Who do I think I am?

Like most Americans, my heritage is as mixed as a can of holiday nuts. There’s a lot about it that I don’t know. My father’s side of the family is still a big mystery to me. The one time I asked him where we came from, he said, “I think the Maddys came from Kansas.” This wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, but it turns out that there is a branch of the Maddy family in Kansas that is prominent and successful.

As to where we came from before Kansas, I haven’t been able to find out. Maddy is one of those names that is found all over the British Isles. I’ve found the Maddy name associated with England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, so it’s possible that we came from any one of those places. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever discover the exact town or village where my last European Maddy ancestor was born.

For my mother’s side of the family, however, it’s an entirely different story, particularly concerning my maternal grandmother. Her father’s parents were named Andersen, and they came to the United States from Norway in the early part of the 20th century. They settled in the Midwest, as did many Scandinavian immigrants. In fact, there were so many immigrants in that part of the country with the name Andersen they were having difficulty getting their mail. Eventually they ended up moving to Colorado and changing their name to Wold, the name of the farm where they lived.

Along with all of his brothers and sisters, my great grandfather was born and raised in Colorado. Although he was 100% Norwegian, he never learned any of the Norwegian language. Of his siblings, only his eldest sister ever learned any of her parents’ native language. Today perhaps immigration is seen differently than it was at the turn of the 20th century. It’s considered positive and natural for immigrants to hold onto some aspects of their native language and culture. But for my Norwegian ancestors, immigrating to the United States meant that they were making a conscious decision to leave their old country and culture behind. The quickest way to integrate was to act and speak and think like Americans. I’ll probably never know the reason why they chose to leave Norway and move to the United States, but whatever the reason was it meant leaving Norway entirely behind.

Here is the Wold family. The man in the top row. far right was my great grandfather, Charles Wold. He and his brothers and sisters were born in Colorado, USA. Only his parents, Louis and Mary Wold (Andersen) in the front row were born in Norway.

Only recently have I learned more details about my Norwegian heritage, including specifically where they came from. My grandmother, mother, and cousin took a trip to Scandinavia last summer, partially to see me, but also to visit the ancestral land and maybe even locate the village or house where my grandmother’s grandparents (my great-great grandparents) lived. This was never an easy task, and considering that the family’s Norwegian name was Andersen, one of the most common names in Norway, I didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything specific.

However, my grandmother did some research and discovered that her Norwegian grandparents came from Bergen, which today is the country’s second largest city, located in the west of Norway near Byfjorden, one the country’s stunningly beautiful fjords. She visited Bergen and found her grandfather’s name written down in a town registry, which was an amazing and unexpected revelation.

The breathtaking beauty of Bergen. Why would anybody leave such a gorgeous place?

I found the above photo at the Northern Sights website. More amazing pictures of the city can be found there.

Now that I know, specifically, where I come from I’ve decided that I simply must have my own traditional Norwegian folk costume, called bunad in Norwegian. The designs and colors of bunads are different for each region or city in Norway. Some of them can be elaborately detailed, while others are simple and elegant. The Oslo and Bergen style bunads are similar in design, each is quite simple and consists of an embroidered bodice and a matching embroidered skirt with with a white blouse and matching shawl. However, the Oslo bunad is a periwinkle blue color, while the Bergen bunad is dark blue.

I absolutely adore the Bergensbunad color and design. Apart from the embroidery it looks simple enough for me to make myself:

Simple and Elegant Bergen-style Folk Costume

 

Posted in Art and Culture, Fashion, Yours Truly | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Autumn Introspection

Autumn Path

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few leaves still remain,
Stubbornly refusing to fall.
Though most of their kin
Have already formed
A pretty orange carpet
On the forest floor.

The old leaves have to go
Eventually, or else
They’ll die clinging,
Shriveled and brown
To the branch of the tree.

The tree knows all about
Letting go.
It knows that life
Cannot be renewed unless
One first removes the old,
And the dead.

Such is the life of a tree.
Such is life.

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And though my heart was cracked a little, I wrapped it up well before I left. And it arrived intact. It’s a good thing too, because the rest of me fell apart and arrived a messed up tangle. But my heart was okay. Slightly damaged, yes. But good enough to give to you.
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Kitten’s Ride of Terror

I’m a kitten. Don’t know better.
Just wanted to escape the weather.
Now I’m alone and stuck up here.
A tiny little ball of fear.
For my life has just begun.
Should be full of joy and fun.
But now it’s full of strife.
As I hold on for dear life.
Not knowing what’s to come.
Or what happened to my mom.
Holding on and holding tight,
As I scream with all my might.
A tiny noise. May not go far,
Over the engine of the car.
Can’t you hear me? Cease to drive!
And I might make it out alive.
Oh please! Please come and get me.
Give me lots of love and pet me.
I swear I’ll be a loving friend.
And I’m never doing this again!

