When We are the Ancestors

I am committed to genealogy and family history, but I have been inspired by science fiction even longer. I don't mean the bug-eyed monster kind, but instead, science fiction as a vision of a future way of life--conjured up by the scientifically savy, exploring technical possibilities and solving old problems in a startling new way. Perhaps that's why I love Star Trek so much, and why it made such an impact on me as a thirteen-year-old when it first aired.

An example of science fiction wedding technical reality is the City of the Future competition held recently by the History Channel. "City of the Future" was a design and engineering challenge, in which participants had to develop an eco-friendly city 100 years from now. Visions were presented through a written statement and 3-dimensional construct assembled within a 3-hour period during the first phase of the competition, and included accompanying visuals.

Oh my... take a look at some green visions for Washington D.C., Atlanta, and especially, my childhood stomping ground: San Francisco. When viewing the visuals, imagine the daily challenges our descendants will face, whether environmental, or otherwise.

Here's another (unrelated) inspiring Cities of the Future site, with some thought-provoking quotes tucked inbetween fantastic images of a world our descendants might come to know.

I was reminded that although we study the past to preserve family data and customs for the future, we should not forget about also preserving the present. Will our great great grandchildren understand who we are, right now, as they walk along their more carefully balanced eco-paths? Will our digital photographs, documentation, and even our identities become just a few scattered pixels over time--unrecognizable? Will our children's children's children understand the economic dilemnas behind the environmental crises our generation has left behind? Will our descendants try to understand us in the same manner we try to understand our forefathers, as individuals who faced special challenges and dealt with them in the best way they could? Ah, age-old questions.


"Rising from the sea in the centre of Oslo, [Norway] the new, marble-clad Opera is a futuristic architectural gem." Norway: the Official Site in Mozambique

The significant problems we face cannot be solved at the same level of thinking we were at when we created them.

- Albert Einstein, scientist (1879-1955)

I have always felt that whatever mankind has the potential to imagine can become reality.

Standing on the shoulders of our own ancestors, we have built an empire, for better or for worse. How will our descendants improve upon it, and how will they cope? What kind of world will it be when we are the ancestors, and they are searching for bits of data and photographs from the past to build a deeper understanding of our time? Perhaps the question is: as family historians and genealogists, how can we preserve that information for them?

Fruit Salad in the Census

Perhaps I needed some palate cleansing after writing about French Onion Soup in a previous blog entry, or perhaps it was Lisa's Enumerate Me! census fun at her Genealogy Gems blog (particularly since she did a census search on Apple's name, of Apple's Tree), or, perhaps it's just an off-day, but whatever the reason, I got to thinking about possible fruit names in the census.  What I found was a virtual fruit salad of first names, but here are a few highlights.  My comments are itcalicized (BTW, the M or F after the name refers to male or female):

Orange

Orange Beans, M, age 14, Andalusia, Covington, Alabama, 1930
Orange Brown, F, age 10, in Union Springs, Bullock Alabama, 1930
Orange Marks, M, age 56, Stewarts Station, Hale, Alabama, 1930
Orange Peace, M, age 37, Mobile, Alabama, 1930
Orange Purse, M, age 47, Boligee, Greene, Alabama, 1930
Orange Woods, M, age 50, Valley Creek, Dallas, Alabama, 1930

[My goodness, what IS it about Alabama and the name "Orange"?]

Banana

Banana [just plain "Banana"], M, age 46, Navajo Indian Reservation, McKinley, New Mexico, 1920
Banana Doctor, M, age 12, Palmer, Hampton, Massachussetts, 1900
Banana Fair, F, age 19, Police Jury Ward 2, Natchitoches, Louisiana, 1930
Banana Finder, M, age 18, Portage County, Wisconsin, (Mortality Schedules Index, 1850)
Banana Only, F, age 28, Austin Ward 2, Travis, Texas, 1920

Raspberry

Raspberry Basil, M, age 13, Bucktown, Dorchester, Maryland, 1880
Raspberry Bird, M, age 22, Redstone, Fayette, Pennslyvania, 1860
Raspberry Gay Lay, M, age 6 mos., between Holmesville and Osyka R, Amite, Mississippi, 1870
Raspberry Peal, M, age 35, District 4, Gibson, Tennessee, 1850
Raspberry Rhump, M, age 18, Hickory Flat, Cherokee, Georgia, 1870

Strawberry

Strawberry Belcher, F, age 5 [I feel sorry for this little gal], Prairie, Audrain, Missouri, 1860
Strawberry Berry, M, age 14, Brewton, Escambia, Alabama, 1900
Strawberry Savage, F, age 10 [born in Austria], Detroit Ward 9, Wayne, Michigan, 1920
Strawberry Sings, F, age 7, Crow Indian Reservation, Custer, Montana, 1900

Melon

Melon Crater, M, Police Jury Ward 5, Vermillion, Louisiana, 1930
Melon Hunt, M, age 4, Tranquilla, Jones, Georgia, 1930
Melon Rice, M, age 9 mos., Bowling, Perry, Kentucky, 1930
Melon Riser, M, age 10, San Francisco, California, 1930

as well as...

Eat the Melon, M, age 55, of the Mojave Tribe in Colorado (U.S. Indian Census Schedules, 1885). He was married to Corn, age 54, and their family also consisted of:

Lying Light 35
Corn 34
Obsene 18
Tobacco 16
Small Boy 1
Screw Beans 14
Eagle 3
Pete 1  [the family must have run out of imagination by the time Pete came along]

Lemon

Lemon Dandy, M, age 6, Township 11, Range 28, Barbour, Alabama, 1870
Lemon Duff, M, age 45, Precinct 4, Bibb, Alabama, 1910
Lemon Freeze, M, age 20, Birmingham Ward 10, Jefferson, Alabama, 1910
Lemon Molar [personal data not given], Lee, Jefferson, Virginia, 1820

Grape

Grape Joice [I kid you not], M, Anguilla, Sharkey, Mississippi, 1920
[isn't one example enough?]


