JACKIE

This is a story that I have put off writing for 39 years. Not because it is less important than the rest, but because it is a story that has weighed heavily on my heart for all of these years, but I have not had the courage to put it on down on paper.

Jacqueline Jean Gries was my third born child. The unwanted pregnancy came in 1961 at a time when my marriage to her father was on a downhill slide towards divorce. I was not at all happy about bringing another child into this unhappy world.  My husband and I had been married when we were still children ourselves, ages 16 and 18, and as we became adults we found that we really didn't like each other that much, Our ideas on almost everything were miles apart and I thought he was mean and selfish. We already had two children. a girl age 4 and a boy age 3--a third one was just not in the plan. During the very early months of the pregnancy I acted happy on the outside, but  I secretly harbored the hope that I might  have a miscarriage. Later I became more or less resigned to the idea of having three children to deal with during a future divorce.

Then she was here!  On August 6, almost a month before the predicted birth date, we were on the way to the hospital, and this tiny little girl was born. She was beautiful, and I fell instantly in love! She weighed only 5 lbs. 4 oz., and in the first few days went down to 4 lbs. 8 oz., The doctors told me she would have to stay in the hospital after I was released until she was 5 lbs. I went home and cried for a week until I could bring her home. And from that day my life was never the same.

From Day One Jackie was tiny but mighty! There was never a question about how she felt or what she would or would not do. Even though her time on this Earth was short, she made an impact on all who knew her and loved her. I think this poem that I wrote about her after her death pretty much sums it up.

A MOTHER REMEMBERS

I remember--Was it only yesterday? No, a score of years

has passed since she was born. and became a part of me.

A tiny scrap of humanity. An unwanted interruption in

my own troubled life. Yet, it took but a glimpse of her to

win me over. I left her in the hospital incubator and cried

for a week until she was back in my arms. I held her close

and she became entrenched in m soul, then --

I remember--A little girl with golden curls and sunny smiles

that could turn stone into putty. Those smile would too often

give way to frowns and tears, but would return again in an instant

when things went her way. Her "ups and downs" of temperament

were humorous for one so small--they became a family joke.

Her art of manipulating others with her little tantrums was "cute," then--

I remember.

I remember--she could sing like a bird. "Stars of Tomorrow" winner 

at age five;--belting out "How Great Thou Art" for the church congregation,

memorizing all the verses. The first heartbreak;--a diagnosis of petit mal;

brain scans; medications. "Your daughter will not pay attention in class. 

She does not concentrate." Learning disability? Perhaps, but that now

fashionable phrase was not in vogue, then-- 

I remember.

I remember--the young adolescent. The beginnings of rebellion.

The wrong friends; boys that were too old; lying; sneaking out;

same old school story: "She won't pay attention." She disrupts

the class."  Emotional outbursts intensified and were not longer "cute."

I could not reach her. But her smiles, when they came, still melted

me and weakened my resolve, then--

I remember.

I remember--The breakdown. Only 16, her brain scrambled by

unknown inner torment. The rat race! Hospital snake pits, 

all bad, some worse. Psychiatrists, group homes, drugs designed

to create human zombies. "Manic depression" from one doctor;

Schizophrenic" from another. "Angel Dust" from a third. 

"Chronic condition" I was told. "Only temporary" I was also told.

This Hell on Earth lasted three years; an eternity, then--

I remember.

I remember--The hospital scene was finally over, but the girl was

not the same. Barely 20, with no hope for the future, no purpose

in life, wanting only to die. Then she was running, from what?

Jumping from one place to another, from one bed to another.

Sometimes, when she had nowhere else to go, she came home

for a while. "Give up on her," I was told. "You have done what

you can. Forget her!" Per haps I should have, but I could not, then---

I remember--The phone call! The one I had long feared, yet

hoped would never come. "Your daughter is dead.--She has been shot.--

It was suicide." The shock, the disbelief, the anger, the resignation.

The pain is finally over for her, but not for me. Her turmoil 

is ended, but not mine. She was not meant for this world.

Farewell my child, my love. W e will meet again someday and

things will be perfect, then--

I remember!

In memory of Jacqueline Jean Gries, 1961-1982.

