Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

A Persian Silver Bracelet

@brittarnhild

Photo: grandma Olga and uncle John, carrying me to my christening, July 6th 1958 

 

I have a very special bracelet in my collection. Made in silver filigree, bought in Tehran in 1961 or 1962. I was just a little toddler when my uncle John, my  mother´s oldest brother, and his wife to be, Kari, moved to Tehran in Persia (today Iran) to work for a company who drew maps. It must have been a dream! And it was. Uncle John and his Kari married during their stay :-)

When they arrived back home, uncle John and aunt Kari brought me a most precious gift, the beautiful filigree bracelet, made for the wrist of a little girl.

Uncle John, who would have been 91 next month, died last Sunday, and today was his funeral. In the old church Havstein, where Leander was baptised on my birthday last year. 

After the funeral the family gathered to share memories. There are so many of them.

Tomorrow two of John´s daughters, two of my cousins, will come here, and we will continue to share.

 

A 14 years old me visiting Venice

@brittarnhild

A 14 years old me with my mother and my little brother Torodd, aged 2, in a gondola on Canal Grande.

Christmas 1971. The summer before my parents had bought a caravan, and for Christmas we got a gift we would never forget. The gift was not wrapped up in colourful paper but was presented to me and my three little brothers by my father´s words: "Next summer we will take our car and our caravan and drive down to Italy"

Me in my beautiful red dress, my mother, and my two brothers Frode and Børge, boarding a gondola.

Summer came, and the Wigum family spent a month on the road. One week to drive down to  Italy, two weeks camping in Jesolo Lido, near Venice, one week to drive back home.

The 14 years old me  and my 12 years old brother Frode, feeding pigeons on St. Mark´s Square.

Not only did my father buy a huge caravan. He also had a Super 8mm video camera.
Last night we watched the video from our memorable summer.

 

 

The rocking chair and the farm kitten

@brittarnhild

Our American relatives are still in town. Today Terje and I took them over the fjord, to the old farm where my great grandparents lived, where grandpa Benjamin was born and lived till he was old enough to move out. Grandma Serine died when I was nine. Grandpa Sefanias died when I was ten. I was allowed to come to their funerals, which was unusual for a child in the 60ies. I have not been to the farm since I was a girl. The farm has been completely renovated since then.

The first thing I saw, I mean really saw, with my heart, today, was the rocking chair.

"Oh, look at that chair. I remember great grandma Serine sitting in a rocking chair in this very room!" I smiled. "This is Serina´s chair" my mother´s cousin Sverre said. "The same old chair!"

50 years apart. Great grandma Serine. Me.

Me as a girl loved to play with the kittens on the farm.

Today another little girl plays with the kittens.
Thank you Annika for showing me little Pippi.

Lagre

Lagre

Lagre

Visitors from the Mid-West

@brittarnhild

We had visitors from Minnesota the other day, Kathi and Tim. Kathi is mother´s second cousin. Kathi and Tim came to Norway in 1978, and since then we have created a strong link between our two families with visites both here and there, and over the last years also on facebook. And new generations join us.

 

Friday my parents set their lunsj table.

As always a delicious table with my mother´s home made bread. And for coffee afterwards, her krumkake and fyrstekake.

Piano and viola by mother and my brother Torodd. And a lot of talk, led by my father and Tim.

 

  

Looking at old photos is a must when we gather like this. Here is one of my great grandparents Serina and Sefanias, with three of their kids. Grandpa Benjamin in the middle.

 

Lagre

Grandma Ragna´s homestead

@brittarnhild

We had not made any spesific plans for the next day, only that we would drive north and some time, probably late, we would arrive at the cabin. Looking at the map I realised that one of our choices to drive would take us right through the village where grandma Ragna Josefine was born in 1899. Long storly told short - we made some phone calls and ended up getting an invitation/inviting ourselves to visit the farm.

Grandma Ragna was born on the farm Slagstad, in Sandane on the Western coast of Norway. A farm where the main income came from  growing apples. She grew up with two sisters and three brothers. Jon, or uncle Joel as my father says, grandma´s brother closest to her in age, took over the farm when he grew up, and today Jon´s son, Mattis lives there with his wife Vivi.

Mattis is my father´s first cousin, and it was easy to see the family likeness between them. I visited Slagstad when I was a girl, about 50 years ago, and I saw Mattis watching me, just as I was watching him. Both of us looking for ourselves in the other.
Vivi told me that she and Mattis came to Trondheim the weekend I was baptised. Mattis was active with sport gymnastics and they came for a competition. They stayed with my grandparents and when my perants heard they had come, they were invited to my baptism party.

58 years ago.

Here I am on that day, July 6th 1958, with grandma Ragna Josefine and grandpa Johannes.

Grandma Ragna must have been sitting here many a time. I wish I could read her thoughts from then.
As she grew up in the countryside a hundred years ago, education was actually no topic. But Ragna loved to study and when she grew up she left home, studying to become a teacher.