Alas, no Pineapple, Blueberry, Kumquat, Coconut, Passionfruit (among others), but plenty of "Apple" and "Cherry," as you may suspect.

See what fun, fruity or otherwise, you can have with the U.S. Federal Census. After all, genealogy is not just about facts and figures!

Yearbook Resource: E-Yearbook.com

I recently did some searching on E-Yearbook.com. For a fee, you can search this database and access many old high school and college yearbooks. Be prepared, though--the list of American institutions represented is not a complete one. You may not find a digital copy of the Podunk College yearbook for your great uncle's graduation class. Still, there are many treasures to be found, and if nothing else, the database contains a good slice of social history research for those interested in campus life throughout the decades.

E-Yearbook.com does a lock-down job of protecting copyright interests by ensuring that images cannot be copied or altered. I wish the database were set up to be a bit more share-friendly, but it is a useful research tool, just the same. For example, their digitized collection for Blue and Gold, the yearbook for the University of California at Berkeley (CAL) goes back to 1875!

I was searching for images of members of my father's family (Wheeler and Thaxter surnames), and came up with a few gems. The indexing of E-Yearbook.com is not perfect, and I sometimes found that an image resulting from my search was not the image of the person I was looking for, due to an incorrect link.  But, with a little sleuthing around, you can still find what you are looking for, particularly if you have an idea when a person graduated. Be aware that the image numbers do not correspond to page numbers in the actual yearbook.

I'll give an example of a typical search challenge. I found evidence that my father's uncle, McKinley Wheeler, was a graduate of UC Berkeley's class of 1920. Doing a search on his name in E-Yearbook.com brought up nothing initially. But, while scrolling through the pages of student photographs, I found him identified as "McK Wheeler" in the yearbook because of lack of print space. To make things worse, the text added by an indexer at the bottom of the image contained a mistype of his name as "Me K Wheeler." The moral is: use your imagination when searching old documents, and try as many crazy spelling combinations and/or abbreviations as you can think of.

While searching, I found wonderful caricatures of some students and faculty (pages 50-53 of UC Berkeley's class of 1929 "Blue and Gold" yearbook:  indexed as images 62-65). I wish I could share them, but you'll have to take a peek for yourself!

Doughboys, the Draft, and French Onion Soup

After writing about my grandfather's experience with the WWI draft board (Hell, No, I Won't Go!), I might as well continue with the story of the brother who did not escape the draft. Out of a family of ten children (eldest to youngest): Bennett, Ernest, Cora ,Thea, Odin, Mabel, Oral, Ruben, Carl, and Frank), it was only Odin Johnson who fit the draft board's specifications: male, single, healthy, and just the right age. When war was declared, Odin lived with his parents, Ole and Malla Johnson, on a farm just outside of Leonard, Minnesota.

Odin Johnson became a doughboy. The nickname "doughboy" was frequently used for American infantryman sent to France during World War I, referring to those who "licked Kaiser Bill and fought to make the world safe for democracy." The term had been in use for nearly a century beforehand, however (read an explanation of the origins of "Doughboy").



Draft card registration, WWI (Ancestry.com)

Name: Odin Johnson
City: Not Stated
County: Clearwater
State: Minnesota
Birthplace: Minnesota;United States of America
Birth Date: 11 Oct 1896
Race: Caucasian (White)
Roll: 1675389


A farewell party was held for him at the country schoolhouse by the Gorze family farm near Leonard. He was twenty-three years old when he left Bagley, Minnesota by train in February 1918. John Huff of Shevlin, Minnesota, Sidney Churness, and Selmer Nelson of Clearbrook, Minnesota were also on the train in route to Fort Dodge, Iowa. Odin stayed at this camp for a short time before leaving by boat from New York to England, Germany, and then France. He spent the longest period of time in France. After the war, Odin often talked about the times he spent in foxholes. The country had many big holes where bombs had been dropped.

Being away from home made Odin and his buddies very lonesome. Odin did receive mail from home, including many letters from his mother, Malla Johnson, that were written in Norwegian. What a treasure it would be to have these letters today, but unfortunately, they were burned along with the rest of Odin's and his wife and children's belongings in a house fire some years later.

Odin Johnson sent this postcard from France in 1919 to a younger brother, Carl. It is addressed to “Mr. Carl Johnson, Box 42, Leonard, Minn., U.S.A” and reads, "Well hello Carl. Well how was your day. I ’spose are going to school, playing with the little girls; it’s lots of them here. Bro. Odin."

As an orderly in the Army, Odin was in charge of equipment. He and two other men stayed with a French family in a civilian home. He indicated that the French people were kind and friendly. A French fellow from Brooks, Minnesota named Bruno stayed there also and was the interpreter. (The Brooks area is still known for its French settlement people.) A favorite meal of Odin’s that the French served was hot milk with onions, which was made like soup.

Odin Johnson was in the U. S. Army for fourteen months, and was wounded in the leg while serving his country. When the war ended, Odin remained in France for a time for peace keeping. Sidney Churness, his lifelong friend, happened to return home at the same time, even though they were not stationed together overseas. Odin’s father, Ole M. Johnson, drove a team of hoses to the Leonard Depot to meet his son and bring him home.

It was Odin’s wish that America would never be at war again. He kept in touch with the neighbors and friends who had followed him to war for many years following their safe return.


Information about Odin Johnson in WWI supplied by Duane and Betty Johnson (Duane is the son of Odin Johnson), march 2003.

Things Look Better With "Shades"

"The future's so bright I gotta [read] SHADES"


Have you visited Shades of the Departed yet? Currently showing: 2nd Edition of Smile For The Camera - A Carnival of Images.

