SSDD - Same Stuff, Different Day

I had a very bad day yesterday. I think my husband thinks it is the blogging on Sounds of Hope. I am really dredging up the past. It isn’t that. Oh, I am not going to say it doesn’t affect me at all. Thinking and writing about the young me, abused and mistreated. Sure, that would make anyone stop and think for a few minutes.

On the other hand, writing about those days so long ago is good. In an odd and surprising way, it is making me feel more powerful. I am telling my own story, in my own words. It is truth. It is long past time that I told the truth about myself. I always allow other people’s feelings and opinions about me to define who I am. I should stop that. It is time to say NO, you are wrong about me. So many assumptions – even by those in my own family have crippled me from going forward. Deep inside, I am still that insecure person I am writing about on that blog.

Friday I got a copy of my mother’s Last Will & Testament from the court in Missouri. I remember the day she went to sign her Will. For some reason or other, I went with her downtown but didn’t go into the attorney’s office. I hesitantly ask her what she had put in her Will. At the time, she had some assets. A mobile home and a car, perhaps she still owned the duplexes in Hallsville.  I no doubt had Rukhsanah on my hip or in my arms, and Sofia holding my hand. I never went anywhere without my children.

She said that she had made me Executrix of the estate and that she left everything to me. Friday, I saw exactly what she said. There is something strange about seeing your parent’s words on paper after they are gone. They seem to take on new power. I would love to see my Father’s Bible, where he wrote about his life. My brother has it and I will never see it. I have my mother’s Bible.  He’ll never see that.

I had that same strange feeling when I found my father’s baptismal record from the Paulus Parish in Oslo Norway. Dated at the dawn of the 20th Century, it showed his parents names and his sister as one of his sponsors. I also found his confirmation record and wondered what my dad was like then. He was living in Norway, the youngest of seven children of a stonemason and homemaker.  

I watched Spike Lee on the TV series Who Do You Think You Are? He lamented all the times he could have asked his grandmother questions about her past and didn’t. I had lots of time to hear my mother’s stories. Almost no time to hear my dad’s. I was a child when he died. I was 19 years old, pregnant with my second child. I didn’t know how to grieve or even if I should. I just knew that my greatest champion in this life was gone.

Yesterday, I sent letters to my two brothers. The ones who refused to attend to their mother’s death, her final affairs or her funeral. However, when it came to the meager insurance money that the Will stipulates was to go to her final arrangements, they greedily assumed they were to share. In light of such immorality, I doubt the letters and proof will mean anything. Once again, I am defending my mother’s wishes. Ultimately, a judge will have to decide.

The Will, the letters, the thoughts of my dad, then yesterday I scanned through some pictures of my mother. I am putting together a little memorial book for myself, that one day may be valued by my children. I have included the blogs I wrote as she transitioned from this life to the arms of her Savior. As I looked at those pictures, particularly this one

sadness and grief flooded my soul. Her birthday is tomorrow. I wish I had gotten in the car and gone to Columbia to lay flowers on her grave this weekend.  

When my father died, a picture sparked a deeper feeling of grief. My mother sent me a picture of my dad, a simple passport picture. I broke into tears. Yesterday, I had that same feeling thinking about my mother. Pictures like this one brought too many memories back.

Like a caged animal, I was captive in this apartment yesterday. I needed to go out, feel the air, smell spring. Nevertheless, my husband was bound to his laptop. He is out all week, seeing people, feeling important, doing important things. I sit in this cage day after day after day. No attempt to find life and vitality here in South Dakota has worked. I sit in the same corner of the couch, laptop on my lap, reaching out to a cyber world for friendship.  I hate this apartment. Hard as I try, I still hate living in South Dakota. I can’t go back to Tennessee because love for my husband holds me here. I am so stuck.

Today, once again, I will cook wonderful food for my husband and make sure his laundry is done. I’ll straight the kitchen, sweep, touch up the bathrooms and change the sheets. My husband doesn’t demand such things, I just do them. I love him. It is how I show that love. I might even open a book for school. Lately I have been paralyzed with lethargy. Seminary course that have wasted my time and energy hold no interest for me.

We might go out. But what is there to do in this place? Go walk around a store after an hour's drive to Sioux Falls? Drive around the countryside that all looks the same in South Dakota. I don't know what will do but it will be good to get out. It won't be enough.

Yesterday was a bad day; today will likely be the same. 

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.

I'm No Figure Skater

There is still a lot of snow here. There is snow in the forecast for this weekend. The forecast is iffy so maybe it will be rain. Rain will wash away some of the snow.  They are concerned about flooding now that spring is nearing. A friend told me she is praying that the snow melts slowly.

I want the snow to go. It reminds me of the bleakness of my existence here in South Dakota. More than the snow, I want the ice to melt. I am terrified of ice. I have never slipped and fallen on ice that I can remember. I have little balance so I walk cautiously and grab onto my husband at every opportunity.

Even as a little girl I had many fears of falling. I never learned to ride a bicycle because of this fear. My father bought me a tricycle when I was little that was huge. To reach the peddles of the trike, he had to put blocks on them. When my friends graduated to bikes, I was finally able to reach the peddles of my trike.

I must have asked for the bicycle, or perhaps he just thought it was time. He went to a thrift store to buy one for me. Once again, the thing was huge. Way too big for my small body to handle. I remember him walking beside the bicycle to stabilize it while I tried to ride. Both the bike and I were clumsy together. He took it back and got his money back. I never learned to ride.

My dad did take me ice skating. I did ice skate. I think he had visions of me being a great ice skater. I could get around the rink finally without holding on but I never learned to pick both feet up - one foot always clung to the ice, refusing to raise.

I loved the skates my dad bought for me. They were white. They were new, a rarity in my childhood. I saved my allowance money and bought pom-poms for them. Prospect Park had free skating every Saturday morning. I'd take the city bus, transfer to another one and arrive at the park to skate. I was not yet 12 years old because had I  been, I couldn't have skated for free. It didn't cure my fear of ice or my fear of falling.

I used to think I liked new challenges. I think I did. Every move until this one I have welcomed. My brother told me when I first moved to South Dakota that I'd make an adventure out of it. I haven't. I have only tenuously walked out on the ice. I'm afraid.

The ice will melt and for a time I'll be more confident. As surely as it will melt, it will return again. I need to find some ice skates. Like then, I will never be a good skater but perhaps I can drag one foot behind me and get around the rink without holding on. I don't have to be a good skater. I can still cling to the sides of the rink at times. I need to try to skate on the ice once again.