offspring:

Ole Martin Baardsen, born 1860, Grong, Nord Trondelag, Norway
(ten children) [1]

Ellen Julie (Julia) Baardsdatter, born 1862, Grong, Nord Trondelag, Norway
(seven children) [2]

............................................................................................................

Eric Larsen Winje & Thibertine Olsdatter Johnson
married 1874, Chippewa County, Minnesota, USA

Eight Offspring:

Berthe Regine (Regina) Winje (Strand), born 1873, Chippewa CO, MN
(five surviving children)

Louis Peter Winje, born 1874, Chippewa CO, MN
(no children)

Lena Marie Winje, born 1876, Chippewa CO, MN
(no children)

Emma M. Winje, born 1877, Chippewa CO, MN
(died as an infant: 1877 or 1878)

Emma Thalette Winje, born 1879, Chippewa CO, MN
(no children)

Edward Theodore Winje, born 1881, Chippewa CO, MN
(two children)

Hattie Christine Winje, born 1883, Chippewa CO, MN
(died 1888, in Duluth, MN)

Annie Jorgene Winje, born 1885, Chippewa CO, MN
(died 1888, in Duluth, MN


In the quest for information about my great grandfather's family, I found that his mother, Thibertine Johnson, re-married and bore eight children with her second husband, Eric Winje. Five of the Winje children preceeded their parents in death, and out of eight, only two had children of their own. I knew there had to be Winje descendants out there, "somewhere in Canada." The goal was to find descendants of Edward Theodore Winje, who emigrated to Saskatchewan in the 1890s by way of North Dakota, and descendants of Regina Winje Strand, who were likely still in Minnesota.

Tracking down the Winje branch of the family involved mostly luck. I discovered an online death index for British Columbia, so I started there. Fortunately, the name "Winje" is somewhat unique, and B.C. turned out to be the correct province--what are the odds of that? I located Edward Theodore Winje, who had died in Nelson, B.C., and an Eric Winje (a namesake of Edward's father), who lived nearby in Slocan, according to the telephone directory. I took a chance and wrote a letter, and the hunch turned out to be correct.

After decades of no communication, the Winjes and the Johnsons were reunited. A cousin and I visited the Winjes for the first time in 2004: Karna Franche, Lori Moore, Abbie Winje, and their spouses (see We'll Miss You, Karna, my blog posting for 9/25/07). Without that Winje family connection, I would not have a third of the information I do for the family history book I am about to publish.

I tracked down the Strand branch of the Winje family by pretty much the same method: 1) gather as much information about names, dates, and places from known cousins, 2) check the death indexes and white pages for potential relatives in locations of interest, and 3) narrow down the choices and take a chance and write a letter or call. Doing this put me into contact with a grandson of Regina Winje Strand.


Don't Forget Connections With Old Family Friends


Perhaps my most important connection in regards to gathering historical documents was not made through contacting unknown living relatives, but with the descendants of friends of the Winje ancestors. According to the Winjes in British Columbia, the first family immigrant, Lars Eriksen Winje, came from a village with a similar name in Sor Trondelag, Norway. In Norwegian, the letter "w" is somewhat interchangeable with "v." The Winjes emigrated from Vinjeora, Hemne, Sor Trondelag.

I discovered that someone had put together a website in order to gather genealogical data for the area surrounding Hemne. Miraculously, the website contained an article written about the Winjes' emigration to America from Vinjeora in 1869: EN UTVANDRERFAMILIE FRA VINJEØRA i 1869.

But... it was in Norwegian, and I'd had only one beginning class in the language. What to do?

I e-mailed the webmaster for Hemneslekt.net and asked if he had any information on the author of the article, Markus Wessel. Fortunately, the webmaster was fluent in English and put me in contact with Wessel's daughter, since Wessel himself was no longer living. Astri was kind enough to e-mail and inform me that her family still had some original letters mailed by the Winjes, dating as early as 1869. Oh, my goodness! Primary documents are akin to buried treasure, and I was so excited at this point that I could hardly stand it. The letters came, and afterwards came my quest to get them translated. At this point, I have found assistance in translating not only Markus Wessel's online article about the emigration of the Winje family, but most of the letters.

Through the quest to make connections with living relatives, I have found that most people are excited to help and anxious to relate bits and pieces of information and stories passed down to them. Some of my cousins went all out to make sure that I obtained access to books, albums, and copies of rare photographs and documents. In the past few years, I have met many wonderful people who I am proud to count among my cousins and family friends. Tusen takk to them!


Who's in your family's living treasure chest?



[1] and [2] The patronymic naming practices of early Norway meant that a child's surname reflected who the father was. In the case of Baard Johnson, his children were: Ole Baardsen (Baard's son), and Ellen Julie Baardsdatter (Baard's daughter).

They Don't Make Them Like This Anymore

My great grandparents, Ole Martin and Malla Johnson, were wed on February 28, 1886, in Granite Falls Township, Chippewa County, Minnesota. This is a copy of their marriage certificate--beautiful, isn't it? The image may appear a bit too small to read the proverbs, so I've written them out.[1]


What therefore God Hath Joined Together, Let Not Man Put Asunder

Man is the head of the Woman

Let the Husband Love His Wife

Woman is the Glory of the Man

Let the Wife Reverence Her Husband

The Wife is the Crown to Her Husband

A Prudent Wife is from the Lord; Her Price is Far above Rubies



(Image detail)

(Image detail)

The justice of the peace who performed the ceremony, pictured at the bottom of the certificate, was Eric L. Winje, the groom's stepfather. In 1874, Winje married Thibertine Johnson, Ole Johnson's widowed mother, and the couple had eight children together.

For the wedding, the groom dressed in a sack suit—the standard fashion for a modest and frugal man during the 1880s. [2]

The bride, Malla Larson, wore a two-piece dress of dark silk, which her mother probably helped sew by hand. The focus of the design was multiple layers of ruffles peaking out from beneath a top skirt and carefully draped along Malla’s corseted waist. Her jacket was fitted with a matching peplum, and dark collar and cuffs, and had no fewer than 16 buttons down the front. Underneath the jacket she wore a white blouse to protect against February’s chill. Her long hair, the same rich brown as her father’s, was arranged in a knot on the back of her head, and her bangs had been curled tight with hairpins the night before. It was a style she would keep all of her life, though as she grew older, she found it easier to give up the fuss and fashion of curling bangs, and let them grow out instead.



Ole Martin Johnson weds
Malla Vigesaa Larson,
Feb. 28, 1886


The bride’s jewelry included a bar pin that held together the collar of her blouse, and two rings that adorned her left hand: a wedding ring, and another band worn on her index finger. A locket hung around her neck at the end of a golden chain, probably a wedding gift to Malla from her parents, since it contained miniature photographs of each of them. On the left locket face was a tiny image of her father, Erik Vigesaa Larson, who had quite a dapper appearance with his large, intense eyes and full moustache. On the right was her mother, Kjersten, a plain, no-nonsense woman, who read from her bible each day.