The topic for the 2nd Edition is:

A bouquet of images: belles and beaus throughout history

Stop by and see why "Shades of the Departed" is one of the coolest family history/genealogy sites on the web!

Urban Memories of Post-War Richmond

In this blog, I focus a great deal on the midwestern history of my Norwegian immigrant ancestors. Their background has obviously had a major impact on not only on my genetics, but also on my morals and outlook on life. However, my early years in the San Francisco East Bay have had just as much impact, and probably more. The burgeoning Bay Area was where I learned about life and all of it's colorful nuances--where I cut my teeth, both literally and philosophically. It is also a place where, all at once, one could develop an appreciation for beautiful landscape due to the geographic variety of the northern California seacoast, but also a disdain for the raping of the land brought about by progress.

I think of myself as having grown up in an urban environment, not because I lived downtown in a large metropolitan city, but because the same culture (and concrete) extended throughout the bedroom communities of the San Francsico Bay Area. There were no farm animals or crops near my home: Richmond was definitely a city, but on a smaller scale than nearby Oakland or Berkeley.

The town of Richmond sits on the northeastern end of San Francisco Bay, and long before waterfront industries existing there today, there were refineries, wartime shipyards, and numerous other commercial ventures that led to a rapid de-beautification of this once small East Bay town. When I think of my early affiliation with Richmond, I think of cracked cement sidewalks with weeds growing through, yards full of neglect from the working culture necessitated by the post-war economic struggles, endless telephone wires across a hazy but sunny skyline, railroad tracks that led to more interesting places, and constant traffic along busy Macdonald Avenue.


The only reason I am including this photograph of Cutting Blvd. in 1954 is to show just how ugly and unkempt certain parts of Richmond could be during the post World War II years. Though it was a far cry from the rural life my mother and her family knew back in Minnesota, it was still home to me (Richmond Street Scenes; EastBayHistory.com)



When I was a baby, my mother and I lived with her aunt Mabel Johnson in her Richmond four-plex apartment. I don't remember quite that far back, but after Mom and I moved from the apartment, I recall weekend visits with Great Aunt Mabel, especially the walks downtown and longer excursions to Nicholl Park.

If we made the walk uptown from the apartment--a mere couple of blocks away, there was plenty of shopping to be done among the endless rows of Woolworth's trinket compartments. I still have many handerchiefs and baubles that came from regular stops at that store. While Mom was a single girl working at local canneries, she often bought herself treats at Woolworth's; among them were purses and shoes, which she claimed to be her particular weakness back then. She also stocked up on items for her own hope chest, like floral-patterned china dishes, purchased one piece at a time, as well as tablecloths and other linens.

Sometimes we would stop by See Candies during our downtown walks. The floor's pristine black and white squares looked so shiny that I expected them to shatter under the weight of our feet. Stepping into the store's cool sweetness from the gritty sidewalk, the large butchershop-style, glass-fronted compartments impressed shoppers with crisp white boxes and regimented rows of appealing chocolates. Gladys Nelson, a family relation by marriage with ties to my mother's home state of Minnesota, worked behind the counter. Each time we stopped in to say hello to Gladys, we were treated to free pieces of peanut brittle. Peanut brittle was never a favorite of mine, but I was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. First, the stuff tried to break your teeth, and if it couldn't break them, it would then stick with ruthless determination. What I really longed for were the small creamy blocks of nut-filled chocolate, or chocolate-covered caramels. Those went down quite easily, but never came free.

Looking west along Macdonald Avenue, near 10th Street. See Candies is on the right, near Macy's department store, 1957. The old buildings were already reaching a state of disrepair at this time. (Richmond Street Scenes; EastBayHistory.com.)


One of the best parts of any visit with Aunt Mabel was going to Nicholl Park. It was a longish walk from her apartment on Sixth Street to MacDonald Avenue and 33rd Street. The park was a weedy oasis for local children who had no yard at home, or, as in my case, for those who were visiting great aunts and could not play in musty and fascinating shadow-carved stairwells for fear of disturbing day-sleeping neighbors.

At Nicholl Park, a young soul could run wild on a huge expanse of beat-up lawn. Though I was never the type to run and play with abandon, I did enjoy observing and taking in the breadth of humanity, learning many subtle lessons, and others not-so-subtle, through the adventures playing out in that urban jungle.



That's me, with my long ponytail covered from the wind by a scarf, and my great aunt Mable Johnson.  Nicholl Park in Richmond, about 1959.



The park had playground equipment, and the swings were always in high demand. I never seemed to be able to catch one while it was free, since I was not up to shoving past a dozen others kids and the menace of flailing arms and legs. Also of interest on the grounds was an old Southern Pacific steam engine, which looked impressively huge to children. Stairs installed at its side allowed curious youngsters to climb up and pretend to be an engineer.

Even grownups need a little playtime.  Posing on the monkey bars at Nicholl Park are my great aunts, Cora Moen (upper left), and Mabel Johnson (upper right), along with my mother, Doris Johnson (standing).  Richmond, California, November 1946.

The park also had a petting zoo for a number of years, but it was eventually closed because of vandalism and injury to some of the animals. That was quite sad. Perhaps it was the farming genes in me, but my favorite part of any visit to Nicholl Park was when I could stand among the chickens, ducks, and goats and convince any of them to stand still long enough to actually be petted.

From the point of view of a child, Richmond was just another place to find pleasure and meaning (and occasionally, disappointment) doled out one piece at a time, like peanut brittle that was often too sharp to eat. Richmond's special place in history meant little to me at the time, because I was too busy coveting an empty swing.

Though Richmond was rapidly deteriorating during my early years, it is currently seeing some rejuvenation downtown. During World War II, it was the scene of a second Gold Rush, a place where a deluge of humanity descended in search of work in the shipyards and the canneries and factories. The streets were crowded with persons of all ages, from all racial and economic backgrounds-- restaurants, bathrooms, and even beds, were in short supply. These drastic demographic changes created massive overcrowding to being with, but eventually a progressive culture of diversity, open-mindedness and liberalness began to emerge.

