Norway adventures

Jon Gjestvang, Jackie Jackson, Eric Gjestvang
Jon, left, and Eric Gjestvang were born in Beloit.

This past summer, my granddaughter Cressida and I spent a week in Norway. This was after the repeated urgings of Nils and Marie Lang-Ree, who live in California but return to their property in Norway every summer. My friendship with many Scandinavians is one of the rewarding fallouts from writing Round Barn, and my dad’s relationship with the American-Scandinavian Foundation (for 25 years after World War II, he hired two Scandinavians a year). Back in 1979, when on sabbatical, I began writing RB in earnest, I figured I better get in touch with our Scandinavian friends and made my first trip to Norway. I stayed with Gilbrand and Solveig Gjestvang, met the babies who had been born on our farm, now young men, and carried home, in translation, the diary Gilbert (as we called him) kept while he was at the farm. You can find it, and more besides, about the A-S Foundation and the farm in my Volume 3. Nils, Gilbert’s brother-in-law, was one who didn’t return to Norway to live, but got a Stanford degree and has done very well in the United States. I see him in California. Year after year, he has urged me to visit Norway again, and this summer, we did. (My granddaughter is half Norwegian!) Here is the Gjestvang family on the Dougan farm, and here are the same grown-up boys with their families, who gave us a lovely reception on a Gjestvang farm this summer. Olaf Byrne also came, and the son of Jurgen Gjestvang, who drove seven hours to join us. He had heard about the farm all his life from his father. I returned from Norway with, among other things, Marie’s fish soup recipe – when I make it, it gets rave reviews.

Eric (left) and Jon as little guys on the farm.
Eric (left) and Jon as little guys on the farm.

Richest Black

Nature Photography

on bitter nights when deep drifts
blocked our long country lane we
hiked up left the car on the road
snowpants boots our white breath
searing our windpipes we followed
daddy’s tracks as he pushed the way
to light and warmth I loved those treks
the sky its richest black and the stars!
the stars so bright so close you could
swipe down handfuls in your mittens
in your arms hug the frozen milky way

Many of you know that I write a poem a week for the Illinois Times; it’s on the Letters page and you could look it up if you want to at www.illinoistimes.com. I’ll put this one here because so many people have gone out of their way to tell me how much they like it (many of my poems do not receive comments).

There’s no explaining…

A couple of contrasts at the YMCA, where I swim a couple of days a week: I was accosted in the lobby by a woman I vaguely recalled, but she recalled me enough to button-hole me and announce that I had sold her the first Round Barn book two years ago for her farmer father and told her if he didn’t like it she could have her money back. Now she wanted her money back, he hadn’t even read it. I said, “But you could read it. It’s a good book.” She replied, “I don’t like big books.” I returned her money — all of $15, she’d had a discount – and I refrained from any caustic comments. In contrast, the next day a retired judge who’d bought all three books at the Y was waiting for me with the money and with that big first book all thumbed and 5/6 read, telling me that this was the most fantastic book he’d ever read! Go figure.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year from Aunt Lillian
Happy New Year from Aunt Lillian

Aunt Lillian, Wesson’s oldest sister, lived in Beloit and helped out on the farm as needed; much the the relief (and annoyance) of her sister-in-law, Eunice.

In this picture, taken in (perhaps?) the late 1950’s, she wished everyone
–including herself, every time she looked into the mirror– a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Into the FIFTH(!) generation later, we’re sharing her best wishes with you…

HAPPY NEW YEAR from Aunt Lillian and all of us at The Round Barn!

Uncle George’s teeth

Uncle George's Teeth
Uncle George

How ‘bout a joke for this last blog entry of 2014; it may be apocryphal. But for a period, my Great Uncle George was a Methodist minister in the Beloit, Wis., church around 1895. He was reputed to be preaching so vigorously that his false teeth flew out and landed in the lap of a parishioner in the front row, whereupon he said, “Would madam please pass the plate?” Now I would have expected this from my Uncle Bert, who was a clever jokester, but Uncle George? Uncle George?? I believe it because I want to. And it’s a family legend!