After the marriage, Ole Johnson and his new bride continued to farm the homestead that Ole's mother deeded to him along the banks of Hawk Creek in Granite Falls Township, where the Johnsons lived until 1901.

Copyright © 2006-2008 by Chery Kinnick
Original material and images may not be reproduced without permission.

[1] Johnson-Larson marriage, 28 February 1886, Granite Falls, Minnesota. Certificate supplied by Justice of the Peace, Eric L. Winje, for Chippewa County. Copy held in 2006 by Chery Kinnick.

[2] Definition of “sack suit”: a 19^th century men’s fashion, typically a wool suit of black or gray, with matching pants, and usually four buttons on the coat. The sack suit began as a rather baggy garment in the 1850s, but became more fitted in the 1860s and after. It was considered casual day wear for businessmen, but more formal for the average farmer or worker—something worn to church, for example. Description derived from The Gentleman’s Page, http://www.lahacal.org/gentleman/sack.html (accessed 19 October 2006).

Marking the Journey of Six Generations

Capricorns from Different Worlds

January 8th marks the birthday of two women who are related, but part of different worlds created by time, place, and cultural, historical, and social influences.

Let's compare brief bios of the two, spanning 130 years--the amount of time in between the dates the photographs were taken. The first photograph is of Thibertina (Bertina) Johnson Winje, a Norwegian immigrant, and the second is of her great-great-great granddaughter, Courtney (my own daughter), who is now close to the same age as her ancestor when the photograph of Bertina was taken.


Bertina (1875)
Born: January 8, 1841, in Nord-Trondelag, Norway
Marital status: married: 13 yrs (1st marriage to a farmer); 56 yrs (2nd marriage to an attorney and judge)
Occupation: pioneer, farmer, homemaker, wife, and mother
Education: rural schooling up to confirmation age
Favorite things: attending school functions; giving dolls to granddaughters
Hobbies: knitting, crocheting, embroidery, and other useful handiwork
Travel: emigration from Norway to America across the Atlantic
Special challenges: feeding and clothing family from scratch, fatigue from physical labor, disease epidemics, crop failure, severe weather, learning a new language as a matter of necessity



Courtney (2006)
Born: (currently 20-something), Washington State
Marital status: single
Occupation: barista; in training to be a computer network specialist
Education: some college
Favorites: cats, chocolate, and clubbing
Hobbies: making jewelery and hair pieces, modeling, playing the flute and guitar
Travel: Driving across the U.S. from Florida to the Pacific Coast, plus visiting British Columbia and Germany.
Special challenges: Working & attending school at the same time; paying bills, inflation, nutrition, keeping medical benefits, sorting through all the choices


I'll let the reader determine any similarities or differences. The point is: we've come a long way, Baby!

When Bertina Johnson Winje set foot on the Norden, the sailing ship that brought her and her small family from the port of Bergen, Norway to America in 1866, she had no idea what the future would bring. In her highest hopes, she sought greater opportunity for her children, and wanted them to be able to have their own land and greater educational possibilities. How surprised and pleased she must have been to see two of her daughters become teachers. One would go on to become a School Superintendent in Minnesota.

But, did Bertina ever dream of the possibilities for future generations? Things have changed drastically for women since she was a young immigrant pioneer woman in Chippewa County, Minnesota. My daughter, Courtney, faces challenges of her own in the present day--mostly economic ones--but she has certain advantages over living in the era of her g-g-g-grandmother: the right to vote, the ability to seek advanced education and choose a career, instant communication with others, relative freedom from life-threatening devastation due to severe weather or disease epidemic, the right to wear makeup and dress however she likes, and the opportunity to work and play in diverse groups. There is also the major luxury of kicking back and eating a prepackaged, microwaved entree rather than chasing the chicken, killing the chicken, plucking and cleaning the chicken, stoking the woodstove, boiling the chicken, getting out the breadboard, mixing and kneading breaddough, stoking the woodstove again... well, you get the idea.

Bertina had advantages of her own, though some may not have been realized until the perspective of history brought them to light. There is much to be said for the age-old human need to be close to the land, and having direct, consequential interaction with nature. Also, a dependency upon family life and utter faith brought security and acceptance during times of strife. Modern media and technology have altered the human pysche forever, for better, or for worse.

Sometimes, I look upon my daughter and wonder which of her genetic traits have come down through the generations, and from which ancestors. Is that slate/blue-gray, geode-like color of her eyes also those of an ancient ancestor's? What about her strawberry blonde hair color as a toddler? Who was it that gave her that slender frame... her nose, her ears? Am I hearing Bertina in Courtney's voice, or someone else? What about that funny little habit of hiccuping exactly three times after eating anything?

I will never know the answers to all of those mysteries. But, one thing is for certain: our ancestors live within our children, and in our children's children, and it was the sacrifices of those who came before that created the opportunities of the here and now. We are forever indebted to them.

Happy Birthday, Gals!

New Year's Greetings from Beautiful Seattle

Celebrate history-

it's a part of you

Seattle celebrates BIG

What did 2007 mean to the Seattle area, and to Washington State?

What about 1907?

Take a look at Washington State's online history website, HistoryLink.org for "This Week Then" articles (currently hightlighting 12/21/2007-1/3/2008).

See what's been happening in the great Pacific Northwest.

HistoryLink.org "is the first online encyclopedia of local and state history created expressly for the Internet."

Wishing you peace and joy in 2008

Space Needle fireworks Image:
Lindes at flickr.com

Remembering Margot Lucoff, Part III

(Continued from January 1st posts)

Margot Lucoff received her B.A. in Humanities and Classic Languages at U.C. Berkeley in 1976, and in 1979 earned an M. Litt. in Near Eastern Studies at the University of Durham, England, and then returned to Berkeley to complete a MLIS (Masters of Library and Information Science) in 1980. She worked as a cataloging librarian at the Berkeley Public Library (BPL) from 1984 until her death in July 2004.

Margot Lucoff, April 2004 (shown here holding
the child of an acquaintance). Photo: Colleen Fawley.

In continuing this tribute to Margot, I'd like to pass along some stories about Margot shared by her fellow staff members at BPL:

I first met Margot walking around old Berkeley Public Library. We were both wearing long flowery dresses and Birkenstocks with socks and both had our long hair "styled" the same way. We pointed at each other and said, "Hey, I know we're going to be friends." - N. N.

About 10 years ago Margot was grieving the loss of her mother. She felt the pain of her loss very intensely. She came up with a very creative idea for dealing with her pain. she asked others to share it. She parceled out 12 months and asked 12 friends to each accept one month of her grieving period... I volunteered to become Margot's September support for as many Septembers as she might need the support... - J. E.