My Sister and Me



Hope and Swede with their 4 sons, Dude, Bill, Jim and Jeff, 1960

Hope Enger Reyman, July 18, 1926-October 28, 2013

After spending my morning watching the videos that were made over the years by my sister Hope Enger Reyman, (Thank you Jill Wyatt!) I came to a conclusion that I have probably known all along—it just didn’t occur to me before.  Hopie and I were born of the same parents and loved each other with all our hearts, but we were born total opposites!

Baby Hope, 1926, Kindred, ND

Maybe our differences stemmed from the fact that we were raised in vastly different eras. She in the 1930’s and 40’s with two brothers, and me in the 40’s and 50’s as an “only child.”  Hopie and my brothers lived through the years of the Great Depression and World War II, while my experiences included the boom years of the post-war era and the birth of Rock and Roll.  But truly I believe that we sisters were just born with different genes.  Hopie inherited the patience of our mother, and I was born with the antsiness of our father.  Today it would be called ADHD, back then I was pegged as having “ants in my pants.”

Baton majorette, Worthington, MN High School, 1944

Hopie enjoyed the simple things in life.  On her videos she spends what seems like an eternity just watching a tiny crab sidling across the beach; a bird chirping on its perch; and flowers growing in the field—so much so that I can’t help but hit the “fast forward” button to go on to the next scene.  She loved the beauty of nature, was always amazed by it, and took time to observe its wonders.  I, on the other hand, always wanted to hurry things up, to go on to something more interesting, bigger, or better than where I was or what I was doing at the present.  A lot of the time I was disappointed when I finally made it there, and I would say to myself, “Is that all there is?”

Marriage to Durward "Swede" Reyman, 1946

 

Hopie lived a life that was what some people of today would call “uneventful.” From the time she married Durward “Swede” Reyman at age 20 in 1946 she was a supportive wife and later a stay-at-home Mom to their four boys.  The family never went on trips to exotic destinations, but always spent their vacations “going home” to visit parents and family in Minnesota and Kansas.  Any money Hopie had was never spent on herself or things she wanted, because what she wanted is to buy things or make things for others.  And whenever anyone in the family (or friends) ended up at her home they were always welcomed with open arms and good food. 

 

Hometown Heroes, Fort Morgan, Colorado, 1990's

I think of her artistic talents which she also inherited from our Mom. Over the years I and all the rest of the family were recipients of the fruits of her labors-- oil paintings, bean and seed pictures, stuffed pictures, ceramic Christmas trees, dummy dolls, concrete lawn ornaments, quillows, and even gold-sprayed cow pies, turd birds and porcupine eggs!  She was probably the most sentimental person I have ever known and she saved every card, gift, letter or picture that anyone ever gave her. 

60th wedding anniversary, January 21, 2006

Hopie and Swede’s marriage lasted 64 “uneventful” years, and the unhappiest I have ever seen my sister was after his death in 2010.  She did not want to let him go, and from then on she was never her old self.  Her health deteriorated also, and she went to join him on October 28, 2013. The hole that was left in my heart when she died will never heal until I see her again someday, but at least now I can put in the video and relive the memories!

The Put Down That Changed My Life

Note from author:  This is a rewrite of a story I wrote in 1977 and I just found it again in a box of paper I was sorting through. DES

“How can you get a job? You can’t do anything but scrub floors.”  That statement was made to me by my then husband in 1966, and although he meant it as just another put-down it changed my life.  The part that really hurt, of course, was that his statement was essentially true.

              We had eloped during our Christmas break of my junior year and his senior year in Mora (MN) High School.  I was barely 16 years old and he 18.  Our “love” I now know was based on physical attraction and the desire to be grown up before our time. After all, the goal of most high school girls at that time and place was to get married, be a housewife and raise a perfect family!  The cries of our parents that we were too young and it wouldn’t last made us more determined, we were "madly in love," so we began our married life as children playing house—living with my parents and going back to finish out the school year. My husband had planned to go to into the US Air Force after graduation and I was going with him!

 

Teenagers in Love

Our wedding reception in January 1956

 

From the very beginning our marital existence was as stormy as our year of “going steady” had been.  He did not change from what I thought was demanding, moody and obstinate, and I was still a kid in my parents' home and didn't know the first thing about being a wife.    I went back to school and finished my junior year and by the end of the school year I was three months pregnant.  My sister and brother-in-law came to visit in June and they said that if my husband would come to Wyoming he could likely get a job with the same company my brother in law worked for, Conoco Oil, which would be much more lucrative than the Air Force. So we packed all of our belongings in the back of a 1947 Chevrolet coupe and followed them "home" to the oil fields of Wyoming.

