A Sense of Place

Last week was the annual Johnson jam session. No music just lots of sugar, fruit and pectin. In years past we got together to pick strawberries in the morning then make freezer jam in the afternoon. This year it was harder to get together so we picked separately and froze the fruit.
On the way home from my Aunt's home we stopped at the little Lutheran church to show the girls where their great grandparents were laid to rest. Looking at the names and recognizing many from our family tree I was struck by such a sense of loss.
This little town is where relatives from Norway immigrated and settled. Like the bar 'Cheers'-Where everyone knows your name. I have many memories of that area from visiting grandparents and family reunions and lutefisk dinners and the stories which get passed down and embellished.
We drove away from that little town and I felt such a sense of loss. With very few exceptions, the kids and grand kids have moved away. We are spread out and rarely communicate. It makes me very sad to consider this happening to my family-even worse when I consider this has been happening to families all over our increasingly mobile society. Strangers among strangers. No sense of place, no sense of roots or home.
I reconsider our plans for moving-instead of moving 30 minutes west to be closer to my father we could move 30 minutes east to return to an area full of old memories. Living family members are better IMHO. We can never go back to the way things used to be. But I can be sure to take my kids back to the old swimming hole and keep those family stories alive.

'My Mother's Mother'

When ever I am feeling that life is too hard I think of this story! It was written by my Grandmother about her grandmother. It puts life in perspective for me. I am thankful for those who have come before me.



This is a tribute to my grandmother and to all pioneer women.
They are seldom remembered except by those of us who love them.
Amie Johnson 1975

