I am Ekte Norsk

I slept most of the way back from The Cities yesterday. We had gone to Minneapolis Friday and came back yesterday, Saturday. I wrote some about our trip on Sounds of Hope. Like no other place in the country, other than my beloved Lapskaus Blvd. Brooklyn, the upper Midwest is Norwegian.

On the way to The Cities, we drove through the quaint town of St. Peter's. In the middle of the north side of Main Street, was a shop with all the flags of Scandinavia. We've seen this shop before and have commented that we should stop some time. On the way back, exhaustion had over taken me. I could barely keep my eyes open. I wanted to go to IKEA for my Scandinavian "fix." I didn't even ask because of this extreme physical and emotional fatigue.

To my surprise, as we drove through St. Peter's my husband stopped in front of Swedish Kontur. The store with the flags. I actually protested going in, saying all they have is fancy stuff we can't afford. I was right. Nevertheless I left with a bag and a hand written receipt. I found a treasure I could afford.

Before I found my treasure, my eyes feasted on a beautiful set of Porsgrund Farmer's Rose.

We never had any Farmer's Rose in my house. We were too poor for that. Our good dishes had come with my parents first television set as a premium. I thought they were beautiful. I treasure the few pieces of it that remain. My mother was given a tea set when she married my father. The cups are paper thin. I don't remember her ever using them. They graced her make-shift china cabinet and I dusted them regularly. A few of them remain as well.

Farmer's Rose has always captivated me. In the recesses of my memory, I see stately Norwegian women in apartments better than ours, serving ekte gjetost and other Norwegian delicacies on these beautiful dishes.

Like my mother, I can't afford Farmer's Rose. I've poured over ebay ads for a few pieces. They are there, but I can't afford them. My brother knew of my love for Farmer's Rose. He has served me on his Farmer's Rose dishes. I own two mugs because of his graciousness. I don't think I've ever put anything in them. I cherish them. I have brought them here to South Dakota in hopes of preserving them from carelessness.

I longed to purchase Farmer's Rose yesterday. Perhaps my protest for shopping was that I knew I would leave disappointed. They were beautiful. The sight of them can take my breath away.

My husband scanned the Norwegian sweaters gulping at the prices. I think he should have one when he goes to Sons of Norway meetings with me. Lots of Pakistani Norwegians in Norway wear them, why not?

As we wandered to the back of the store I spotted my treasure. It was a tiny cup. It was not Norwegian, it was Swedish. On both sides it said Rida, Rida, Ranka. A flood of memories came over me. My dad already white haired and in his 50's when I was a little girl. He'd sit in his green recliner like all men of the 50's reading the newspaper or watching Lawrence Welk on Saturday.

It seemed like it was often that he would call his "lilla venn" to come sit on his lap. Sometimes I would sit on his foot and he would give me a horsey ride. He would say in what I thought was Norwegian, Rida, Rida, Ranka. I can hear the meter of the poem, but I don't recall the words.

I've looked to find the words in Norwegian. When I try to imagine the sounds of the words I have found in Norwegian, they don't match his rhythm.  I have found some but I rather think he said it to me in Swedish. The Swedish words seem to match.

Rida, rida ranka,
hästen heter Blanka.

Liten riddare så rar

ännu inga sporrar har.

När han dem har vunnit,

barndomsro försvunnit.

As I stumble at these words, the meter reminds me more of my dad's version. My dad's father was from Sweden. Something I didn't know growing up. Maybe my dad learned this from his dad. I don't know. I never knew any of my grandparents. In the pictures my dad had on his bureau, they always looked stern. A first cousin who knew them changed that view when he said: it was always a great day when we went to Bestefar and Bestemor's house. I wish I knew them. I wish my dad had told me more stories about them.

I've returned to another land of the Norwegians. Perhaps these stern looking people I see are like my grandparents. Perhaps someday I will say it was a great day when I got to visit and live with Norwegians from upper Midwest. Perhaps these distant aloof people are like my dad. He could be like that, often seeming to be in a world of his own. Like him, underneath the aloof exterior, there maybe someone who loves to play with a child on their foot reciting Rida Rida Ranka.

Truth be told, I am like him as well. I can appear very distant. I hold much inside myself. I am Norwegian too.

Fitting In Is Optional - Being Yourself Is Not

The other day another transplanted woman and I had lunch. She has lived in the Dakotas for over ten years. Much of what I knew about her led me to believe that she would be well connected with South Dakota by now. That wasn't the case. But her story is not mine to talk about.

This woman, someone I hope will be a good friend, has a sense of the Dakotas that I needed to understand. After we shared our lives she said something very interesting to me. I wish I could remember her exact words. I remember the essence. She said,

 Joyce, there is nothing that you have told me about yourself that would make me think you'd ever fit in up here.

Now that put a new spin on life in the Dakotas. She was not being harsh nor was I offended. It was like the lightbulb went on over my head. Suddenly, other things that people had said to me now made sense.

Many times I had been told that life is just different here. People aren't as welcoming. They take a long time to accept you. They want to know if you are going to stay. If you aren't related you don't fit.

I responded with a smile to her. I replied: I know one thing. I know one thing that might help me fit.

I'm Norwegian!  

We laughed. She said: yes, that might do it. It hasn't.

As a child we had several Sons of Norway lodges within walking distance in Brooklyn. The biggest one on 8th Avenue (AKA Lapskaus Blvd). None of my family or any of our peer group were members. They had a bar and a dance floor. We along with the conservative Lutheran Brethren did not engage in such sinful activities. The Evangelical Free Norwegians didn't either. Several of us were always excused from the sinful activity of folk dance in gym class at PS 220.

In April of each year, I would jealously look at the pictures of the candidates for Miss Norway in our local Norwegian newspaper, Nordisk Tidende.  The newspaper was always in our home by Friday afternoon. The chosen queen would ride in her bunad on the back of convertible waving to the crowds gathered for the Syttende Mai parade.  I was too young to be a Miss Norway. However, I knew I would never be one since we were not worldly enough to be part of a lodge.

Here in SD the lodges are different. They don't seem to drink at meetings, have bars or even have their own buildings. I joined Sons of Norway for the first time. I thought it would be a good way to get to know people, find a place and make connections.

My Norwegian credentials are quite impressive. My father was born in Norway. I grew up as Norwegian as one can be outside of Norway. I went to a church where everyone other than the children had an accent. The Pastor never said Jesus, it was always Yesus... I was not Joyce but Yoyce.

Issues have prevented me from going to many lodge meetings here in Brookings. They seem like a nice group of people. Most are quite advanced in age. I have offered several times to do a program on Growing Up Norwegian in Brooklyn. So far, they haven't been interested. However, like everywhere I go here in SD, people look at me like - who is she and why is she here?

I'd like to tell them that I don't know why I am here. I do know who I am though. I am child of God, born into the family of God through faith in Jesus Christ. I have many gifts to offer if people would give me the chance. I am probably too energetic for many here. I am also Norwegian.

I am definitely too open for most. Often since coming to SD local folk have commented on my "openness." It shocks them. It shocks me that they say it.  I think now I understand. I don't fit.

In the sense of changing who I am, I don't want to fit. I will continue to be me. The person who will candidly and willingly share her life, her struggles, her pain, her joys, her gifts and her concerns. I can do that in South Dakota. There is room for me in South Dakota even if I don't fit.