One of the best historical documentations of World War II-era Richmond are the photographs by Dorothea Lange, famed for her images of Dust Bowl migrations during the Depression. The Oakland Museum of California has a fine collection of Lange's photographs, viewable in this online guide. Although I knew Richmond personally beginning 10-15 years after these photographs were taken, they are highly representative of what my mother first found when she moved there in 1946.

For better or worse, Richmond's cooling cauldron of upheaval in the post-war years was my childhood home.

For further reading:

A City in Transition: Richmond During World War II, by Clifford Metz and Judith K. Dunning.

Photographing the Second Gold Rush, by Dorothea Lange and Charles Wollenberg.

To Place Our Deeds: the African American Community in Richmond, California, 1910-1963, by Shirley Ann Wilson Moore.

An Avalanche Hits Richmond, by J. A. McVittie.

Richmond Community History Project (ROHO, Regional Oral History Office, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley)

Richmond Museum of History

Rosie the Riveter Oral History Project

Hell, No, I Won't Go!

When Ancestry.com first made World War I draft registration cards available, I immediately began to search for evidence about relatives. Only one in my grandfather's family (total of ten siblings) actually served during the war. Most of his brothers were too young to be required to register... but, what of the eldest brother, and especially of my grandfather--the second eldest?

On May 18, 1917, the Selective Service Act authorized the President to temporarily increase the U.S. military. Under the office of the Provost Marshal General, the Selective Service System was established to draft men into military service. Local boards were created for each county or similar state subdivision, and for each 30,000 people in cities and counties with a population greater than 30,000. [1]


During World War I there were three draft registrations:

June 5, 1917 - all men between the ages of 21 and 31 residing in the U.S. - whether native born, naturalized, or alien

June 5, 1918 - men who reached age 21 after June 5, 1917. (A supplemental registration, included in the second registration, was held on August 24, 1918, for men who turned 21 years old after June 5, 1918.)

September 12, 1918 - all men between age 18 and 45.


Not surprisingly, I found Grampa's card; he registered promptly during the first go-around, on June 5th:

Name: Ernest JohnsonCity: Not Stated
County: Clearwater
State: Minnesota
Birthplace: Minnesota;United States of America
Birth Date: 23 Jan 1889
Race: Caucasian (White)
Roll: 1675389





His occupation is listed as "farmer."

In response to the question: "Have you a father, mother, wife, child under 12, or a sister or brother under 12 solely dependent upon you for support," he answered "wife."

I was unprepared, however, for his response to the question: "Do you claim exemption from draft (specify reason)." His answer was: "Yes, don't want to go to Europe," and below it, he signed his name.

I had to laugh at the blatant honesty of that answer, and I'm sure Grampa did not mean it quite the way it sounds, but...

Don't want to go to Europe?!

I can't imagine how many other young blokes would have liked that phrase to stick on their behalf.

Grampa turned out to be one of the lucky ones, but the government's decision to not draft him was based on several things: 1) his dependent wife, 2) the fact that he farmed alone, and 3) the need to keep enough farmers producing food on the home turf for U.S. citizens and troops abroad, and, 4) not just because he felt a responsibility to his wife and farm. As a newlywed, married just months before draft registration, he obviously felt a great deal of pressure to make his farm into a successful venture that could support a family. If Grampa had been drafted, the farm would probably have been sold and my grandmother would have returned to live with her parents. Happily, that did not have to happen.



(Love you, Grampa--always will; I miss your crinkly smile.)



Ernest Johnson, Salem, Oregon, about 1965.






[1] Kimberly Powell at About.com: genealogy

A Golden Anniversary for the Berges



Ole Benhardt Berge weds Anne Marie Slaaen (Sloan), 1886



In early February 1946, the Maynard News in Chippewa County, Minnesota ran the article below in honor of my maternal great grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary. Ole Benhardt Berge, born October 20, 1864 in Gudbrandsdalen, Norway, and Anna Marie Slaaen (Sloan), born June 20, 1868 near Swan Lake in Nicollett County, Minnesota, were married on February 6, 1886. They celebrated their golden anniversary in the very same county where they had begun married life sixty years before. Their daughter, Esther Agnes Berge, was my grandmother.

Mr. and Mrs. Ole Berge Honored By Friends
and Relatives at Lutheran Church



Ole and Anna Marie (Mary) Berge with a golden wedding anniversary cake in front of their Maynard, Minnesota home.  February 1946.

A large number of friends and relatives of Mr. and Mrs. O. B. Berge gathered at the Maynard Lutheran Church Sunday afternoon, Feb. 2, the occasion being the 60th or golden wedding anniversary of this esteemable couple. A fine program was given and enjoyed. The wedding party entered the church to the strains of a wedding march played by Mrs. Thurman Overson of Minneapolis and the party consisted of Mr. And Mrs. Berge [and] as many of their children and grandchildren as could be present The ushers were four grandchildren, Verona Berge, Howard and Odell Edwardson and Chester Berge, Jr. The following program was given:

Scripture Reading, Rev. M. B. Erickson

Solo, Mrs. J. M. Sweiven
Talk, Rev. M. B. Erickson
Solo, "Perfect Day," Verona Berge
Duet, Mr. and Mrs. T. Overson
Talk, Rev. O. J. Erickson
Solo, Mrs. Ted Dyshaw
Talk, Mrs. Victor Larson
Solo, Winifred Erickson
Song, Ladies Choir

On behalf of the Lutheran Ladies Aid Society, Mrs. S. M. Dahleen presented Mrs. Berge with a boquet [sic] of flowers. The wedding dinner was served in the church parlor which was decorated appropriately for the occasion. The table was set for the guests of honor and relatives. The large gathering of guests were served cafeteria [-style].