Once there I very quickly came to the realization that I was 750 miles from my parents, and  mother and daddy were no longer there to run to with my problems.  I had to start growing up—fast!  I cried a lot and my husband—who was probably equally as overwhelmed by his new responsibilities—was unsympathetic.  At least I had my sister, and without her I probably would not have survived. Our first home was a single-wide 33' trailer house with a lean-to for the living room and our address was the Conoco employee trailer park. Not necessarily the home of my dreams!

In Wyoming at 16 and 18--and me pregnant

Our first baby girl was born in December of 1956 when I had just turned 17, and our son came along 11 months later, a week before I turned 18.   They were both beautiful and healthy and I loved them both so much but caring for two babies was overwhelming for me who had never even changed a diaper before.   I tried to be a good Mom but at times I felt trapped in a dark tunnel with no light on either end.  I could not go backward and become my parents' little girl again and I saw no hope for a better future.  In the meantime I tried to put on a good public front  and act "normal." I got involved in church and community activities with my sister and her friends who were all much older than me.

Two Beautiful Babies in Two Years

Easter 1958

 

When my adulthood dawned (age 21 at that time) I already had five years behind me of being a housewife and mother and our third child was on the way.  I was definitely disillusioned with our circumstances,yet I could see no way out or any way to care of myself and my children alone.  In August of 1961 our youngest child and second daughter was born which made it even more impossible to leave the marriage.  I am not saying it was all bad--we had some good times too--but in my mind the bad times usually won out.

A new baby sister in 1961

Life went on in this pattern for another eight years. We moved a couple of times due to transfers, but for me it was always the same.  I stayed involved in church and community  but inside I felt like a non-person.  My only escape was the world of books, and I became an avid member of the Doubleday “Book of the Month” club.

             A major point of contention between my husband and me was always money.  According to him, he earned it and I spent it.  He constantly reminded me that I was not contributing to the family income, as if keeping his home and taking care of his children was not really "work."

 

The family in 1965

During one of these money disputes--the baby was in first grade then and we were living in Frannie, Wyoming-- I offered to go out and find a job.  It was then that my husband made the fateful statement, “What kind of job would you get? You don’t know how to do anything but scrub floors.”   I was so hurt and angry that I became determined to find a job if it killed me; anything but scrubbing floors that is!

I began thinking about what career I would have chosen if I had not trapped myself in this “marriage tunnel” at age 16.  Journalism had always fascinated me and I loved to write.  I decided to  write a letter to our nearest newspaper, a semi-weekly publication called the Powell Tribune.  I wrote ta letter to the editor. saying that I had always had a desire to get into a newspaper career and if he would give me a chance I would take any kind of position he could offer me.  I waited and waited but I didn’t receive an answer to my letter.  I was disappointed but not really surprised, and meanwhile I took my first outside job ever as a cashier behind the candy counter at the Powell Ben Franklin store.

Driving fifty miles round trip to and from work and keeping up with three kids and the house was a challenge.  My job at Ben Franklin wasn’t exciting but I was determined to stick with it, just to “show” my husband if nothing else.  After about three months I came home from work one afternoon and my son said, “The editor of the Powell Tribune called and wants you to call him back.”  I remembered the letter I had written months back and, not daring to hope, I dialed the phone with trembling fingers. The editor was out, the voice on the other end reported, and the suspense within me mounted.   When he finally did call back I was almost bursting!