I vividly remember when we were at [the old Berkeley Public Library] and Reference got int the new edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Margot had wanted it all her life, and arranged to buy the old set from the Friends [Friends of the Library]. She was dizzy for days with the glory of it, and would answer the phone: "Hello, this is Margot, I own the OED!" - S. H.

BPL compiled a binder/album in which the library staff have contributed memories, stories, or poems, entitled: "Hello, Sunshine: Memories of Margot."[1]

Margot's synagogue, Netivot Shalom, at 1316 University in Berkeley, also has a commemorative project. The last year or so of her life, Margot was in a quilt group of about six or seven women that made quilts on Jewish themes. The group had just started a project when she died, and they turned it into a memorial to her, putting on names of her family members, her e-mail address, and the message from her answering machine and other things that reminded them of Margot. It is currently hanging in the synagogue library. [2]

The number and quality of tributes to Margot suggest the number of lives she touched in a special way. She was a true ray of sunshine, as the so-named "Hello Sunshine" book of memories at BPL suggests: positive, supportive, academic, enthusiastic, and in awe of life and learning--a role model to many.


[1] Berkely Public Library Staff News, Summer 2004.
[2] Diane Berbaum, Netivot Shalom

Remembering Margot Lucoff, Part II

Close Friends are Family Invited in by the Heart...

During the first year of my friendship with Margot Lucoff, we began exchanging weekend visits. At age 13, I was hungry for information about the world, in general, and her Jewish home life was so different from my own sheltered one that it felt a bit like Pandora's box.

Margot Lucoff, graduation photo from Kennedy
High School, Richmond, California, 1971.


Margot's family moved to the Bay Area from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In a "funny twist of fate," as one of her friends put it, Margot was born on the same day her uncle died, and that friend remembers paying a condolence visit, as a small child, to Margot's aunt. [1]

Margot adored her brilliant and focused father, Julius Lucoff, an engineer by trade. I remember him as a somewhat austere man, who swept into a room like a crisp autumn breeze: quickly, silently, but commanding attention. The only time I saw him sitting in one place was at the dinner table, or at the piano, playing. As city engineer in 1958, he published a government map of Emeryville, California (OCLC: 23250224). Julius died in 1986, at age 75. [2]

Margot's mother, Zelma, was a kind and concerned woman, anxious to see Margot and her brother, Bill, do well. Sometimes, Zelma used my presence at their dining table to impress certain desired attributes upon her daughter, much to my chagrin. "Margot, sit up straight. See how Chery doesn't let her hair hang on her plate." Margot would grumble a bit and snap back in a congenial tone, "Oh, Ma!"

Zelma Lucoff passed away in 1991, five years after the death of her husband. As a mother, she had worked hard to introduce Margot to all the beauty, knowledge, and opportunity the world had to offer. I remember going along on a trip to the Lawrence Hall of Science, and afterwards, walking the UC Berkeley campus, where Margot later attended, and the herb garden nearby. One day, Margot and I were driven out to the beach in Alameda where we walked barefoot in the salty, mirky tide, and gingerly stepped over knobby and rubbery sea snails embedded in the bay floor. On the way home, we ate string cheese--it was my first taste. [3]

Margot's friendship was precious to me because of her open, candid spirit. Being with her was refreshing, and she always offered up the unexpected; she was full of new ideas. It was she who introduced me to the mysterious worlds of philosophy, other religions, astrology, incense, sealing wax (for envelopes), and even Simon and Garfunkle, among a hundred other things. On her bedroom ceiling, she had taped artistic posters of individual signs of the zodiac so that she "could see them while laying in bed."

During the holiday season, she gave unexpected gifts that I treasure to this day. At a time when I was used to receiving things like Avon cologne, jewelry, or stationery from family or friends, she gave me a map of the moon's surface and a glass prism. Margot provided tools with which to explore physics, astronomy, space, and history... showing that one could do more than just talk about the wonders of the universe.


Visit the Milwaukee Jewish Historical Website








Julius Lucoff was fascinated with science-fiction and was a member of the Bay Area branch of, I believe, the Science-Fiction Writers of America. Margot asked me to go along with her and her father to the club's private showing of "2001: A Space Odyssey," at a theater on Market Street in San Francisco. The theater was completely packed with people who took science-fiction with some degree of seriousness. Among the audience were local engineers, scientists, teachers, and writers, including author Poul Anderson, who would later serve as club president. Previewing "2001" was an exciting event to the science-fiction community, because it was the first film in many years to deal with space exploration in a sophisticated and intelligent manner, without the typical monster-of-the-day or tongue-in-cheek campiness.

I was also taken along to several science-fiction conventions. Oh, lucky me! At the Claremont Hotel in Oakland, I met Gene Roddenberry, the producer of Star Trek, and marveled for the first time at the art of science-fiction illustration. At another event held in S.F., Margot and I dashed from lecture to lecture, disrupting things to find seats in the crowded rooms, and then leaving each after only 5-10 minutes. She was always so excited to experience a piece of everything that it was hard to keep her in one spot for very long.

I owe my friend, Margot, a great deal of gratitude for expanding my horizons at at time of my life when lasting impressions were made: not just because of those special excursions I would never have gone on otherwise, but, for long coversations on topics that weren't really of interest to the average 13-year-old. She opened my eyes to the world at large: to science and art. She showed me how to explore new topics, new music, new ideas. She introduced me to Jewish family life and beliefs, and helped me realize similarities across cultures and religions, and not just differences.

Most of all, Margot was an example of what courage was in the face of a potentially devastating disease, and showed that a brave heart and passionate mind can conquer any limitation.


(To be continued in Part III)

Note: This tribute is based upon personal memories and conversations with Margot. If her family or friends should find any errors or inconsistencies with what they know to be true, please notify me at ckinnick@gmail.com, and I will be happy to make corrections.

Sources:

[1] Bernbaum, Diane, e-mail to Chery Kinnick, Dec. 28, 2007.
[2] Lucoff, Julius. Social Security Death Index.
[3] Lucoff, Zelma. Social Security Death Index.

Remembering Margot Lucoff

The New Year Brings Thoughts of Old Friends

There are those who shine
and diffract life
to enlighten others,
like brilliant colors
from white light
through a glass prism.


Image: Glass prism


While attending Portola Junior High School in El Cerrito, California, I had a good friend by the name of Margot Beth Lucoff. Her friendship was special to me in many ways and it came at a formative time of my life, which ended up changing me, forever.

Margot and I lost touch after our junior high years, but in the early 1980s I sent a letter to her mother at the family's old address in El Cerrito. She happily forwarded it to Margot, who wrote back to me, and we renewed our friendship through letters. By 1982, I had been living in the Seattle area for several years, but I had a chance to visit her for one day during a trip to the Bay Area. If you have ever experienced the strange familiarity of meeting an old friend after the passage of many years, then you know about that peculiar mix of joy, expectation, and confusion involved.