My Mother’s Mother

They came to Wisconsin in 1877.
My mother’s mother and her strong sailor husband-
Came to find a new home and good new land
From a valley in Norway where their fathers worked land
Poor land that belonged to rich land owners.
So they could be free.
Here in Wisconsin they would be free
To go to sea no more, to wait no more.
How could they know?
She was only eighteen—plucked from her home,
A delicate mountain flower, slim and strong as a willow
Sensitive face and laughing eyes.
“I can see her now,” Grandpa used to say,
“Waiting on the cliff above the sea, watching for my ship to come in;
Prettiest thing you ever saw,
Her long skirt swirling in the sea wind
Silver blonde hair pinned back from the face, hanging long and free.
How quick and sure her feet, as she came running to meet me
Blue eyes laughing.”
“I have tickets to go to America.” Brown eye serious
Watching her. “Good new land in Wisconsin”
“When?”
“In two months—in July.”
“But our baby! He is only six months old!”
“We can’t wait longer the land may be gone. Friends will meet
Us in Manitowoc. Our baby is strong—it will be his land too.
He will grow up an American!”
The seagulls screamed goodbye.
The weeks on the boat, the memory of it:
Crowded humanity, the sounds of strange languages
And crying children. Stench, sickness, squalor.
But hope was there. Soon, America. Wisconsin.
Blue skies shining!
On the swaying train from New York
In the darkness and quiet the husband asked, “How is Baby?
He is so quiet.” Two heads together looking down at him.
Dark hair next to silver-blonde. So young.
She whispered a sob, “He is dead.”
Blue eyes shimmering through tears!
No sound but the clicked-clack and the steam of the train.
Wrapped in her shawl she held her son
Close to her heart.
The conductor came, “How good your baby is.” A kind voice in English
But the young mother understood.
She tried to smile, rocking her baby gently.
The train clattered on.
She gave him up at last—to friends and a small pine box.
He was buried in Manitowoc on American soil.
With nights of tears and heartache.
What price freedom?
“Oh, she was strong, that girl.” Grandpa said, remembering,
“She worked like a man in the tobacco fields near Stoughton.
They were the ones, you see, who gave the tickets free
If we would work for a year.”
Then the happy day came—a homestead at last!
A stage coach going north, then a trail through the woods,
He carrying the trunk on one shoulder leading the horse
She with her bag of homespun tapestry filled with clothes and linens,
Sometimes riding, sometimes walking
Holding on to her black cast-iron kettle.
Forget the thistles, briars and mosquitoes
The bluebirds were singing!
After days on the trail they reached it at last:
Their own new land! Hands together they stood on the spot
Where their log home would be built.
Laughing aloud she looked at him, and then at her skirt
Muddy, frayed, and wet from crossing the stream.
Laughter ringing through the wilderness!
“Yes, this is the place where she washed the clothes
Right on that flat boulder there.
And bathed the children too—in summer, that is.
She broke the ice in winter
And carried water from this creek
To the house and to the animals in the barn.” Grandpa looked at me.
On that sunny afternoon, so long ago, he was nearing eighty
And I a skinny girl of fourteen years.
(I’m a grandmother, now, myself) He looked at me
Faded brown eyes kind. “Why do you ask?
Why do you want to know all these things about your grandmother?”
It was quiet. A mourning dove cooed softly.
‘I want to know.” I said.
I saw the barn, sagging now, where they lived the first two years.
“We were upstairs and the animals downstairs.”
I climbed the ladder she has climbed. A haymow for a home!
“Anna, your mother, was born up here.
She was our first, you know, after Nels.” The ladder cracked.
I started here, I thought.
“Here, all these fields we cleared—for grain and corn.
I used the axe and your grandmother carried the stones away,
She made that stone fence there beside the woods.
She was a worker, that one.”
I rested my hand on the top stone
And saw her hands, slender, calloused—
She had placed this rock and this, four feet high—
All along the wood’s edge.
Babies waiting to be fed,
Norwegian lullabies to be sung.
“Was there any fun? Grandpa, did she like it here?”
He stroked his beard. It was so long ago.
“Oh, she was lonesome at first you know
For the sea, I think, and her people at home.”
Light footsteps on the cliffs!
“She walked with her children along the creek
And taught them how to fish. She always watched
For the bluebird in the spring, and listened to the bird’s songs.
And, see the apple trees there, and the pear?
She planted then the year we built the cabin.
Planting things was happiness for her.”
I wish I had known her!
Women friends were few—though new settlers came every year
Only a few could understand Norwegian, the language in her home.
The log cabin till stands—I saw it with new eyes:
The biggest room—the kitchen, pine boards worn
As a path was made
To the washstand, to the pantry, to the stove
Around the benches at the table
Serving a family of ten.
Weary footsteps slower now.
There, on the floor along the wall,
Six Indian braves sat one day devouring the evening meal
Emptying the black iron kettle.
She sat there on a stool by the fire—pale and still
Frightened for her children hidden in the cellar,
Praying her husband would soon be home.
The trip to New London was a two-day journey. He came
And all was well, for now.
Is freedom another crisis?
The small bedroom to the right and the big double bed
Where seven babies were born and nursed,
And where grandmother had died.
A window, curtain less, and a wooden table beneath it,
Bare, except for a kerosene lamp and a Bible—frayed and worn
Brought from Norway in the seaman’s chest. Their only book.
Close the door softly.