Rev. M. B. Erickson, acting in behalf of the friends, presented Mr. and Mrs. Berge with a purse of money which was accepted by Mr. Berge with a few fitting remarks.

Out of town guests present at the event were Mr. and Mrs. Chester Berge and family of Alvord, Iowa, Harry Berge of Taylor Falls, Mrs. Andrew Edwardson and children of Willmar, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Carlson of Garretson, S.D., Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph Schuster of St. Paul, Misses Hattie and Florence Carlson of Willmar, Mrs. Gunda Overson of Granite Falls, Mr. and Mrs. Thurman Overson of Minneapolis, Mr. and Mrs. Bastian Hanson, Mrs. Alma Hanson and Randolph, Mr. and Mrs. Mandrud Hanson of Canby, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Erickson and daughter Winifred of Litchfield, Ardys Erlandson of Minneapolis, Rev. and Mrs. O. J. Erickson of Granite Falls and Mr. and Mrs. Carl Skrukrud of near Granite Falls.

The observance of a golden wedding anniversary is a most notable occasion and when it comes to such an esteemable couple as Mr. and Mrs. Ole Berge it is worthy of special mention. The News has made this an opportunity to pry into the private history of these two and while we find that their story reads very similar to those of an early day in this community it is of interest and we pass it along to our readers.

[Mrs. Ole B. Berge (Anna Marie Slaaen/Sloan)] was born in a covered wagon in the vicinity of St. Peter June 20, 1868, her parents being then on their way from Wisconsin to a homestead in Leenthrop Township [Chippewa County]. We are inclined to suspect that theirs was a childhood romance as their acquaintance dated from an early day and their romance culminated in their wedding at Granite Falls on Feb. 6, 1886. Witnesses were Edward Erlandson and John Sloan. The young married couple lived on the groom's mother's farm in Leenthrop until in 1896 when they moved to Maynard. After moving to Maynard Mr. Berge engaged in the hotel business for a couple of years, was rural mail carrier on Route No. 2 and conducted the meat market. In 1910 the family moved to Leonard, Minn., where they engaged in farming. In 1917 they returned to Maynard and have resided here since. Mr. Berge has held numerous public offices of trust and has enjoyed the friendship of the community during all these years. To this union was born twelve children, nine of whom are living and are: George of Maynard, Harry of Taylor Falls, Chester of Alvord, Iowa, Mrs. Edwardson, Willmar, Bennie of Baraboo, Wis., Mrs. Finch of Brainerd, Mrs. Carlson of Garretson, S.D., Clarice of Maynard and Mrs. Schuster of St. Paul.

Mr. and Mrs. Berge have taken an active interest in the affairs of the village and its people and have been faithful members of the Lutheran Church. They have a multitude of friends who are happy with them on this most momentous occasion and who join the News in wishing them many happy anniversaries in the future.

Mrs. Victor Larson is the author of the following which she gave at the Berge's golden wedding anniversary:

Their Golden Wedding

Fifty years ago this week,
A sweet-faced young girl, young in years,
Giving no thought to life's joys and sorrows, its hopes and fears,
Promised the bright-eyed eager lad standing there by her side,
That some day soon, she would become his gentle, loving bride,
Promised, that together, they would walk down the pathway of life.

Fifty years ago in Granite Falls Town,He straight and tall, she in her wedding gown,Promised each other to be loyal and true,Said those two little, yet faithful words, "I do."Gave, he to her and she to him, each a heart,
Promised solemnly, "Till death do us part."

Two witnessed there were who stood up with them,
One was a relative, both of them were men.Edward Erlandson was one witness there that day,
Carl's father, who but recently passed away.John T. Sloan, it was, who stood on the other side,
Our own beloved Petra Later became his bride.
A horse-drawn chariot was theirs that day,Two horses and a blanket-filled bob sleigh,Six miles an hour was probably their rate of speed,
Those days, of traffic rules and laws, there was no need.
But they were tucked in snug and warm with robes and blankets and all,He probably wore ear muffs, she surely was wrapped in a shawl.
Thus they journeyed back to her home in Leenthrop Town,He, proud and happy, she, still in her wedding gown,
Their friends and neighbors gathered together and waited,
To see their wedding day properly celebrated.They wished for them a long life, filled with joy and gladness,
Wished for them those things far removed from sickness and sadness.

Twelve children came to bring them happiness and good cheer,
Five boys and seven girls, to them precious and so dear,Nine are still living, only one remains at home,
Some live near and others chose farther away to roam.George, in Maynard; Harry, Taylor Falls is home to him,Chester, in Alvor, Iowa, was born a twin.
Esther, his sister, has gone on to that other shore,
Where she waits to be with her loved ones forever more.Mabel, Mrs. Edwardson, east of here in Willmar lives,Baraboo, Wisconsin, is the address that Bennie gives.Cora, Mrs. Finch, in Brainerd doth abide,
Mildred, herself, was but recently a bride.
Garretson, South Dakota, she claims as her home,
Our own Clarice says, "Number, please," on our telephone.Stella, Mrs. Schuster, makes her home in St. Paul,
There are also eighteen grandchildren, both large and small,A pleasant family, loving and kind to each other,Obeying God's Word: "Honor thy Father and thy Mother."
To you, Father and Mother, we bring greetings today,
Greetings from those who are near, and those who are far away.
The best of all the best things in life we wish for you,
Peace, happiness, contentment, with your loved ones so true.
May you have many more years of happiness together to share,
May God, in His wisdom, guard and keep you and yours, in our prayer.

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.

The Rise and Fall of Heartland Farmhouses

It's hard to imagine what it once looked like before the prairie became a checkerboard of farms. In an area that stretched from Texas to Manitoba, and Indiana to the Great Plains, the predominant features were grass and an endless horizon. In places, blades of big bluestem grew higher than a man on horseback. To find a lost pilgrim on the prairie, you needed to head for the nearest hummock and look outward for a rolling splash in the flora.