In the early 1990s, things happened separately in both of our lives, and our letter writing dwindled and stopped. In 2005, I found out through the internet that Margot had died the year before. I was devastated that I hadn't had the chance to say goodbye, knowing it was my fault for not keeping in touch.

At the time, I wanted to remember her somehow, but couldn't find a way other than to donate to the foundation of her bequest. We no longer had any mutual acquaintances that I could contact and share memories with. That's why I'm writing this blog post now. Friends are family invited in by the heart. They enlighten and inspire us, and the distance of years does not change the special interaction that once occurred, nor does it lessen the pain of their loss.

An obituary was printed in the Sept./Oct. 2004 issue of "The Reel & Strathspeyper," a publication of the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society, San Francisco branch.

Friends of Margot Lucoff are sad to inform you of her death. She died on Thursday, July 22, at home, in her sleep, of natural causes. She was 51 years old.

Margot was introduced to Scottish Country dancing by her fiance,Mark De Lemos, in the mid-1980s, and danced primarily in the Berkeley Class.

Margot was at Mark's side when he died, in 1989, at the cancer research center in Seattle while awaiting a bone marrow transplant for leukemia. Later, in his memory, she attempted to become a bone marrow donor but did not make it past the first two screenings.

Margot worked for many years in the Berkeley Public Library's Cataloging Department and was active in the Jewish community.

Margot was born with neurofibromatosis (NF). She asked that the National Neurofibromatosis Foundation (NNFF), a non-profit medical foundation, be considered by anyone wishing to make a donation in her name. The website for donations, contact information, and information about NF is http://www.nf.org.

Margot and I had no classes together during junior high; we met because we hung out in the same area of the school yard during lunch break. At first glance, it probably seemed that we had nothing in common. Our personalities were different: she was outgoing and brash; I was quiet and shy. Our cultural backgrounds were different: she said that her Jewish ancestors were "White Russians,"or emigres from the Russian Civil War in the early 20th century; mine were midwestern Norwegian-American homesteaders of Lutheran faith. She had an opinion about nearly everything; I struggled with the barest confidence needed to even form an opinion. She guffawed openly and heartily; I hid my giggles behind my hand.



Margot Lucoff (left) at Portola Junior High School, with Adrienne Carlson, 1966, El Cerrito, California.

Being a young teen is hard enough, but Margot had particular challenges to face. I had only to deal with shyness, but she had to deal with the very real conditions of chronic disease. In her younger years, Margot spent many, many months in complete traction to help severe scoliosis caused by neurofibromatosis. She had to wear a spine and neck brace for years afterwards. The only outerwear that fit over it easily was a poncho. Whenever I remember Margot, I picture that ever-present red plaid poncho with the neck support sticking out of the top, her intense dark eyes and bravely open and smiling face above it.

We both had the utmost enthusiasm for the future, for all things cultural, and for Star Trek. Yes: Star Trek. Even a TV program (though an exceptional one for its time), can inspire bonds lasting beyond lifetimes.

A small group of us always stood around at lunch and discussed the latest episodes, trying our best to make clever "Trekky" jokes. Margot claimed the Captain Kirk role, probably because of her boisterous and adventuresome spirit; another friend, Robin, was Spock, I suppose because she admired his logic, and I was "Bones" McCoy, if for no other reason than it completed the trio. Other students must have thought we were crazy because we didn't spend our time complaining about boys and teachers, but the play-acting and musings filled many otherwise dull noon hours, and urged us on to related topics about life, the universe, and everything.

Star Trek

Our stage was the wide, terraced patios of Portola Junior High, which looked down the El Cerrito Hills toward San Pablo Avenue and beyond, to the San Francisco Bay. A kiosk supplied a daily ice cream and treats, at least until our pocket money ran out. Each day we ate our lunches on the terrace, and Robin bought her usual Hostess Suzy-Q's. We talked and joked inbetween glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge--its vibrant orange color barely visible--and of its neighbor to the north, the sleeping lady form of Mt. Tamalpais. On misty days, the fog horn on Alcatraz Island in the bay punctuated our conversation. It was a time for dreaming...

But, dreams are often shattered by those who do not have equal vision and optimism, and by those whose minds are clouded by ignorance and hatred.

As Margot was leaving school on or near the last day of the ninth grade, she was accosted in a hallway by a group of troublemakers who taunted her and threatened bodily harm if she attended El Cerrito High School the next autumn. Though she was courageous in many ways, this very personal attack frightened Margot deeply, and she decided to alter her path and attend a different high school. A young person's universe revolves around those physically close by, and so, a special time came to a close and we each went our separate ways. But, fortunately, it was not for good.

(To be continued in Part II)

Note: This tribute is based upon personal memories and conversations with Margot. If her family or friends should find any errors or inconsistencies with what they know to be true, please notify me at ckinnick@gmail.com, and I will be happy to make corrections.

Who's the Gal with the Legs?

Left to right: Doris Johnson, Bennie Johnson, George Johnson,
and Phyllis Johnson. Leonard, Minnesota, ca. 1930.

Even farm kids need a little comic relief now and again. For a good laugh one day, my mother and aunt changed clothing with their boy cousins, and someone came around with a Brownie camera to snap a photo. I'll bet the boys were cringing a few years after this one...

Go Gently, 2007

I usually pay little heed to the idea of New Year's resolutions. I've never been much for making or adhering to lists. I just can't seem to get organized enough, preferring to rely on my intuition instead. But, things seem to happen somehow.


In 2007, there were some successes, a few challenges, and a few sorrows: a slice of life, in other words:

• During the summer, I wrapped up six years of research regarding the Johnson side of my mother's family, and I am SO close to sending the finished product to the printers. It should have been there several months ago, but life happens and alters one's timing. "A Long Way Downstream: the Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer," will be out in print in 2008.


• I learned how to give more of myself as a human being when my husband had both hips replaced this summer, and he relied on me for many everyday things he'd never had to before (because he is a ski instructor, this was doubly frustrating for him). In November, I had another chance to give my understanding and support when my only aunt passed away, and 10 days later my sister's house burned, displacing both her and our mother. Mom flew out from Alabama to live with me, and although it's been an adjustment, it is one I gladly make. Now we will have much more time to discuss family history.


• On October 8, my very first book was released through Arcadia Publishing: Snoqualmie Pass, by John and Chery Kinnick. I love the research and putting-together part; John loves the marketing and autographing (there's something for everyone in publishing!)


• I was also excited to have the comraderie and support from Luci and Cathy, members of my writer's support group: the "Nearby Norwegians." We are plotting our next Norwegian projects, which may be related to the upcoming centennial celebration of the Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition, held in Seattle in 1909.