In My Grandfather's House-Final

In My Grandfather’s House… final
By: Amie Johnson 1976

On the other long wall opposite the fireplace you could see the loom and Grandfather’s carpenter bench. Both always seemed to be busy for Grandmother wove all the cloth and blankets needed for the family; and Grandfather, working with wood and leather, repaired, mended, and made all the farm and home equipment.
I spent many happy hours at grandfather’s workbench. At first I watched; then I learned to use the tools by carving pegs, wooden bowls and spoons. Using the last, I learned to make shoes. By the time I was fourteen, I was making shoes, wooden bowls, and spoon for myself and others in the family who wanted them.
Above the bench hung the tools; the metal part for these were forged in the blacksmith shop near the stables. Under the bench was stacked the raw materials for making things. I recall seeing dried lumber, tanned leather, wagon wheels and furniture to be finished or repaired. I learned to make benches, skis, and water pails that didn’t leak; and here I made my own chest or trunk.
At the other end of the house beyond the carpenter bench was the parents’ bedroom—usually open to the living room. A woven curtain hanging from a pole could be drawn across the entrance when privacy was desired. A straw mattress lay on hewed planks that were held together with cross pieces and wooden pegs. This rested on saw-horse legs. Concealed underneath was a smaller bed which could be pulled out at night for the two youngest children. There were wooden pegs on one wall where garments were hung. A small table holding a copper bowl with tallow and wick completed the furnishings.
The low ceiling above the bedroom and “gung” was also the floor for the storage loft above. This alcove had a small window and was open to the living room for better circulation of air. One could look up and see the woven materials suspended from poles—ready for the tailor who came around in spring. Grandmother Engel once told me that a visitor judged a family’s wealth by the number of woven pieces displayed in the loft, as well as the amount of smoked meat hanging from the rafters!
Also visible from the living room below were the cedar chests, decorated with rosemaling, where each member of the family stored his personal possessions. The name of the owner and the date of birth were painted on the front, embellished with fancy scrolls in bright colors.
Upon climbing the ladder and passing the stacks of dried flatbread, you would see a cot directly under the small window. This was reserved for the schoolmaster who traveled from one home to another while teaching the children in each district. The midsummer nights were as light as day until 10 o’clock and that is when I found time to sit up here and read from the schoolmaster’s library. Books that dealt with biography and history whetted my appetite for more learning.
When you realize the fact that my grandfather was five years older that Abraham Lincoln and then compare the homes they lived in, then you can see that Grandfathers house had many treasures. I’m glad that I was there to enjoy them.”

As told by Andreas Fluge Johnson in the year 1955

I have two more stories like-one is more about Grandmother Engel, and the second is a recounting of another relatives crossing to America and eventually establishing a homestead in Tigerton WI.

Thanks for reading--I find these recollections really moving-but I guess that is because they are part of my heritage. I'm also trying to glean some insight about their lives and find a way to incorporate some old traditions into my new life. Kris

In My Grandfather's House - Part 2

This is part two.. A big thanks to my oldest 'chick' for help typing!