             The editor apologized for not answering my letter earlier, and he explained that it had become buried on his desk and he just found it again. Yes, he did need help and would I mind coming in to talk to him about it?   Would I mind--? I was ecstatic!
              During our interview we both laid it on the line. I told him I had no formal experience but I wanted to learn.  He said he had been trying to cover all of the writing duties by himself and he was swamped.  The budget did not allow for a full time reporter but he did need a person to write feature stories of local interest on a contract basis.  For me that would be ideal, because I could write at home and still keep my day job. Yes, I would love to try it!
             My first assignment was to do a story about a calcium plant at Frannie where we lived.  I contacted the plant manager and was granted a tour and an interview and I spent hours and hours writing and rewriting the story which I turned in with apprehension.  There were flaws but the editor apparently saw a hidden talent shining through. He printed my story after some “blue penciling” and there it was in the next issue of the Powell Tribune.   Whew! He  then gave me a couple of books and some pointers on newspaper writing style and sent me on a second assignment  to cover a woman who had a driftwood and bottle hobby shop in her basement. The next issue carried the story unedited and with my own by-line. I was in heaven!
               I wrote several more features and the editor began getting favorable comments on my work. He started asking me to cover a meeting now and then or a special event to help him out, and before long I had quit my cashier job and was a regular at the newspaper office on press days.  I enrolled in some courses at Northwest Community College in Powell and for the first time in my adult life I began to feel as if I were a real person. I became a full-fledged reporter and feature writer, and I was overjoyed when two of my features received first and second place awards at the Wyoming Press Convention after my first year on the job.

One of the Press Awards was for this article on the Japanese Internment

 

The atmosphere at home, however, was becoming steadily worse. My husband was resentful of my new-found career and the attention I was devoting to it. He was unhappy when I had to leave the house to cover a night-time news event or attend a class. He was jealous of my business contacts and the recognition I was getting in the community.  I tried counselling through my minister, my doctor and a psychologist but my husband wouldn’t participate as "I was the one who had the problem, not him."

            Then the straw that broke the camel’s back, and the second time that one of his comments caused a change in my life.  When I told him excitedly about winning the press awards he said, “Well, there must not have been too much competition!” 
             Finally, after 14 years of a marriage that should never have happened, I faced the fact that our home would always be a virtual war zone and I filed for divorce.  It was not an easy step to take, but at least now I knew that I had the choice to take that step and I did have some skills to be able to support myself.  Now, at least, I could see a light at the end of that tunnel I had entered at age 16.
             I would never advocate divorce as a solution to marital discord except as a last resort.  It is never easy, and even harder on the children than it is on the parents I believe, but I know without a doubt that my entry into the job market in Powell gave me the courage to end a marriage that was bad from the start and that I was convinced would not get better.
            After the divorce I decided to move out of the town that my ex-husband lived in and I applied for a reporter job at the daily Fort Morgan Times in Colorado where my sister then lived.  I was hired as a reporter, photographer and feature writer on the recommendation of my former boss.   I will always be grateful to a young newspaper editor in Powell, Wyoming who gave me the chance to prove myself.   
         Of course a lot more has happened in my life since this story ends in 1970 but that is for another day. After all, It has taken me over 40 years to write this one!  Remember that it is strictly from my prospective and I am sure that my former husband would have his own side to tell. He was a good man but we just were not good for each other and we did become friends again later in life.  Sadly, he passed away in 2010 and that is why I felt I could share my story now.

A Letter To My Mother in Heaven

Mother's Day has been a bitter-sweet occasion to me since 1976.  That year in February I lost my dear mother, Effie Jeannetta Mestad Enger, under the most horrific conditions.  Her death was by suicide which was--and still is--incomprehensible to me for a woman as kind, loving, and God-fearing as my mother.  I wrote her a letter in 1978 as an attempt to ease the ache in my heart, and my thoughts are still the same today.  In honor of my beautiful Mother I am reprinting it below. 

A Letter to My Mother in Heaven

 October 3, 1978

Dearest Mother,

I’m sorry!  I know these words cannot bring you back to life, but I had to say them.  I have to do something to try and rid myself of the nagging thoughts that linger  in the recesses of my mind.  If we—your family—had been more responsive to your needs as a person—would you be alive today?

SUICIDE!  That was only a word to me until that February day in 1976.  “Taking one’s own life” was a phenomenon that happened to other people in other places—not to me and my family.

There was nothing so unusual about “that day” in February over two years ago.  It was raining, as I remember, and the phone was ringing when I walked into our real estate office in Quilcene, Washington.  But the words I heard on the other end of that line were unforgettable and shall always haunt me.  “It’s Mom,” cried the agonized voice of my sister Hope.  “She shot herself and she’s in the hospital.  Things look bad and you’d better come right away.”

At first her words would not penetrate my mind—I thought I must be just waking from some terrible nightmare.  But when I looked around I was staring into the cold light of day, and my sister was still sobbing at the other end of the line.