• In the autumn, I participated in the Nearby History seminar for writers and local historians through Seattle's Museum of History and Industry: my second time around. This is a unique program (if you don't believe me, just try to find another like it). Those of us who have been a part of it can attest to the encouragement and opportunity it has provided to writers of history, whether it be family, local, regional, or other types of history. "Nearby History" is defined as "history that is close to the heart," not just near to Seattle. Our blogging friend, footnoteMaven, is a fellow participant, and she's, well... uh-uh! You thought I was going to give her identity away, now didn't you? I'm afraid you'll have to wait for her to raise that curtain herself, if ever, but I can tell you that she's every bit as clever, helpful, and wonderful a person as she seems in her blog posts, and real purty, too!
• I began blogging in earnest this year, and I must say, there need be no lonely or boring moments out there for anyone involved in such a supportive venture as genealogy/family history writing. We come from near and far, answering the siren song of our computers, whatever corner they are hiding in at the moment, and we share ideas and inspire one another. Now, what could be neater than that? I am proud to be a Genealogy and Family History blogger--a GREAT bunch!
  

In 2008, my plan is to:

• Work hard at keeping in contact with the many cousins and interested parties I have been in communication with while doing my family research. An important part of research is networking, and through it, coming to care about people that I haven't met yet, except through the internet. I even have an invitation to Norway, and I'm raking my brain trying to come up with a way to go as soon as possible. Oh, my! I can't think of a better plan for 2008 than visiting Norway.


• Be very committed to my next book project, which deals with Seattle local history. Wish me luck! I will have to spend many hours in archives with my neck cranked and my fingers glued to my laptop, for starters.


• Spend as much quality time with my family as I can possibly manage. My husband and I have decided to move from our mountain pass home, and although I won't bore you with the details, I'm hoping to decrease my stress levels and improve the quality of my "haven" at home with this move. I'm a nester, and I haven't had much of a chance to nest lately.


• Be a Nearby History participant again in autumn 2008.
  
• Continue blogging and seeking inspiration from all of you!

Image: Free Gifs and Animations

Christmas 1983

Merry Christmas, Munchkins!

This one is just for you.

Love, Mom

Musical Musings from Christmases Past

Advent Calendar, December 21: Music

Chestnuts roast on open fires,
snowflakes nip at Nat King Cole's nose;
Crosby dreams of a white Christmas,
and where's Dean Martin? No-one knows.

In the manger, Johnny Mathis
awaits a sleigh ride just with you;
while in St. Louis, Garland hangs
a shining star on highest bough.

Burl Ives spreads his holly jolly,
and Chipmunks just can't stand the wait;
"Oh, Hurry Christmas, hurry fast!"
And, Santa don't you dare be late.

Wish Books and Hardwood Floors

Advent Calendar, December 19: Shopping

In the early 1960s, shopping was such a special occasion that my entire family went on purposeful expeditions only several times a year: one was during the inevitable "back to school" rush, and another always happened several weeks before Christmas.

My sister and I were never under the care of a babysitter, so on the chosen Friday night, we waited for Dad to arrive home from work with great anticipation. We gulped a dinner of something like macaroni and cheese with canned green beans. Right after, Mom struggled to get a coat and hat onto my fidgety little sister, and then checked for the third time that the shopping list was actually in her purse. Finally, we piled into Dad's red and white '57 Ford Ranch Wagon for a drive into town.

Becky sat sandwiched in the front seat between Dad and Mom, while I held on tight in the back seat and pressed my nose to the window, watching as headlights, taillights, and streetlights whizzed by. Magnified through rain drops on the glass, the color and sparkle of nighttime lights added to my holiday spirit.

We lived in the Richmond Annex along Carlson Boulevard, which consisted of homes built on landfill during the post World War II building boom. Woolworth's on Macdonald Avenue was the store of choice when Mom came out to Richmond from Minnesota in 1945. Department stores quickly became popular in the post war years, though Macy's was a little too expensive for Mom's taste. Once in a great while, we ventured into Oakland to visit the tall Sears Roebuck building, mostly to pick up catalog orders.




















Macdonald Avenue at night, Richmond, 1959. Richmond Street Scenes


For us, Christmas gift-buying usually meant driving through the rain and the dark into downtown Richmond to shop at Montgomery Ward. After Dad found a parking spot, we climbed up the few short steps to enter the store and get out of the rain. Inside, the overheated department store immediately made us feel uncomfortable: our wool coats began to steam and smell, and our wet shoes clicked and slipped against highly polished hardwood floors. The foreign sounds of elevators bells and far-away voices on the intercom captured my attention as we wove around islands of neatly piled clothing and other shoppers. In the back of the store was a special area set up for Christmas, and we made a beeline for that before my sister's attention span had a chance to wane.

Mom had been formulating what to buy for weeks, but she always took my sister and I to have a look at some of the things we'd been drooling over in the catalog, known as the"Wish Book," all autumn. Though tempted at what we saw, we never begged; we were taught restraint. Even so, my active little sister found it quite difficult to keep from touching all of the glittery treats among the displays, because she loved everything. But, greedy? Never! We could point and sigh and smile and hope, and that was all we ever needed to do.

After World War II, Montgomery Ward had become the third-largest department store chain. In 1946, the Grolier Club, a society of bibliophiles in New York City, exhibited the Wards catalog alongside Webster's dictionary as one of 100 American books chosen for their influence on life and culture of the people. The brand name of the store became embedded in the popular American consciousness and was often called by the nickname "Monkey Wards," both affectionately and derisively.

In the 1950s, the company was slow to respond to general movement of the American middle class to suburbia. While its old rivals Sears, J.C. Penney, Macy's, and Dillard's established new anchor outlets in the growing number of suburban shopping malls, the top executives thought such moves as too expensive, sticking to their downtown and main street stores until the company had lost too much market share to compete with its rivals. Its catalog business had begun to slip by the 1960s...

--Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montgomery_Ward

Santa was in the store, of course, but after several unsuccessful attempts to get my sister to sit on his lap, Mom gave up. Becky was terrified by certain things, and one of them just happened to be Santa. Santa Claus in storybooks was a grand idea, but the reality of Santa-in-the-flesh was just too unsettling. I am reminded of a time when Becky was about three years old and Mom came home with new, dark-rimmed glasses. Oh, how Becky screamed and screamed - she was inconsolable! Poor Mom had to schedule another appointment and select something a bit less scary. You would never think that my sister, as a grown woman, would be into horror movies and collectibles, now would you?

When the tour of the toys was completed and any grumbles had been quieted, Mom took us to look at clothing - the huge, dubious wasteland that made up most of the department store. That was Dad's cue to sneak back to the toy area and buy what Mom had instructed. I always knew what was happening, but it was more fun to pretend that I didn't.