A year or two ago, I encountered a film presented by the Public Broadcasting System: "Death of the Dream: Farmhouses in the Heartland." It is a beautifully done, one-hour documentary that "weaves a tapestry combining images of vanishing farmhouses with stories of historians, farm experts, and people who lived 'the dream' of life on the farm." The film was inspired by photographer and essayist William Gabler's book of classic farmhouses, Death of the Dream, published by the Afton Historical Society Press."




The whole idea behind the commemoration of an American way of life that is rapidly vanishing really struck home. So much of my family research deals with the Midwest during the late 19th century, when my immigrant ancestors built farmhouses alongside crop-filled prairie acres they bet their very existence on.

The L-shaped farmhouse on the Johnson family homestead, Granite Falls Township, Chippewa County, Minnesota, was built by the late 1870s, and photographed in 1941 by my mother. Under other ownership since about 1901, the farmhouse was eventually torn down when it became too unstable to leave standing.

Whenever I look at a photograph of an old house or barn, it is more than faded and tired walls. Inside the corners and beyond the panes, there is life that surges just beyond realization. I find myself longing to step through a virtual canvas. If I could only slip through a wrinkle in space and time into another dimension and stand alongside my pioneer ancestors within their reality, I would do just that. "Death of the Dream" touches upon this human need to connect intimately with those who came before us, through the remnants of homes and shelters they left behind.

Also photographed in 1941 was the earliest barn on the Johnson homestead property, also built in the 1870s. Note the sleighs in the forefront of the photograph. Granite Falls Township, Chippewa County, Minnesota.

"Part celebration and part bittersweet elegy, 'Death of the Dream' provides a window towards the past, while looking towards the future. Viewers can explore the remnants of vacant homesteads, and imagine visiting with friends on the back porch, sitting around the cook stove in the farm kitchen, or singing around the piano in the parlor."

So much of who we are as a nation is linked to that rural vision that one can't help feel both a sadness and sense of dilemma of what the role of rural America should be.

- William Cronon

With a Little Help From My... Norwegian Glossary

Finding genealogical treasures in a foreign language you can not read is one of the most frustrating things a researcher encounters. All that hard-won wealth of information within reach, and, argh! You can't understand any of it!

Arranging translations can be equally as frustrating, unless you are fortunate enough to be near a genealogical society that has interest groups with native speakers who are willing to take the time to help. Never underestimate the amount of time and frustration that translation involves, even for an expert. The older the document, the more likely it will contain some archaic language/script, or elements of a localized dialect that are certain to challenge your translator.

Fortunately, for those involved in Norwegian genealogical research, there are many organizations that have provided tools to help. Take a look at the Norwegian glossary of genealogical terms published online by NAHA (Norwegian-American Historical Association). You can print out the list and carry it with you wherever you go to do research. No longer will you assume that the word "barn" in Norwegian has something to do with farm animals.

å ø æ

When does a foreign language glossary come in handy? I find it especially useful when trying to glean tidbits from Norwegian bygdeboker (local histories) obtained through interlibrary loan. It is amazing how much information you can pick out from a foreign language text when you recognize a few choices words in conjunction with the dates given.

Also, keep in mind that some Norwegian language databases are becoming increasingly English-friendly. Look for a button or term to click on, in order to have the page translated for you (this is akin to that EASY button we've all seen on TV). Want an example? Go to the home page of one of my favorite research databases, the Norwegian census: Digitalarkivet, and look at the very top of the gray side bar on the left. See where it says: "English"? Click on it and see what magic occurs.

Another good move for a serious researcher would be to take a class or two in the foreign language of interest. I'm not necessarily talking about quitting your day job and applying to the local university. There are many areas around the country offering low-pressure, low-cost community classes, and language instruction is sometimes offered to the members of various organizations, like Sons of Norway, which also holds language camps for children and youths (kids have ALL the fun...)

In Seattle, we are fortunate enough to have the Scandinavian Language Institute, which offers classes on a quarterly basis. The classes, which meet at various locations once a week, emphasize pronunciation, conversation, and having a good time. Just taking a beginning class in Norwegian had helped me immensely when it comes to understanding the different alphabet and recognizing useful terms in documents. Not only that, but after a basic class, you will no longer turn away shyly the next time someone asks: "Hvordan har du det?"

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.

Elmer Strand, Norwegian-American Bachelor

Summer brings to mind the town's old Norwegian bachelor farmers, stolidly harvesting wheat with their antiquated, clattering six-foot combines. The Norwegian bachelors were not impressed by modern 20-footers. Sure, you got done faster, but that just meant waiting longer till it was time to go to bed...

- Garrison Keillor, Radio Humorist
(Lake Wobbegon Days)

In 1965, during the laziest part of July in the San Francisco Bay Area, my mother suggested that Dad drive us all up to Sonoma County in the '57 Ford Ranch Wagon. She wanted to pay a Sunday visit to Elmer Strand, whom she had not seen in quite awhile. I had no idea who Elmer Strand was, but I was always up for a drive to someplace new.

Mom said that Elmer had been a pretty good friend of my grandfather's ever since their younger farming days in Minnesota, and he continued to stay in touch by sending Christmas cards. Grandpa (Ernest Johnson), a long time widower, and Elmer, a dedicated bachelor, even took a sabbatical together. A few years before, they had lived in a trailer on the Oregon coast and fished for a stretch one summer. It was Grandpa's treat to himself after retiring from the Ford Motor Company--a once-in-a-lifetime vacation tucked in between his move from Campbell, California to Salem, Oregon, where his eldest daughter and a few siblings lived.