Inspired by this news article: Kitten straddles gas tank in 70-km ride of terror

Posted in Caturday, News and Current Events, Poetry | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

When is a hospital not a hospital?

When it’s a medical center. Even if it calls itself a hospital.

I left work early yesterday because I was feeling very poorly: dizzy, lightheaded, disoriented, and feeling in my head as if I was riding a roller coaster. I told my boss I had to leave and he told me to go to the nearest hospital. He even offered to put me in a taxi and pay for me to get there, but I said I could probably make it on my own. Anyway, I called Tobias (Swedish boyfriend) and he said he’d meet me at Capio Lundby Hospital, since it was the nearest one. At least I thought it was.

When we got there the staff seemed confused as to why we were there, since this was apparently not a hospital but a local clinic or medical center (vårdcentral in Swedish), despite the fact that the sign on the outside clearly reads, “Hospital.”

“So, uh… why did you come here?” the receptionist asked.

“I need to see a doctor right away and this is nearest hospital to where I live.” I said.

“Oh,” she said, “Well, that’s an easy mistake to make. It says hospital on the building but it’s not really a hospital. We don’t take emergency patients. For that you need to go to one of the emergency hospitals.”

She agreed that it was a stupid rule but that rules are rules.

At this point, I began to get really upset, since I was feeling genuinely awful and no one seemed willing to help me. They then took me into a room and let me sit down while a very kind and sympathetic nurse talked to me and calmed me down. She looked up the number of my neurologist and had Tobias call his office. He didn’t speak to the doctor but after giving an explanation of my symptoms to one of the nurses there, it was I suggested I go to the emergency room ASAP.

The problem was that the nearest emergency room was across town, and it would take us an hour to get there on public transport. So, the hospital/medical center arranged for a taxi to take us there at their expense. They did seem sincerely sorry that they couldn’t treat me and were being as helpful as they could. The taxi ride took about fifteen minutes.

Eventually I was admitted to triage and was seen to by a whole team of nurses and doctors. They did an EKG test, took lots of blood and urine, asked me a bunch of questions, and fixed me right up. It was nice that I didn’t have to wait very long either. It was the shortest emergency room visit I ever experienced. In and out in about two hours time.

So, to make a long story short, if you ever find yourself in Sweden and need to go to the emergency room, make sure that the hospital you go to really is a proper emergency hospital. Not all of them are. I found out the hard way.

Posted in A Day in the Life, Complaints Department, Living in Sweden | 1 Comment

My Father’s Eyes

Mine are just like his.
His pale blue eyes.
Once so clear. So bright.
Beautiful and electric.
Now faded and dull.
Cold blue discs floating
In a bloodshot sea.
An icy ocean chummed
For sharks beneath.
Blood vessels floating
And bobbing like dead fish
On the surface.
The last time I looked
In those eyes, in that sea,
My heart froze.
And then it burned.
For there was his soul
At the very bottom.
Rock bottom.
Unable to surface.
Drowning.
Save me, it whispers
Help me.
So in I’ll dive.
And down I’ll sink.
Past the bloody surface.
Into the cold darkness
To find his soul.
I’ll hold it tight and swim.
And the sea will become clearer.
And bluer, sparkling blue.
And we’ll emerge.
His soul and mine.
Together.
And the sea,
Will be beautiful again.
His eyes as pale blue,
As a summer sky.

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The Beautiful Words

I want to sing a song.
A beautiful song.
A sad song.
A fitting song.
Something like “Angel,”
By Sarah MacLaclan.

For the sweet. Innocent. Dead.
Norwegian children.

Could have grown up,
To be geniuses.
Troubled geniuses,
Like Amy Winehouse.
We’ll never know now.
All that potential.

All that talent.
All Gone.

I want to sing,
A song for them.
But the words,
The beautiful words.
Will only come out,
As tears.

Maybe it’s better this way, Amy.
You know that I’m no good.

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My Box of Ignorance

Despite all the pain I left behind,
Every now and then you cross my mind.
Yet, these thoughts aren’t the unwelcome kind.