Mom struggled to keep my sister in tow while searching for the perfect flannel shirt for Grampa, the tights Becky needed to match her cute holiday dress, or linens for Aunt Mabel. Afterwards, we all piled back into the station wagon for the drive home, grateful to be in the cool, evening air once again. The purchased gifts were secretly stowed in the back of the wagon, safe in the dark from prying eyes and distanced from curious fingers.

While Mom and Dad recovered from sticker shock and the stress of another holiday buying expedition, the family headed home to the little white stucco house with red wood shutters in the Richmond Annex. We all anticipated another happy Christmas, but, we had made Montgomery Ward even happier, I'm sure.

A Christmastime Lesson Learned

Advent Calendar, December 16: School

Today's the day Santa's coming to our classroom! Wow, what will he bring?


Alvarado Elementary School,
Richmond, California



Funny, Santa doesn't look really old. I thought he'd have a lot of wrinkles, like Grampa Johnson. He sure is big, though, a lot bigger than anybody else in the room. The red suit looks really soft. I'd like to find out what it feels like, but Teacher warned us not to touch. What do you think would happen if paste got all over Santa's suit? He'd have to go back to the North Pole, and Mrs. Claus would have to wash and iron it all over again, and then we'd have to wait for our presents.

We shared some cookies and punch with Santa, then we opened our presents and sang Jingle Bells. When Santa left to go to the next classroom, he almost got stuck in the doorway with his large pack. Boy, he must be eating a lot of cookies.

Everybody in class got a little white china bell with a picture on it. How cute! They sound pretty, too. Some bells are round, and some are square. I like the square bells best, but I got a round one. Oh well, it's pretty anyway.

After school, I walked home with my friend, Kathy. This boy I didn't know ran up and held a square bell in front of my face. "Hey, wanna trade?" he asked.

I looked down at the round, white bell in my hand. Even though Santa had given me this one, I didn't think it would hurt to trade... and I did like the square bells a little bit better, so I said: "Sure."

The boy took my round bell and gave me his square bell. He ran off a few steps, stopped, and then held his arm way out over the sidewalk. He opened up his fingers and let go of the little bell Santa had given me. It fell and broke into a hundred little pieces on the sidewalk.

Did he just do that on purpose? It sure didn't look like an accident!

The boy hurried back over to me. He was trying to look angry and upset at the same time, and he yelled in my face: "Gimme mine back!"

I was afraid of bullies. I didn't want to give the bell back, but I did, mostly because I felt guilty about trading.

I walked home in a daze. As soon as Mommy opened the door, I started to cry. I cried so hard that when she tried to find out what was wrong, I couldn't talk. She took the lunch box out of my hand and helped me take off my coat and scarf, and then made some hot cocoa. Pretty soon, I was able to tell her about the bell and about the boy who wanted to trade... and how he broke it just to be mean.

I lost my bell. I wished I had kept the round one. Now I didn't have any!

Aunt Mabel had been listening from the dining room table. She told me: "Chery, put your coat and scarf back on. Let's walk down the street and see if we can find it."

"Really?" I sniffled and choked. "But, it's all broken up!"

"Well, let's just go take a look."

We walked a few blocks back to school, and I showed her the spot where the bell was dropped. Instead of a bell, there were lots and lots of white specks everywhere. Aunt Mabel bent down and began to pick them all up and put them into a bag - even the tiniest pieces, and I helped.

A couple of days later, I woke up and went into the kitchen for breakfast. I couldn't believe what I saw: there on the table was my little round bell! It was missing a little bit on one side, but it looked pretty much the same. Mommy told me that she stayed up late after putting my baby sister to bed, and then she glued the bell back together.

I had my bell back! I hugged her and felt like crying again. I told myself I would never trade a present again, whether it came from Santa Claus, or from anyone else.

A Blog Caroling We Will Go...

Thanks to footnoteMaven for coming up with the idea of blog caroling! I'm going to pick one of my 87-year-old mom's longtime favorite carols. Can't you just picture her grooving to this in her purple and lime green "Grumpy" pjs (of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves fame)?

Though Mom would prefer a hot chocolate and a cozy spot near the woodstove while listening to Nat King Cole croon, I'll opt for an Irish Coffee and catching my Hubby under the mistletoe.

Now kids, don't let that fire go out while you are busy singing along!

The Christmas Song

(Merry Christmas to You) or

(Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire)

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir,
And folks dressed up like Eskimos.

Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe,
Help to make the season bright.
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow,
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.

They know that Santa's on his way;
He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh.
And every mother's child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.

And so I'm offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although its been said many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas to you.

"The Christmas Song" was written by Mel Torme and Bob Wells in 1944 during a blistering hot summer. It was first recorded by Nat King Cole in 1946, and his 1961 version remains a favorite today, even though the carol has since been recorded by many artists, including: John Denver, Glen Campbell, Kenny Rogers, Doris Day, Ella Fitzgerald, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Stevie Wonder, Barbra Streisand, the Jackson Five, James Taylor, The Supremes, Chicago, The Lettermen, Natalie Cole, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, The Carpenters, Trisha Yearwood, New Kids on the Block, Twisted Sister, Charlotte Church, Al Jarreau, Whitney Houston, and, whew! Well, there are a lot...


Source: Wikipedia

Traveling on the Cusp of a New Millennium

The current Carnival of Genealogy topic is the New Millennium. Where was I at the start of the 21st Century?

The 21st Century has long been revered as the epoch in which all technical aspirations would be achieved, all poverty ended, and the mysteries of the universe solved, once and for all. Well, time marches on, and it doesn't look much different from here than it did from several decades ago, except that everyone has more electronic toys at their beck and command. I'm not sure our lives are getting any easier, though.

But, they are ultimately more enjoyable! On New Year's Eve, 1999, I was at my mountain pass home trying to get some respite from long winter commutes to Seattle. My husband and I were reviewing slides from the trip of a lifetime we had taken in September of that year. We were gone so long that our poor dog nearly died from loneliness...

After coming into some insurance money, I decided I wanted to visit Europe for the first time. Rick Steves of Europe Through the Back Door became my hero. Following a year of planning, in September 1999, John and I flew into Copenhagen, and then drove through parts of Germany, Switzerland, Austria, and took the train to Prague in the Czech Republic. The experience just blew me away, and changed my life in many ways. After coming back home, I put my mental house in order and dropped out of grad school, deciding instead to focus on the things that were of real importance to me. I didn't need an extra degree for that!

During our travels, we enjoyed the Rhine from both castle ruins above the river, and from aboard a cruise boat; we walked the ancient wall in the quaint medieval German town of Rothenburg ob der Tauber. We also drove the Romantic Road, which has signs in Japanese, as well as in German, and we later found out just what our rented VW Golf could do on the Autobahn - not bad, even though two Lamborghinis flashed past us like we were children playing in the dirt.