In My Grandfather’s House...Part 2
By: Amie Johnson 1976
Girls in the family always helped, thus learning these skills at an early age. Since we were a family of boys, Mother had a hired-girl helping her. Together they made dough and rolled it out on the table in the main building. What was the recipe? Oats and peas, ripe and carefully dried over the iron plates in the firehouse, then stone-ground at our mill by the river. The women just added water and some salt, stirring the dough until it was just right to roll out.
Bread-baking took several days to a week- depending on the number of mouths to feed. What an aroma drifted over the country-side. And tasty! I don’t think a hungry boy ever enjoyed anything more than I did Mother’s flatbread. I helped by keeping the fire going and carrying the bread to the storage loft in the main house. There it was stacked on special wide benches that were raised from the floor so that the cat could run underneath. He would take care of any mouse that dared nibble! When the stack reached the rafters, another pile was started until there was enough bread for six months. Usually bread was baked in fall after harvest, and in spring before planting time.
Bins for barley, oats and peas were built into one wall of this firehouse. These were the grains that meant abundance or a meager existence, for porridge and bread were the staff of life for people in our valley. Only once in Grandmother Engel’s memory did they face winter with the bins nearly empty. That was the year the crops froze in July. But that is another story!
Cheese was made in the firehouse, also. Here Grandmother kept the huge copper kettle in which buttermilk accumulated. When it was full, it was time to make cheese. I liked the young cottage cheese and the sweet preme ost; but I never could see how the older folks could eat gammel ost. How could they stand the smell? It wasn’t until years later that I appreciated the sharp tang of gammel ost.
I remember seeing tallow stored here also. This was used for making candles and soap as they were needed. You can see that the firehouse was in use at all times of the year.
Not so with the main house. During our brief summers we lived, worked, ate and sometimes even slept out-of-door. Grandmother Engel and I at the saeter in the mountains often feasted on wild berries to supplement our usual lunch of flatbread and slices of dried meat. Summers to me meant sleeping in the hayloft, running barefoot, tending the sheep in the mountains, fishing, swimming, boating and swinging the scythe with Grandfather Daniel.
Bit when winter came, the main house was our refuge. It was also a workshop, a living room, a place for cooking, eating, spinning, weaving, making shoes and furniture—all in one large room.
The entrance hall, or gung, was quite dark in the winter. You could hardly find the pegs to hang your coat and cap, or see to wash your hands in the wooden wash dish there on the bench. The water bucket, made of pine boards bound together with roots, stood on the floor in the corner with a wooden dipper in it. This bucket was carried daily to the spring and filled with cold fresh water. Any washing that had to be done—whether clothes, kettles or bathing—was done at the spring or in inclement weather here in the gung. There was no indoor toilet. When nature called, one followed the well-worn path to the privy back of the house.
Grandfather’s house measured about twenty-six by twenty-four feet on the inside. It was one huge living and work room that always smelled of new pine lumber and tanned leather, mixed with wood and candle smoke and savory meat cooking over the fire.
The huge stone fireplace, usually swept clean and not used during the brief summer, was the center of activity all the rest of the year. Near the top of the large opening were three stationary iron rods running parallel with each other, one lower than the others. On these rods there were movable hooks where Grandmother hung kettles for cooking or warming water. When the breakfast oatmeal was cooked, the kettle was moved along the rod to one side, where it could simmer or keep warm. After breakfast she began to prepare the meat or fish and the vegetables were added to the meat, making delicious soups and stews. I remember seeing three kettles of food over the fire at one time, but this was only when guests were expected.
Low one-person benches were placed before the fire on the stone hearth. When you sat before the hearth, you could see the long benches against the walls on both sides of the fireplace. These, covered with woven blankets, served as sofas or beds for the children. One was moved to the table when more seating –room was needed.
To the right, near the fireplace, stood the two spinning wheels. Most of the spinning was done by Grandmother Engel and my mother. I know the room was not very warm for they worked with fingerless wool knit gloves and sheepskin jackets.
Beyond the spinning wheels, at the far end of the room, stood the table. The top was made from a twenty-four inch hewn plank, now worn a smooth as glass and it rested firmly on saw-horse type legs. Using the movable benches, there was no problem in seating all of Grandfather’s eight grown children and their families when they came to visit.
Serving meals was a simple matter in those days. Much of the food was dried, and we used our fingers. When a kettle of hot food was placed upon the table, each person took his own wooden bowl and spoon from the beam above and helped himself. After the meal was finished and the bowls were scraped clean, each person put his own away, and the table was clear!

Link to pictue of Alhus.
http://www.panoramio.com/photo/14183654
Just for reference: saeter is a mountainside meadow used for summer grazing, also may refer to a hut in grazing meadow.
Gammel ost is 'old cheese' -supposedly a dessert cheese and that would make preme ost 'young cheese' I guess-I could find no google references.

In My Grandfather's House-Part 1

I was never very interested in family reunions. They were an obligation and uncomfortable for my introverted self. I am sad now at what time has taken from me, I will never be able to get that back, my grandparents have passed away in my teens and twenties before I really appreciated them. The following was written by my father's mother. Grandpa Andy was my Great-grandfather and this is part of my heritage:



In My Grandfather’s House
By Amie Johnson 1976
During these days of America’s Bicentennial, my thoughts have gone back to my own ancestors of Northern Europe. They had not yet begun to immigrate to America; but were living in the valleys surrounded by glaciered mountains of Norway.
At the time that George Washington was building Mt Vernon, how were they living? What kind of homes did they have?
Grandpa Andy (his real name was Andreas Fluge Johnson) lived with us for many years and delighted our children with stories of his adventures as a youth in Norway. How fortunate that I recorded these events and descriptions at the time, for Grandpa Andy died ten years ago, at the age of eighty-nine.
It was a lazy summer afternoon, I remember, and we sat in the shade of the big elm. Grandpa was resting after hilling the potatoes. I moved my lawn chair closer to his and, with paper and pencil in hand, began questioning him about the oldest dwelling on the Fluge farm in Norway. This was his grandfather’s house. Being the youngest of five boys, Grandpa Andy said he spent more of his growing-up years in his grandfather’s house than he did in their newer log dwelling built some distance away on the farm. I wanted to know about the older house.
Tucking a pinch of Copenhagen snuff behind his lower lip, Grandpa settled back and began remembering. I have written his account pretty much the way he told it that day.
‘My grandfather’s house was one hundred years old when I was born. The date, 1774, was carved deeply into the wood above the entrance. I used to feel proud to think of all the generations of my people who were born and grew up on the Fluge farm—not only in this house, but in earlier, humble homes. Catholic priests used to keep records of birth and death on rolled-up sheepskin parchment; but these were destroyed when the church burned about fifty years ago. So there’s no telling how long our family settled on the Fluge farm. I remember Grandmother Engel telling about the Black Death—the plague of the 1300’s—as it was told by word-of-mouth through the generations. I heard, too, of a Nels Fluge who, around the year 1600, made a name for himself with his feats of strength.
Only the oldest son, by birthright, could remain and raise his family on the farms in Norway. So I was lucky. Grandfather Daniel was a first-born son, and so was my father. I wasn’t, so at age eighteen I had to leave. I decided to join two of my brothers here in Wisconsin. I say I was lucky because my happiest memories are hose of growing up surrounded by mountains and lakes, and the friendliness of Grandfather’s house.
Not many people living today remember the great log homes. They were built and furnished entirely by hand form products of the forest. Instead of nail, they used pegs carved from wood. Those were the days when the ax was the mightiest of all tools. With a sharp ax a man could cut down the trees, notch the logs so the corners of the house world fit together, hew timbers, and even make a table, benches and beds.
The logs which formed the four walls of this building were at least two and a half feet thick. They lay securely one upon the other, sink-notched at each end. The dwelling was three logs high and boasted only five windows.
Two of these windows were located close together at one end and gave light to those eating or working at the long table or weaving at the loom. Two others, also together were located above the carpenter and shoe-making tables on the long back wall. The fifth window was at the other end, above the storage loft. Sorn Fluge (Grandfather Daniels grandfather) who built this house must have been proud to put in panes of glass. Stretched skin was common before this time.
The roof, insulated with snow during the winter, was a lively green in the summer. Grass and even flowers grew on it. Sorn made the roof by laying birch bark over the rafters and then covering the bark strips with squares of sod. It was tent shaped like our roofs; but there was no chimney. Either chimneys weren’t known then, or they wasted too much heat—I don’t know.
Instead of a chimney, there was a little roof door that could be raised from inside the house by pushing an attached pole. Usually this roof door was raised in the morning when the fire was built in the fireplace. It was closed for the rest of the day for the coals glowed hot and smokeless. Every housewife knew the secret of firing only in the morning and cooking over the glowing coals, thus keeping her iron kettles free from soot.
Under a third of the house there was a root cellar which stored the winter’s supply of potatoes, cabbage, turnips, carrots, onions and sometimes apples. We boys made daily raids on the turnips, entering the cold, dark cellar through an outside door at one end of the building.
To the right of the only entrance there was a stack of wood ready for the fireplace. Well I remember that woodpile! Before I could reach for my skis after school, Grandfather would sat, “How about the wood?”—and out I would go to chop some more.
The woodpile was handy also to the firehouse built a few yards to the right of the main building. This was where fish and meat were smoked and dried as they hung above the central fire pit.
This was also the place for bread-baking. Twice a year the women-folk baked the flat bread on huge cast iron plates over the fire. Grandmother Engel, sitting on a low stool, turned one huge pancake at a time with a flat wooden stick until it was crispy-dry and flecked a golden brown. Then she put it aside to cool as Mother came from the house with another thin round of dough draped over a stick. I marveled at her skill as she flipped the rolled-out dough which was two feet in diameter onto the hot iron—without tearing it.

My finger are tingling so I will stop here for now. It is a beautiful sunny day and I can feel my motivation returning! Kris