At the seminary she met my grandpa, Johannes Wigum. He also the son of farmers from a small farm at Aure, where we have our cabin.

Ragna and Johannes married and moved to Frey, where they raised their family of five girls and two boys, the oldest boy my father.

 

Three years ago I visited their house at Frey, together with my parents, and I wrote two blog posts about it. You find the posts here and here.

 

 

A bouquet of columbines

@brittarnhild

July 6th 1958, the day of my baptism.

Grandma Olga was my godmother, together with my uncle John. My grandpa Benjamin had died only a month previous, of oesophageal cancer.

Here I am with grandma Ragna Josefine and grandpa Johannes, the parents of my father.

Grandpa Benjamin saw me only once. I am told that he put his hands on my head and blessed me.

Grandpa Johannes gave me the love of books, reading and writing.

Grandma Olga and grandma Ragna Josefine both taught me to knit and to crochet and they gave me the love of having a garden.

 I picked a bouquet of columbines and visited the grave of grandma Olga and grandpa Benjamin.

Grandma Olga´s garden was filled with columbines. The Norwegian name of columbine is akeleie, and has given my garden its name, Akeleiehagen.

Perfection in Five Fingers

@brittarnhild

I was looking after my grandson for a couple of hours while my daughter and son in law had some errands to do. The baby was sleeping and I had brought a book, eager to get some reading done for my Visiting The World Through Books-project. The book ended up laying untouched on the table.

Five fingers. Five fingers of perfection. Not long ago they let go of God´s index finger, sent out in the world in search for new hands to be held by. New fingers to hold. God´s hands are still there, cradling the baby´s body, but the finger grip has loosened and the new little person is sent out by the holy breath into a world where it will have to find its own space.

It happens every day. All the time.
To watch it closely is a miracle.

 

 Five fingers.
Shaped to hold God´s index finger.

Great grandpa Torgrim and his shrine

@brittarnhild

Terje´s great-grandfather, Torgrim Olsen from Grimstad, was a sailor in the days of the sailing ships. Away months at a time. If the wind was good they were busy, but when the wind died down there could be days, even weeks, with nothing to do. Great-grandpa Torgrim was never idle, he did not let the days pass with nothing to do,  and over the years me made many treasures.

On a place of honor in our livingroom, we have a little treasure he made during one of the no wind periods, a house made out of tiny little puzzle pieces which he cut from old cigar boxes.  For Christmas it has become the manger for Joseph, Mary and baby Jesus, and as you can see the star there, the manger had room for them.

 

The first photo shows Torgrim and Terje´s mother Ingrid. The photo must be from 1922.

 

The old sewing boxes

@brittarnhild

I have inherited my mother in law´s old sewing chest. A wooden chest made by my father in law, rose painted by my mother in law.

My mother in law died many years ago, and over the years my father in law has removed most of the useful stuff in the box. Still, when going through it today, I found treasures. Some useful. Some just for fun. Some might come to use when I want to do crafts with  future grandchildren.

I might never use this mending yarn, but it tells a story, doesn´t it?

Or this booklet, explaining how to do Hardanger Embroidery, I have absolutely no idea why it is in English, and now it is too late to ask.

I will keep the rosepainted sewing chest at the cabin. I already have another sewing chest here, but I am now sorting through all the equipments, and will bring the other one home.

When I started this tidying, I realised I have more boxes, small ones, with needles, threads, scissors and all such things.

I am having a lovely cabin morning :-)

 

By the way, thank you so much for your comments on yesterday´s post. They have given me a lot to think of. I know I should write down more, many more of my own family tales. Sorting though the sewing boxes is making me remember some of them.

 

 

The tales we do not tell

@brittarnhild

In a coffee break at work we started to talk about family tales. The tales we know and the ones we have never heard. Some of us have written tales, from a mother, a great uncle, a long dead cousin. Others of us have only the ones told through the generations.

We all agreed that our family tales are important. They tell us about where we come from. Who we are.

 

I do have a few written tales to frame my life. I wish I had a lot more.

Around the time I was born my grandfather Johannes spent some time in New York, and the United Nations. When I was sent there, to stay for two weeks as an observer for the church of Norway, long after grandpa Johannes died, I searched high sad low for written tales from his stay. One of my brothers has his passport from that time, one has his Bible. I have a photo from the ship he took from Oslo. But as far as I know there are no written tales.

I made sure to write a daily journal during my time there.

 

My father in law was a story teller. He always had memories to share.........always, except when I started to write them down. When we then asked him for tales his mind blocked. The tales must come when they come, he said, not when you start to ask questions. So I stopped with my questions, but made sure to take notes when the tales flooded.

I am thankful we now have my fathers poems collected in a book. And we have some of my mothers music. She shares her tales through her piano playing.

And I continue to write the tales of my own life.
One day children, grandchildren, great grandchildren will want to read them.

 

I miss all the tales I do now know from my forefathers and foremothers.

 

 Photos, peonies in my garden today