In Switzerland, we explored Roman ruins in Avenches, and later enjoyed fondue on the terrace of an old pension in Gimmelwald, high above the Lauterbrunnen Valley in the Berner Oberland. Our "modest" dining view was of the Jungfrau, Monch, and Eiger peaks at dusk. As I sipped local wine, I heard the lonely, far-off call of a train from across the valley. Looking way down, I spotted a single headlight winding its way near the base of the Jungfrau. When our fondue pot arrived, the hostess warned us with a smile: "If you forget to stir ze fondue at ze bottom of ze pot to keep it from burning, then you vill vash ze pot!"


A panorama of Gimmewald in the Berner Oberland, Switzerland


Ah, the Alps! The Berner Oberland is a slice of heaven, and we were fortunate enough to have clear weather during our entire stay. Walking the winding paths of Gimmelwald under the stars, local house cats, all looking alike, came out to greet us. Early the next morning, we took the Jungfraubahn (train) up to the Jungfraujoch, known as the Top of Europe, and on the ride back at noon we were the only passengers. From the Kleine Scheidegg station on down, my husband rode up front with the conductor, who proudly pointed out his house with his own laundry hanging in the yard, as the train passed by. I had the entire Oberland: its peaks, glacial moraines, sloping valleys, trails, hikers, and cows, all to myself from the passenger car behind...

If I could pick just one city to re-visit in Europe, it would be Prague, the City of a Hundred Spires. If you want to know Prague, listen to "Die Moldau," a symphonic poem by Smetana, and you will understand and feel his love for Bohemia. If you want to get close to old gothic Europe, get thee to Prague.


The Old Town Square in Prague
Discover Czech


So, on 12/31/1999, while a new Millennium rang in on the clock, my husband and I sat clinking our glasses in private, listening to the occasional "pop-pop" of illegal fireworks in the national forest outside our door. We were busy reliving the many details of our three and a half weeks spent in Europe that September.

I certainly don't want to wait until the next Millennium to plan a similar trip. If we are all adequate caretakers of our lovely earth and its diversity, the fulfillment and learning to be had by traveling among other cultures will still be available to us throughout this century of great promise.

Bonne joyeaux!

The Not So Perfect Gift

Advent Calendar, December 10: Gifts


Christmas Eve was always so special: a splash of color, glitter, mystery, and excitement to break up the everyday lull. I think Mom was the most excited of all. For a patient woman, she seemed decidedly impatient to get on with the fun of Christmas.

Early on, she started a family tradition where my sister and I were each allowed to pick a present from under the tree and open it on the night before Christmas Eve: "The Night Before the Night Before Christmas," as it were. We always knew to scrutinize each present before the 23rd of December came around - ready to pounce when given the go-ahead, thereby lessening the possibility of her changing her mind at the last moment.

But, why is it that no matter how many wonderful, thoughtful, lovely, and brilliant gifts we receive, it's always the weird ones we remember the most?

During our family get-togethers with "the other side" of the family (Dad's side), we usually had a dinner party. Names were drawn ahead of time for gifts. Each party-goer knew exactly who they would need to bring a present for, so there was always one perfectly chosen present per person.

Not so perfect, in some cases, unfortunately.

On one of these Christmas gatherings, I watched as family members each received their single, anonymous present. Oh, how lovely they all were, or appropriate, at least. Everything seemed to fit. In past years, I had received talcum powder, a carved jewelry box, selections of lacy handkerchiefs, or some sort of feminine treat of the type usually offered to a young girl.

I waited calmly for my turn, because I felt certain I would not be disappointed.

Near the end of the gift exchange, someone called my name and placed a wrapped box into my hands. Savoring the anticipation, I slowly removed the ribbon, peeled off the tape and unfolded corners of the paper. Hmmmm, it smelled a little like soap. There were fleeting thoughts of having to take more baths, but, oh well, I could live with a pretty pink soap, or whatever.

When I opened the cardboard box, a lumpy, dark, waxy round thing spilled out on the end of a thick string. "Ackkk... what is that?" I wondered to myself before I dared touch it.

I gingerly rolled the thing from side to side, looking at it from every angle. There were three small round indents on one side, like someone had pushed a pencil top into the surface. The sphere felt soft and sticky, and did indeed smell like soap, but strong soap, sort of like the Old Spice aftershave Dad splashed on before going to church on Sundays. Attached to this blucky, waxy, green-black sphere was a coarse, burlap rope that was scratchy to the touch.

I was still puzzling it over when someone nearby took the thing in hand, and said, "Oh, that's a soap on a rope... looks like a bowling ball."

Green-black soap on a scratchy rope? Bowling ball?

Dear Reader, are you wondering what gentle, hopeful yuletide dreams were dashed that evening?

What person would give an undebatedly ugly bowling ball soap on a rope (a man's gift, and a bad one at that) to a ten year old girl?

You know, I'm still pondering the answer to that question myself...


Image: ©2000 Denise Van Patten - Doll Collecting at About.com

Oh What Fun It is to Make...

Advent Calendar, December 7: Grab Bag

During the 1960s, Mom often browsed her magazines in search of inexpensive crafts to make in time for the holidays. There were more craft materials available to consumers than ever before, and at reasonable prices. Before modern media took a firm hold of our ears and tugged us into a heavily commercialized future, homemade gifts were common. They were fun to plan and make, and the recipient usually appreciated the effort, even if the end result didn't quite have that "je ne sais quoi."

--Large glass marbles baked on high heat in the oven and then cracked in cold water made spectacular pendant necklaces.

--A couple of hours spent knitting little multi-colored squares and sewing them together created nice doll afghans, especially in popular colors of the day: harvest gold, orange, beige, and chocolate brown.

One time, Mom found a fox fur remnant at a second hand store and made lined fur stoles for my sister, my cousin, and myself, or rather, for our Barbies. We felt like queens!

She also saved prescription bottles--clear plastic back then--and made little angels or elves using bits of paper, pipe cleaners, tiny styrofoam balls, sequins, and angel hair. Once the figures were glued into the bottle and a hook was attached to the lid, they made unique Christmas tree ornaments.

One craft I particularly enjoyed was making "fish" bathroom decorations using little more than a bar of soap, pastel-colored netting, sequins, pins, and beads. I was proud of the fish we made in so many beautiful colors (lavender was my favorite); I wish I had a photograph to show. If there is a child in your life, she/he would love your help in making one of these.

So, here is a description of how to make a SweetHeart soap fish, at least as far as my fuzzy memory allows:

To make a SweetHeart soap fish:

• Use an oval bar of soap as the body for your "fish." SweetHeart soaps were traditionally used for this craft because of their light, sweet scent, and they can still be purchased at The Vermont Country Store.


• Cut a large square of pastel-colored netting; position it around the soap and tie the ends together with a small strip of netting to make a fan-type tail.