Elmer Strand stayed in California and accepted a job as a caretaker on a Sonoma County ranch in the Valley of the Moon. The name of that valley, once the home of author Jack London, conjured up all kinds of romantic visions for a 12-year-old like myself. Unlike the lush, fantasy-inspired fern-filled forest that I envisioned, the valley turned out to be mostly rolling plains of dry, yellow grass, and was quite sparse of trees.  The land was spotted with vineyards instead of unicorns.  But, I'm sure that watching a full golden moon rise and set over that thirsty landscape, accompanied by a cricket symphony, would have been very nice indeed--especially for Jack London.

Elmer Strand, Doris Wheeler, and Becky Wheeler, along the main road to the ranch house, Sonoma County, California, July 1965.

Elmer Strand was aging but slim and spry, and as far as I could tell, he was a well-mannered gent who chose his words carefully. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and overalls and was in the habit of standing with a hand in his pocket, or resting it on an nearly non-existent hip. Elmer's trailer was spartan and devoid of many possessions or character, even when compared to my grandfather's bachelorized home, where documents of eventual interest to genealogists (like a confirmation certificate) shared a shelf in the garage alongside the motor oil.

Men like Elmer Strand and my grandfather spent decades without feminine input or interference: life was work and work was life, and an old Norwegian bachelor did not need "stuff" cluttering up his spare time. For recreation, there was always visiting, fishing, hunting, napping, or simply cooking up a big pan of bacon and eggs with hotcakes.

Our visit turned out to be on a very hot day, so Elmer offered Mom, my younger sister, and I some refreshments in his trailer.  Dad was off somewhere talking with the ranch owner.

"I don't have much around these days, but let me see," Elmer said. He had contracted Type II diabetes and was doing his best to eat properly. Though Elmer lived in the trailer, he took his meals up at the main ranch house and did not keep much in his cupboards. He turned to Mom: "I have this drink I mix up for myself sometimes. Would you like to try some of that?"

Mom was too polite to question what was being offered, so she agreed.

Elmer fixed up a big batch of the pale drink in his mixer, then poured it into a tall glass and handed it to Mom. My sister Becky was as hot and bothered as any fidgety six-year-old could be at this point, so she was offered the first drink of cooling liquid. She placed her small hands over Mom's as they steadied the glass together. As soon as my sister took an exploratory sip, her face quickly contorted into a grimace. "Ugh!" Mom offered Becky another chance at a sip, but my sister would have nothing to do with it.  Instead, she did a few little hops and began to whine.

Mom offered the glass to me instead. "She won't drink it, so you have this one. I'll get her something later."

The liquid inside the glass looked like a vanilla milkshake, and I could not imagine what Becky hadn't liked about that. Having patiently waited my turn, I eagerly took a drink.

The stuff almost didn't go down my throat.  It tasted and felt like liquid chalk!  I waited until Elmer was out of view and then timidly tried to give the glass back to Mom.  I whispered in her ear that I just could not drink it.  "Chery, we're not going to be impolite!" she scolded quietly and frowned, refusing to take back the glass.

Judging by the look on her face, I knew that I somehow had to finish the drink--no argument accepted. I steeled my resolve, held my breath, and gulped the whole thing down quickly, but not without feeling a little queasy afterwards. The worst part was that it did not even quench my thirst. The last thing I wanted to do was irritate my elders, but, this was above and beyond the call!

It was Mom's turn when Elmer handed her a glass of her own. She took a small taste and her eyes flew open wide. "Oh!" She set the glass down and reached for a handkerchief from her purse in order to wipe her mouth. She looked at me in sympathy and said, "Oh, Chery... I'm sorry." Then to Elmer: "I'm sorry, I can't drink this."

Elmer took the news very graciously and had halfway expected it, I'm sure.  "It's soy. That's pretty much all I have between meals these days," he said.  Soy?  Wasn't that some mysterious substance used by hippies? Whatever it was, it tasted like raw cement and went down about as well. I put it on my "don't try this at home" mental list.

I think I earned a little extra respect from my mother that day, and perhaps even surprised myself.

And, Elmer? Well, all that soy must have done him some good because he lived another twenty years, to the ripe old age of ninety-five. It was not until years after his death I discovered that Elmer was more than a family friend. His special connection to our family was not known, even by my mother.

In addition to being the only one to get that horrid drink down, I was also the one who rediscovered the family link between Grandpa and his "good friend," Elmer Strand.  Elmer was actually a half first cousin to my grandfather, and they shared the same grandmother, Thibertine Johnson Winje.

Syttende Mai!

Celebrating Norwegian Constitution Day
(Syttende Mai)
May 17th

Hurrah! Today is Norwegian Constitution Day! A good friend of mine surprised me with a photograph of her new manicure in tribute to the special day. (I spy your Viking scroll work inspired ring, Luci.)

Syttende Mai holds special meaning in the hearts of Norwegians and Norwegian-Americans.

What is the significance of Syttende Mai? Norwegians have a proud and independent past, dating from before the time of the Vikings. The country was weakened soon after by civil wars and plagues and fell under the rule of Denmark, followed by Sweden. In 1905, after nearly 100 years of Swedish rule and wars between Norway and Sweden, an overwhelming majority of voters in Norway voted for independence. The country's constitution was drawn many years before independence was regained, and the struggle is still recent in the ancestral memories of Norwegians and those who emigrated from the homeland.

May 17th also marks the coming of true spring in the experience of many Norwegians. My great grandmother, Malla Johnson, always told her brood that the garden must be planted by Syttende Mai. And, the only song she was ever heard humming or singing under her breath was Norway's National Anthem: Ja, vi elsker dette landet (Yes, we love this land).

First verse:

Ja, vi elsker dette landet

som det stiger frem,

furet, værbitt, over vannet,

med du tusen hjem.

Elsker, elsker det og tenker

på vå far og mor

og den saganatt som senker

drømme på vår jord.

og den saganatt som senker

drømme på vår jord.

Translation:

Yes, we love with fond devotion

This our land that looms

Rugged, storm-scarred o'er the ocean

With her thousand homes.