Boxing Day…Boxing Day…Boxing Day

Boxie the Boxer celebrates Boxing Day in the kitchen of Chez Nous
Boxer celebrates Boxing Day in the kitchen of Chez Nous

The year I lived in England, we celebrated Boxing Day. Everyone did. I don’t have much to say about Boxing Day, except that they played a recording in the Unitarian Universalist Church last week to a familiar Christmas tune that included lots of things, like “I wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kwaanzai etc etc AND Boxing Day.” It was sung in a round so it always came back on a high note to “Boxing Day, Boxing Day, Boxing Day,” which really stuck out and was so funny to me. I suspect most of the church had no idea what Boxing Day was, but since I have read so much English literature and, as I’ve said, lived in England for a year, so that I experienced Boxing Day, I could have told them. It was really when the landed or richer families presented their Christmas presents to the help and to the poor – maybe it’s on Downton Abbey and you all know this anyway. 🙂

Christmas lullaby

My mother, Vera, wrote this lullaby for my oldest sister, Vera Joan, on her first Christmas, 1925.

lullaby

Sleep, little baby, the daylight is fading;
Dim yellow stars the dark heavens adorn;
Once, long ago, in a Bethlehem manger
The little Lord Jesus was born.
Lullaby, lullaby, sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, my arms are about thee,
A circle of love which enfolds thee secure;
So Mary cradled the wee baby Jesus,
The little Lord Jesus, so pure.
Lullaby, lullaby, sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep little baby, thine eyelids are drooping,
Thy warm, tender body relaxing to rest;
Jesus thus slept in the arms of sweet Mary,
His dear little head on her breast.
Lullaby, lullaby, sleep, little baby, sleep.
Lullaby, lullaby, sleep, little baby, sleep.

Click here to download a full page .pdf of Vera’s original score.

Recreated Family Christmas Card: 16; and then again, 66 years later

1930 Dougan Christmas Card

The Dougan Children posed in the “little house” for this Christmas postcard in 1930. Jo, going on 6, offers Craig, not yet 1, a stocking. The card reads, “Brother Dougan, we unanimously attest to the efficacy of this practice” Patsy, right, is just 4, and Jackie is 2 & 1/2.
Jackie reports that the fire prompted her to hold her arms over head that way; and that she insisted that her parents to build her roaring fires out of newspapers for months afterwards.

1946-2

The 1946 card modernized the 1930 photo by printing in black and white. Then, at 21, 19, 17, and 15, the family put on their robes and carefully took up the same poses by the fireplace of their new home, Chez Nous.

1946-3

The final photo wasn’t taken until 1996, 50 years later, at Ron’s funeral. In this photo, Jo is 71; Pat, 69; Jack, 68, and Craig was 66. Really, they should have put on their pyjamas and built a fire (Jackie would’ve liked that), but this was on impulse, so I guess that floral arrangement is a pretty good stand-in for the fire. This photo was never meant for the Christmas card circuit, but now, here it is.

Merry Christmas!

cnl110

p.s. Not sure whose sock that was…

Mommy’s Orange Cookies

Lately it’s been circulating around the family, “Where is the orange cookie recipe?” Not that these are particularly Christmas cookies, but were the family’s favorite cookie. Turns out my sister Jo and I both have the recipe, and Jo wrote me that when one of her boys told Scottie Cook, who was helping Mother, that Scottie made the best cookies he ever had (the orange!) that Mother was quick to say that it was her recipe and not Scottie’s. Question: where did Mom get it? Anyway, here is the famous Orange Cookie recipe some of you have been asking about and others of you who read this might want to try.

Mommy’s Orange Cookies
1 C sugar
1 C shortening
2 eggs
1 C orange juice
grated rind of one orange
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp soda
3 C flour

Put together in the usual way: (Cream sugar, shortening, add eggs, sift flour, b.p., soda together, and add alternately with o.j.) Drop spoonsful on greased cookie sheet, not too close together. Bake in a preheated moderate oven (I think that’s about 350° – 375° in today’s language). Frost with powdered sugar moistened with orange juice, to which the grated rind has been added. Makes four dozen or more.

Note: Jo has our grandmother’s much battered (pun intended) cookbook with Grama’s famous Thanksgiving cookies in it. When I get a copy of that recipe, I’ll add it to this blog.

*edited to warm up the oven temp!

My bicycle, tea, and a bum

In my last post, I talked about Watership Down by Richard Adams. One of my England trips, with 24 students, was for my course, British Children’s Lit. The year previous, I was alone in England on my bicycle and pulled up to Richard Adams’ doorstep. When he answered my knock, I told him how much I liked the book, and he invited me in to have tea with him and his wife. We had a grand time and I asked him if I could bring my class to meet him. We did – and he actually climbed Watership Down (a big breadloaf-shaped chalk hill) with all of us. On that earlier visit, he told me to bike on down to Arundel and call on Rosemary Sutcliffe, a famous writer of British history for children. I did; she served me tea graciously, and the next year, served tea -– each cup and saucer beautiful and unique — to 24 students. When she died a few years back, her ceremony was at Westminster Abby and a disreputable bum sat in the back waving and singing. She would have loved it.