• Take four hat pins with elongated pearl tips; place other shiny or pearlescent beads on the hat pin to fill up about 2/3 of the pin. Stick all four hat pins into the bottom of the soap (through the netting), and position them apart at outward angles, creating four "legs" for the fish to stand on.


• Using three more hat pins (decorate those with extra beads, too), insert them at an angle into the top edge of the soap to create a "fin." You'll want to graduate the lengths: the longest pin should be closer to the head of the fish, while the shortest should be placed closer to the tail. You may also use hat pins, or extra netting, on each side of the fish to create side fins.


• A heart-shaped red sequin should be pinned to the front of the soap for a mouth (use a small-head sewing pin).


• An eye (one on each side of the soap) can be made from a small shiny black sequin pinned onto a larger, silver flower-shaped sequin. Once again, pin them together, on the fish, using a small head sewing pin.
  

Is your fish standing level? Does it have eyes, a mouth, a tail, and fins? Then, voila, you have it, a vintage Christmas craft. Place it on a bathroom shelf and watch the child in your life--or the child in you--smile.

No Ode to Lutefisk

Advent Calendar, December 3: Foods

Being from a Norwegian-American family, I should be looking forward to the traditional holiday fare of lutefisk and lefse just about now. Lefse, ya sure, bring it on! I love lefse with butter, and sometimes a little sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on.

But lutefisk?

For those of you not familiar with lutefisk, it is reconstituted cod: long-dried cod brought nearly back to life using lye.

It may be interesting to know that the typical native Norwegian no longer eats this. Then, why in Thor's hammer is it on many Norwegian-American tables at holiday family get-togethers, potlucks, church suppers, and even offered at buffets on ships cruising the North Sea?

It boils down (literally!) to the Viking spirit.

Lutefisk was a poor person's food in Norway, and it was also a source of protein that could be produced no matter what the weather. The method is timeless: catch the cod, dry the cod, store it in a shed, wait copious amounts of time, retrieve as needed, beat off any dust or dirt, soak in lye for several days, boil or bake well, and then serve up with riced potatoes, small cooked frozen peas, and a look of nonchalance.

Because of the longevity of dried fish and the plentiful supply of fish in Norway, lutefisk found its way to many early Norwegian farming tables whenever a little extra something was desired, especially at celebrations. Now that Norwegians are no longer as poor as they used to be, this food is ignored, and even downright shunned in its place of origin.

But, in America, lutefisk is a source of pride. It's a symbol of survivorship - proof that you can't keep a good ole' Ole down.

Ya, ve have da Viking blood coursing tru da veins!

Come harsh weather, near starvation, emigration, poverty and hardship on the prairie, you name it, the lutefisk will go on... and on... and on...

and on.

A Norwegian-American saying goes: "... about half the Norwegians who immigrated to America came in order to escape the hated lutefisk, and the other half came to spread the gospel of lutefisk's wonderfulness." [1]


I remember my mother prepared lutefisk for Christmas one year when I was young. My grandfather, great aunts and uncles, and many other relatives had arrived at our house for dinner. The women chattered off and on in Norwegian, so that the kids couldn't understand all the gossip. The little living Christmas tree in the living room was hung with ornaments, and the plastic Santa and Snowman were glowing in the front window. The dining room table was set beautifully, draped in a white tablecloth decorated with embroidered pointsettias, an evergreen centerpiece, and Mom's best silver laid out next to pearl colored cloth napkins.



This is one of my family's favorite photos of my "Grampa" (Ernest Johnson), wearing his characteristic flannel shirt and argyle socks.  Christmas, early 1960s, in Salem, Oregon.


Why, the lutefisk even had its own special holiday serving platter. And, resting in the mucky, jiggly, yellowish slush was a beautifully engraved, antique silver serving fork... turned green. It had actually turned green from the lye!
My chin was not much higher than the table, but I remember giving the lutefisk platter the once over, at eye level. After all the excited talk about this "delicacy," I was anxious to try it; that first taste held promise.

But, after spying that green serving fork, I decided that lutefisk wasn't for me. They could disown me as Norwegian offspring, but no morsel of that jiggly stuff was going to get past my sealed lips and turn my insides green. Uh-uh!
And, it never did.  But, the lefse... oooohhh, the lefse!

[1] http://whatscookingamerica.net/History/LutefiskHistory.htm

Winter Memories in Minnesota

The first big winter storm has come to Snoqualmie Pass, Washington: over two feet of snow within 24-hours!

My 87-year-old mother, Doris, has just moved in with my husband and myself - in time to enjoy a very white Christmas. It's quite a change for her from the sticky, warm weather in Alabama over the past seven years.

In honor of winter memories from times past, I'd like to share some images from her childhood, and some from even earlier. These photographs were taken of the Ole and Malla Johnson family near Fosston, Polk County, and Leonard, Clearwater County, Minnesota, in between 1910-1944.

Let it snow!

Little Living Tree in Richmond

Advent Calendar, December 1: Christmas Tree

When I was a child, my parents would not think of using an artificial Christmas tree. The smell of fresh evergreen always uplifted the spirits and helped us believe that Christmas time had finally arrived, at least indoors. Outside our door, there were no snowy sparkles or delicate icy sculptures, only the oily, stinging, and unconvincing December rain of Richmond, California--home to a huge Standard Oil refinery complex, among many other Bay Area industries.

Having a Christmas tree was important to my mother, in particular, because her grandparents were not in the habit of putting one up on their rural Minnesota farm until she was nearly grown. All that waiting must have stuck with her, for she wanted to make extra certain that my sister and I did not miss out on the joy of celebrating the holiday with a beautiful, glittery tree.

For a few years, my family used a living tree, more to reduce overall cost than anything. It came planted in a large redwood tub, and though small, it tried very hard, and willingly gave center stage to all the ornaments it could possibly hold. But, it spent the rest of the year outside on the back patio, looking lonely and forgotten, simply biding its time until December rolled around again.

When the living tree became depressed from too much waiting around--we could tell by its dingy and brown-tinged edges--we planted it in the yard and went back to buying a cut tree each Christmas. Though larger and flashier, these doomed visitors were not any better at their job than that trusty little living tree, perhaps because they were more impersonal, not to mention, well... expired. Once their grand entrance wore off, they never remained long, hardly enough time to make an acquaintance.

That little evergreen from my childhood, long set free from the constraints of its redwood tub, is probably still spreading its limbs and sheltering birds from the stinging December rain, oily as ever. Each year, when the fading autumn light gives way to the winter solstice, a misty, sensory memory sends a shudder through its boughs and needles. I like to imagine our old friend straining toward the dim winter daylight, searching for the familiar weight of ornaments from times past, and feeling for the reverberation of childish laughter, which once rang like Christmas bells through the house.