Love her, in our love recalling

Those who gave us birth.

And old tales which night, in falling,

Brings as dreams to earth.

And old tales which night, in falling,

Brings as dreams to earth.

Ballard, a Scandinavian community within the city limits of Seattle, holds a parade in celebration each May 17th. This Flickr photograph is a sample of what you will see beginning at about 4 p.m. in the streets of Ballard today.


Happy Syttende Mai!

Norway Stamp Honors Emigrants

The Library of Congress American Memory digital collection contains a Norwegian stamp (circa 1975) commemorating the sesquicentennial of Norwegian emigration to America, 1825-1975 (Fred Hultstrand History in Pictures Collection, NDIRS-NDSU, Fargo).: "Utvandringen til Amerika : Norge." The image is based on the John Bakken sod house (Milton, North Dakota), photographed by John McCarthy in about 1895.

In the original image, Marget Bakken stands at the door of the sod house with a wash basin in her hand. John Bakken is in the foreground holding a spade, and the couple's small children are Tilda and Eddie (wearing a dress). A dog is under the window that holds a plant on the outside window ledge. Note the two stovepipes and vegetation on the roof, which was typical of a sod house.

It's a lovely stamp, and I'm happy to see that Norway has honored its connection with American sons and daughters.

Website List for Norwegian Genealogy

I was flitting about the internet universe recently when I came across Bookmarks for Norwegian Genealogy, a list of useful sources compiled by David and Ruth Christ of ICGS (Iowa City Genealogical Society?). Take a look! I'm sure you'll find something new: I did!

A Long Way Downstream: Update

I have relatives out there who I'm sure are wondering what is happening with the Johnson/Winje family history I have promised them. Please don't send the posse just yet! The 350-page book is now at the printers; the printing process takes several weeks, but an end is in sight. And, believe me, I am just as anxious to see it completed as anyone who has been patiently waiting.

The introduction to A Long Way Downstream: The Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer begins:

There is an old Norwegian emigrant prayer that reads, in part: …The ties that bind me to home fire my courage and strengthen my soul. Should all things perish, fleeting as a shooting star, O God, let not the ties break that bind me to the North. (1)  Norwegian emigrants had a strong attachment to the land they left behind, and clung to centuries of beloved folklore that resulted from scratching a living out of the unforgiving Nordic landscape. What caused home loving Norwegians, like Baard and Bertina Johnson, to cross an immense ocean, bid goodbye to family members, often forever, and risk their lives and those of loved ones? How did they summon the courage to leave familiarity and family for uncertain gain? Despite their ties to the homeland, the great migration to America during the 19th century is unrivaled in the history of Norway except for the westward sweeps of conquest and exploration during the Viking Age, a heritage treasured by Norwegians.

I can give any number of excuses for the delay, including the worst winter commute on record, fussing with the sale of two properties, my elderly mother moving in, writing seminars and activities on top of working full time, and now a history column, to boot. I have really tried to keep the delay to a minimum, but have failed. But, as I said, an end is in sight, and your copy or copies should be coming your way soon.

It's time for me to move on with other projects, and I do have a few in mind that deal with either family or Pacific Northwest history: pioneers in Coon Valley, WI, miners/photographers in the Cascade Mountains, Scandinavians and their involvement in Seattle's 1909 Alaska Yukon and Pacific Exposition, and even a fictional novel or two.

Now, I just need to get multiple households and storage units merged into one place so I know where everything is, set up a quiet workspace, cut my commute in half, and find that clone who is off hiding again. She's not very good at cooking or organizing, but at least she lends a fair amount of moral support.

 

 Sources:

(1) Theodore Blegen, Martin Ruud, and Bunner Malmin. Norwegian Emigrant Songs and Ballads (1936).  Christian Hansen's prayer, "Evening Prayer on the Atlantic," originally titled "Attenbøn paa Atlanterlavet" in Norwegian, was first published in Morgenbladet on July 19, 1846.

Color My Flag

It's time for a little "flag as art" lesson. Who can color the flag of Norway without first peeking at an example?

While collecting family history information, it can be fun to associate flags as symbols of the places our ancestors came from. The Flagspot.net site is a wonderland of worldwide color for your viewing pleasure.

There are even flags for Norwegian fylke (counties), though many of them were adopted in recent decades. Here are the fylke that my ancestors hailed from:



Nord-Trøndelag
A yellow cross. the arms bent outwards on a white field. According to Norwegian heraldic rules, yellow and white is a prohibited combination. Exceptions are only made where medieval arms are resurrected. In the case of Nord-Trøndelag the historic design is that of St. Olav, who according to the saga carried a white shield with a golden cross at the battle of Stiklestad (traditionally dated to 1030). St. Olav was killed in the battle.




Rogaland
A white cross on a blue field. The design is based on a stone monument erected in memory of a local notability, Erling Skjalgson, who died in 1028 (the stone cross is kept in Stavanger Museum). Adopted 11 January 1974.






Oppland
A white mogop (Anemone vernalis) on a green field. The designer was Arvid Sveen. The color green was chosen to symbolize forestry and agriculture. Flag adopted 18 May 1989.





Sør-Trøndelag
Two crossed axes and cross-staff Gules. The axes in the coats are always conected to the axe of St. Olav. Adopted 9 December 1983. This coat of arms was used by Trondheim's archdiocese in the 15th Century.

But, hold on! As if that weren't enough stimulation, each kommune (municipality) has also adopted a shield. Here are some within the fylke of Nord-Trøndelag and the Indre Namdal region. My immigrant great great grandparents, Baard and Thibertine Johnson (Lassemo), came from the Grong municipality.


Top row (left to right): Grong, HØylandet, Lierne.
Bottom row (left to right): Namsskogan, Royrivik, Snaasa.

What official colors and shapes represent the homeland(s) of your ancestors?