I felt as though I had been transformed into a remote-control robot as I hung up the receiver and walked out of the office to find my husband, who was having his morning coffee break with the usual crowd.  He looked up and gave me a cheerful greeting as I entered, but when he saw my face the color also drained from his and he came toward me and ushered me outside where I told him the dreadful news.

My mind and thoughts raced uncontrollably during the seemingly endless flight to Colorado.  My mother, I told myself, was the sweetest, most gentle human being I had ever known.  She had given her entire life to caring for the needs of her family—always the peacemaker—a shining example of the Golden Rule in action.  This simply could not be!

I would not let myself think “death.”  “It won’t be so bad when I get there," I told myself.  “It’s probably just a flesh wound and she will be home in a few days.  It was all a mistake—she was just picking up Dad's gun to put it away and it went off,” I thought, as I tried to ignore the conversational attempts of my seatmate.  But when I walked into that hospital lobby and saw the family members gathered there—my father bowed low with grief and looking generations older than  his 76 years—I could disbelieve no longer.

I was led down the corridor into your hospital room where there were four occupied beds, but the person they led me to was not you, Mother.  It couldn’t be!  My mother, who would never allow herself to be seen in public without her lipstick, couldn’t possibly be lying there like that!

I stared in horror at the grotesquely swollen head, the two black patches that were once the most beautiful blue eyes in the world; the turban-style bandage with blood seeping through at the edges that covered the silver hair I loved.  Tubes were running from anywhere to everywhere.  I touched you and your skin was icy.  I spoke to you but there was not the faintest glimmer of understanding.

The only movement was the rise and fall of your chest in perfect rhythm with the cold, ugly respirator beside your bed.  Oh, how I came to love and hate that machine in the long hours ahead.  Each time I approached your room I attuned myself for its rasping sound—afraid it may have stopped.  And each time, before I left your room, I wanted to smash it into a million pieces to stop that infernal, incessant, mechanical beat.  That wasn’t you, Mother!

When it was finally over (could that eternity only have lasted 48 hours?) I was exhausted, and heartbroken, and relieved.  Your brain was dead, we were told, and the fact that the heart stopped also was a blessing.  I can admit now, Mother, that my first reaction to your death was one of anger and indignation.  How could you have done such a terrible thing to Dad and to me and the rest of your family?  How could you have put us all through this ordeal?  What had we done to deserve this?  You knew how much we all loved you and needed you!

You did know that, didn’t you Mother?  Surely, you must have known.  Of course I didn’t say “I love you and need you” all the time, just like that—but I always sent you nice cards and gifts on your birthday, and Mother’s Day and Christmas.  I phoned you at least once a month, and wrote a letter whenever I could work it into my busy schedule.  And we came to see you at least once a year. It's a long ways from Washington to Colorado.  Now that I put it all down on paper it wasn’t much, was it Mother?  I am so sorry!

I guess none of us will ever know or understand what mental torment you must have been going through that compelled you to pick up that gun (you always hated guns, I remember) and pull that trigger.  Of course, you had told us for years about a gnawing pain inside of you that wouldn’t let you sleep at night.  But none of your doctors could ever pinpoint the source of such a pain—they kept giving you pills and telling you it was in your head.  I know you wanted sympathy, but we were told that too much sympathy wasn’t good, so we sort of laughed it off and tried to tease you out of the notion.  It wasn’t funny to you, was it Mother?  I really am sorry!

 I know that you were lonely and depressed at times, but what could I do?  I had obligations to husband, and children, and job which always seemed to keep me far away from you, and of course I had problems of my own to worry about.

Remember that old song that you used to sing to your daughters and make us cry?  “HELLO, CENTRAL, GIVE ME HEAVEN, FOR MY MOTHER’S THERE.”  How I wish that I could pick up the phone this minute and call you—to tell you how much I love you and how much better everything would be if you would only come back to us.  The next best thing was for me to write this letter, although I can never mail it.  Our postal service does not extend to heaven, where I am sure you have been given the most beautiful crown among the angels. 

But somehow I feel that you will be able to read these words and to understand what I am trying to say—even though ineptly.  I love you Mother, and I am truly sorry.  I hope someday to be able to tell you in person.