I feel neither hatred, nor bitterness anew.
I’ve got far better things to do,
Than waste my time and energy on hating you.

I wonder if you’ve changed or are just the same?
Still burning in the fire of Jealousy’s flame.
And committing selfish acts in its spiteful name.

When first we met what laughs we had!
Yes, you were a bit controlling but not that bad,
And the happy times far outnumbered the sad.

Yet, over the years your jealousy became a curse.
And your controlling nature just got worse and worse.
Your selfish arrogance more difficult to disperse.

And despite the abuse increasing more and more,
And all the other women that I chose to ignore,
I tolerated it and stayed because that’s what I was for.

And because that was the box my life was in.
When I went inside, I didn’t need to come out again.
Once I shut myself inside, I was cut off from the pain
.
But you didn’t keep me prisoner in that box, I did.
From all the looks and words of pity, there I hid.
And then one day I cautiously opened up the lid.

I saw a world out there without you at its center.
At first it seemed more or less impossible to enter.
For I had all of your wants and requirements to tend to.

But then I started looking outside that box more often.
And eventually my resolve to stay in there began to soften.
Until one day I realized that my box was now my coffin.

Something is very wrong, I said, something is amiss.
I think my life was meant to be so much more than this.
So I stepped outside and left behind my box of ignorance.

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Thoughts on Norway: the children of Utøya

Like most Americans, my ancestors came from many different countries. There’s a little German here and a little Welsh there, but I happen to be more Norwegian than anything else. Until recently I’ve never really identified in any particular way with that country. However, since yesterday afternoon I’ve felt more Norwegian than I’ve ever felt before. My Norwegian great-grandfather, uncles, aunts and cousins, all of whom are a part of me, must be in mourning. Of the 100 people killed in the attacks in and around Oslo, at least 84 of them were teenagers at a summer camp on the island of Utøya.

It’s so hard to think about those kids without breaking down and crying. What must it have been like for them? Nearly 700 of them were gathered together and huddled around television sets and radios, listening for news of the bomb attacks that had just taken place in Oslo, about 20 miles away from where they were on the island. A tall, blonde, blue-eyed man dressed as a policeman approached them and asked them to come over to him. He said he was there as part of the investigation of the bomb attacks and probably had news of their families back home. Naturally they trusted him without question. Why shouldn’t they? He was a policeman come to help them, so of course they eagerly went over to him.

He then produced several weapons, including a machine gun and shotgun, and opened fire on them. The teenagers ran in terror for their lives and some even jumped into the water in an attempt to swim to the mainland, but he continued to mow them down, randomly, and indiscriminately. Eventually he was caught, but not before he had managed to kill dozens of people, some of whom were as young as sixteen years old. At the time of writing the search continues for more victims, but the current body count is 91. This includes the 84 found at the summer camp, and seven from the bombings in Oslo.

Now everyone is trying to figure out who is responsible and why it happened. Was this the act of Muslim extremists? At this point it does not seem very likely. Did the gunman act alone or is he a member of an anti-Jihadist group? Again this does not seem to be the case. For my part I find it hard to speculate on the motives behind the attacks. I cannot identify on any level with someone who would commit such atrocious acts of carnage. The typically Norwegian-looking gunman Anders Behring Breivik, has been described by the media as a right wing Christian fundamentalist, based on his own description of his religious and political beliefs on Facebook: “Christian” and “Conservative.”

So what, though. He’s a Christian and a Conservative, but so are millions of other people, none of whom are capable of the committing the atrocities that took place yesterday afternoon. I’ve been asking myself over and over why this happened. How could anyone do this? What would lead someone to commit these atrocities? It’s so frustrating because there are no answers to these questions and the violence seems so pointless.

If he had any kind of agenda then how on earth would committing these acts gain any sympathy or support for it?

For more thoughts on this tragedy, please see CC Champagne’s article here.

Posted in News and Current Events, Politics | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

The Old Photograph

These are your roots.
She said, your family.
And I stare at them.
Until my eyes burn,
From lack of blinking.

Stare at the faces,
Black and white smiles,
In the old photograph.
Frozen long ago,
In a moment in time.

These people are long dead.
Gone before I was born.
And yet, they feel,
Strangely alive,
As if across distance,

They have travelled,
And across time.
It seems so improbable.
How could they be dead,
And yet alive?

Here, but not here?
And suddenly,
I understand why.
I am alive.
And I am here.

And I am them.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | 4 Comments