                                                          Lovingly,

                                                           Your daughter, Dianne

Circa 1903: John Hanson Mestad and his four daughters.

Effie, the baby, on his lap, Alma, Cora and Mayme

POSTSCRIPT:  My mother Effie Mestad lost her mother when she was two years old, and her father John Hanson Mestad used to sing this song to his four daughters.  My mother, in turn, would sing it to me and my sister Hope, and it would bring tears every time!  I guess the young people today wouldn't even know about "Central!"

HELLO CENTRAL GIVE ME HEAVEN

 

Hello central give me heaven
For I know my mother's there
And you'll find her with the angels
Over on the golden stair

She'll be glad it's me a speaking
Wont you call her for me please
For I surely want to tell her
That we're sad without her here

   Hello central give me heaven
   For I know my mother's there
   You will find her with the angels
   Over on the golden stair

Poppa dear is sad and lonely
Sobbed the tearful little child
Since momma's gone to heaven
Poppa dear you do not smile

I will speak to her and tell her
That we want her to come home
You just listen while I call her
Call her through the telephone

I will answer just to please her
Yes dear heart I'll soon come home
Kiss me momma it's your darling
Kiss me through the telephone.

             

 

 

 

A TRIBUTE TO MY AUNT TOOTSIE!

      One of the very favorite and influential people in my entire life was my Aunt Tootsie, officially known as Myrtle Vivian Enger, born April 27, 1916 in Minneapolis, Minnesota, the youngest child of my paternal grandparents Edward and Hannah Larson Enger.  My father, William D. "Bill" Enger was her oldest brother, 16 years older to be exact.

      I wrote about Vivian before and some of the struggles she had in life as a victim of polio (Blog 7--Enger Kids, Vivian and Stanley:  Bad Things Happen to Good People." )  Sadly for me, but not for her, Vivian passed away in August of 2011 at the age of 95 having accomplished a long and successful career as Nobles County Clerk of Court, a loving 64-year marriage to Clarence Erbes, and a wonderful family of son Steve and his wife Jo, three grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. 

     I wrote the following tribute to her at Christmas in 2008 after spending a week with her and my cousin Steve at her home in Worthington, Minnesota, helping her sort out her massive supply of family photos and family history papers.  

       Rest in Peace Aunt Tootsie. You are forever implanted in my memory and in my heart!  I hope to be with you again someday, and you can sing Froggie Went A Courtin' for me one more time!

 

My Aunt Tootsie

By Dianne Sonia Enger Snell                                                                 December, 2008

It’s hard for me to know where to start when asked to write my thoughts about my Aunt Tootsie.  Oh yes, I know her name is Vivian—or technically “Myrtle Vivian”—but to me she’s Tootsie.  That is the way I have always known her, and when I say always, I mean she has ALWAYS been in my life.

 I was born in Worthington, Minnesota on November 27, 1939, when Tootsie was still Vivian Enger.  She gave me my first doll named “Sugar Plum” which I still have in my memory trunk.  She has a slightly smashed head, but I don’t remember the story behind that.  Tootsie would probably remember.

My cousin Janet and I were the flower girls when Tootsie married Clarence Erbes on October 4, 1942.  She always told me that I got bored right in the middle of the ceremony and said, “Come on, Gigi, let’s go write on the blackboard.”

I was the youngest of the Enger grandchildren back then.  I also lived the closest to Toots and Clarence in Worthington so Tootsie spoiled me rotten when I was little.  She would sing to me, read to me, rub my back, and tell me stories.  When my parents would go out of town I would get to stay with them on McMillan Street and I would sleep with Grandma Hannah.  Grandma was a great story-teller and I loved to listen to her stories of the “olden days” when my Daddy was a little boy.  I couldn’t imagine that, as he already had grey hair when I was born!

 One time I was staying with them and my dog Tippy ran away so I cried and cried and Clarence went out looking for her for hours.  She finally came home on her own. Another time, Toots asked Clarence to pick me up after school and when he came I didn’t want to go home with him—I wanted to go to my friend’s house.  Clarence said, “NO”, because he didn’t have time to come and pick my up again later.  I wouldn’t get in the car so he threw me in the back seat and took me to the house.  I was really mad at him for a while, but later on Toots found me sitting on his lap.

Steve was born when I was seven and that was a big red-letter-day in my life.  Actually, I think I had mixed feelings about it.  I was really excited to have a baby cousin and I bragged about him to all my friends. On the other hand I was a little jealous as I thought Tootsie would quit spoiling me!  However, that didn’t happen.  I was still her little girl!  I do have to admit that Steve is pretty great guy!

When I was thirteen years old and after our lumber yard burned, my Dad announced that we were moving to our farm in Mora, Minnesota—250 miles away!  That was one of the saddest times in my life, having to leave my house, my school, my friends, and especially Toots and Clarence and Grandma.  We would still visit once or twice a year and they would come to the farm, too, but it just wasn’t the same.

After I married and moved to Wyoming, Colorado, and then Washington and had my own family the visits “home” to Worthington became few and far between, but the bond between me and my Aunt Tootsie always remained close in my heart.

One of the most special times together was just this last November when I was able to come and stay with her and Steve for five days in her house and spend the time going through family photos and memories.  I learned even more about her then than I ever knew, and she was even able to sing all 13 verses of “Froggie Went A- Courtin'” for me so I could write them down.  I will always cherish those days!

 

Merry Christmas, Aunt Tootsie, and I love you!!

 

Vivian with mother Hannah and sister Hazel, 1921

Vivian's High School Graduation, 1934, Worthington, Minnesota

Vivian and Clarence wedding, Oct. 2, 1942

 

Clarence, Viv and me, 2001

 

Viv and me, 2008

 

Steve. Jo and Viv, July 2011, a month before she passed away

 

 

 

 

 

 

EGGEDAL NORWAY--THE ENGER CONNECTION

Note: This blog will be mostly in pictures--I believe one picture is worth a thousand words.

  This blog is the final installment dealing with my experiences in Norway in the summer of 2012.  The entire three-week adventure was fabulous.  My cousin Shirley Augustine and I spent the first two weeks, from August 15-30, touring with the Gudbrandsdalslag (see Blog #20) and with the help of a local genealogist visited ancestral farms and churches of our paternal grandmother, Hannah Larson Enger.  Following that tour we spent several days in Ringerike with  Jorun Nerdalen (see Blog #22) who gave us bed and board and transported us to farms and churches related to our fathers' paternal grandmother Anna Lee Bergsund Enger.  The last five days of our trip were spent in the village of Eggedal, Sigdal Kommune, Buskerud, where our first immigrant ancestor, great grandfather Elling Pedersen Enger, was born, raised and emigrated from to America in 1854.

Elling Pedersen Enger, our first immigrant ancestor to America in 1854 at age 19. He went to the gold fields, settled as a farmer in Spring Grove, Minnesota, married in 1865 to Anna Lee Bergsund, an immigrant from Ringerike, and they were the parents of my paternal grandfather Edvard Ellingsen Enger.  Elling died in 1900 at his home near Granite Falls, Minnesota at the age of 61.

Jorun drove us to Eggedal where we would bunk in for the rest of our stay with her brother Nils Nerdalen and wife Line in their lovely hillside home overlooking the village.  This was like old-home-week, since both Shirley and I had stayed with them before during her 2000 trip and my 2010 trip.  The Nerdalens are related to us (Family Tree Maker tells me they are 4th cousins) through their g. g. grandmother Mari Enger Nerdalen, who was a sister of our g. g. grandfather Peder Ellingsen Enger. We just call them cousins!

At the Seter (mountain farm) above Eggedal where sisters Jorun and Bjørg Nerdalen each have vacation cabins.  The Nerdalen family, Jorun Nerdalen with Lyka, Line and Nils Nerdalen, Shirley, Bjørg  and  Bjørn Nordlien.  

 

 

The lovely home of Nils and Line Nerdalen above Eggedal

Beautiful view from the Nerdalen farm, looking down on Eggedal valley.

 

 

 

On Sunday we were invited to have dinner at the home of Per Kåre and Anne Marie Enger who in the 1990's moved from the Enger farm which their son Per now operates  into their retirement home just down the road.  Dale and I stayed with the Engers on our 2000 trip and since they didn't speak English and we no Norwegian we had a great time trying out sign language!  Surprisingly we did a pretty good job and enjoyed it immensely.  Anne Marie, as usual, had a beautiful table ready for us, and the company also included their daughter Mari and her son Andreas, and daughter Kari and children Frida and Per Emil.

 

 

 

Shirley and me with Per Kåre and Anne Marie Enger and daughter Mari 

Kari Enger with children Frida and Per Emil

Per Kåre and Anne Marie Enger with Mari and her son Andreas, age 16

The Enger farm in Nedre (lower) Eggedal has been in the same family since the 1700's.  Most of the farms in Norway have been divided up many times over the centuries. The section of the farm that my g. g. grandfather owned was sold off  before they immigrated to America in 1861.

 

Young Per Enger with wife Ingunn and children Peder 8, and Marie 12.  They currently operate the farm and also a construction business.  Most farmers have other  jobs as the farms are too small to support a family.  

These two stabburs (storage buildings) have been used on the farm since the 1700's and are still in use today. They have been moved to their present spot from other locations on the farm. Stabburs are designed to keep out unwanted critters and are used for food, meat and clothing storage. Most farms have at least one. The doors are above the snow line for winter access.

A sign for Per Enger's business, including excavation, spring and well digging, road building, wood harvesting and construction.

Young Per's great-grandparents Peder Pedersen Enger, 1859-1923,  and Mari K. Kopseng, born 1857, reign over the present household from their places of honor. I teased Per Kåre that their family was in a rut, with almost all the men named Peder or a  variation therof.

Family heirlooms traditionally stay with the farm in Norway and not with the residents. These antique pieces have stood their ground at Enger for 200 or so years.  The original farm house was replaced in the 1970's.

Ingunn Enger displays the back and front of a vintage Eggedal bunad which is one of the family heirlooms kept at the farm. Bunads were, and still are,  costumes worn for special occasions such as baptisms, weddings and other festive occasions.

 

The Enger farm lies in the shadow of  a legendary mountain, a noted landmark in the Sigdal Kommune.   The legend, loosely translated,  says that a young man named Anders from Engersroa  fell deeply in love with a girl and wanted to marry her. However, he could not have her unless he agreed to make a bet that he could ski from the top of the mountain to the bottom, so off he went. The line tracing his ski pole is still visible.  He succeeded,  married the girl and from that day the mountain was called Andersnatten. 

 

Eggedal Kirke (Church) sits prominently in the town center. Built in 1878, it replaced an old stave church that was higher up on the hillside and was eventually torn down. Remnants of it are still visible but it is now part of a private property.  Some items from the stave church, including the altar, were saved and placed in the new church. 

 

 

  Hagan is the mountainside farm above Eggedal where famed artist Christian Skredsvig lived and worked.  His home and studio is now a family owned museum. Windows from the original stave church were used in the home.  The studio museum has many of Skredsvig's works as well as gifts from some of his artist friends.  

 

 

One of Skredsvig's best known painting entitled "Idyll" depicting a man with a cat has been transformed into a bronze statue in the village as a tribute to the artist. Cousin Jorun made the comment once that she thought it was odd to memorialize the painting rather than the artist!

A favorite tourist spot is the Eggedal Mølle (Mill) where you can watch barley and wheat grains being ground into flour by two old water-powered mills from the early 1900's.  Also on property is a sawmill where logs are sawed into planks with a vertical Gate saw which is also water-powered.

 

The vertical Gate saw is quite unique in that it saws off the planks vertically. instead of running the logs through the saw blade, the saw blade runs through the stationary log.

The old Eggedal School is on the mill property and is part of the Old Mill Museum tour. It was used in the 1800's by children that lived on neighboring farms.

 

Another beloved Sigdal landmark is the Eggedal Borgerstue, a  hotel,gift shop and restaurant with scrumptious food located in  Eggedal town center. Some of our Sigdalslag tour group were housed and fed there during our time in Sigdal.

 

 

 Family members at the closing night banquet for the Sigdalslag tour, from left, Dianne Enger Snell, Jorun Nerdalen, Shirley Augustine, Mari Enger and her husband Per Erik Tandberg. Above,  Nils and Line Nerdalen.

 

Two of our Sigdølers , Gilmore Lee and Dan Emert, played a medley of tunes for a tribute to our Norwegian hosts at the closing banquet. It was sad to say goodbye to Eggedal, but hopefully not a final goodbye. If I have my way I shall return--as soon as possible!