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Greetings
From Me Back Home
Eugene's
Sons of Norway are 'more Norwegian than the Norwegians.'
Story
and Photos by Daniel Randolph
The small woman who plays the piano is Danish. But that's OK. The Norsemen aren't
that picky. In fact, Harry, their tenor soloist -- the man who sings their showpiece
hit, the honorofic "Norge, mit Norge!" ("Norway, my Norway!")
-- is half-Swedish. Well, he's of Swedish descent. He was born in Minnesota. For
the Norsemen, and for the Sons of Norway in general, pretty much any Scandinavian
connection is enough. I'm watered-down English and a quarter Danish, and the Norsemen
tried to get me to sing with them. If you were a really good singer from Germany
or Finland, they'd probably take you.
You might expect the singers in a choir called the Norseman to
have blond hair, but not one of them does. In fact, most don't have much hair at
all. At least two of the Norsemen have hearing aids, and one uses a cane and doesn't
stand up when they practice. They aren't professional singers, but when the little
Danish woman starts playing, the Norsemen throw their voices together, and the old
boys sound pretty good.
In June, the Norsemen sang at the Sangerfest concert at the Hilton
with other choirs in the Pacific Coast Norwegian Singers Association. Their show
material includes songs with titles like: "Vi er Sangere," "Vikingsønner"
and "Krigerens Drøm." The Norsemen also sing more comprehensible
numbers like "Dear Land of Home" and Woody Guthrie's "This Land is
Your Land." But 10 out of the 15 songs the Norsemen perform are in Norwegian.
Not one of the singers speaks the language fluently, and most don't speak it at all.
That means that when the Norsemen huddle together by the piano
this evening and sing "Hils Fra Mig Der Hjemme," most don't realize that
they are singing "Greetings from Me Back Home." And neither does more than
a handful of the 80 or so people congregated in the Sons of Norway Lodge to celebrate
the 17th of May, Norway's national day. But most of the audience listens attentively,
seated in folding chairs around long tables decorated with centerpieces of American
and Norwegian flags. It is a patient group; the fellas have a little trouble getting
started tonight. A few jockey for a spot in the back, and the whole group tucks itself
with tiny steps into the corner. They make one false start, causing Wally to yell
out, "We need help!"
The Norsemen look sharp this evening: gray slacks, blue blazers
or red vests, white shirts and red ties, some with small Norwegian flags. May 17
-- or Syttende Mai -- is a special day for Norwegians and for the Sons of Norway,
too. If you can't actually be in the idyllic bosom of the homeland on the 17th of
May, and if you're Norwegian-American or of Norwegian or Scandinavian descent, or
if you know and like a Scandinavian, and if you happen to be in Eugene, Oregon, there
is no better place to be than down on Alder Street at the Sons of Norway, Sonja Lodge,
No. 38.
The day starts early. Bev Loseth, the social director, her husband,
Howard, the editor of the Lodge's newsletter, The Sonja Herald, and Bill Gunderson,
the Lodge's president, arrive about 10 this morning to hoist the Norwegian and American
flags, side by side, on the front lawn of the big white house. Someone brings a box
of donuts and puts on a pot of coffee, and a few of us gather around a table in the
Lodge's main hall, which also serves as its dining room. We sit and drink our coffee
from Styrofoam cups and talk about Norway. Up high on shelves that run along two
walls are plates that members have donated to the Lodge. They are decorated with
various Norwegian icons: the king and queen, virginal maidens, a Christmas tree,
a moose. A glass case shields several dolls, most blonde and most dressed in the
Norwegian national costume. A small troll perches on a shelf, and in a corner, two
small Viking statues stand guard, one holding an American flag, the other a Norwegian
flag. On the walls are several merit awards and a sign that says: "Please keep
food and drink in the dining room. Takk." By the door, carefully set in a frame,
are two letters, both written in Norwegian. The first is an invitation from the Sonja
Lodge to the royal couple to stop by for lunch at the lodge on their next tour to
the U.S. The second letter is the short response, written by some administrative
assistant at the Royal Palace. It says thanks for the offer, but their highnesses
won't be able to make it.
The Sons of Norway has its roots in the height of Norwegian immigration
to this country at the end of the 19th century. Though Norwegians generally had a
less-difficult experience than most other immigrant groups, it wasn't always easy.
The Sons of Norway started in 1895 as a community self-help organization. Its members
helped harvest crops if someone was ill, lent a hand to out-of-work neighbors and
chipped in with funeral expenses. Now the Sons of Norway sells insurance. But the
organization's greatest attraction has always been the fellowship and the sense of
identity it offered immigrants in a new land, far from home. It gave them a way to
hold on to Norwegianness.
What exactly is this immigrant concept of Norwegianness? By far
the most common characterization is that Norwegians are skinflints, that they are
cautious and untrusting with their money. But Norwegians also eat a lot, drink a
lot or, conversely, are temperate. Norwegians get two shots off the tee in golf,
they are better than Swedes and Danes, and they are slow to anger, though this last
claim was contested at once. Norwegians like to eat lutefisk, lefse and goat's cheese.
They are patriotic, and they are proud of their heritage. In the two years I lived
in Norway with my Norwegian wife and in the time I spent with the Sons of Norway,
I have found all of these claims to Norwegianness -- immigrant or native -- to be
true. Except for the golf thing. I never played in Norway, and when I played with
a few of the men from the Sonja Lodge, the only one who took more than one mulligan
was a Dane.
Over the course of a century, American Norwegianness may have diverged
in a few ways from Norwegian-Norwegianness. I recently met a Norwegian at a party
who told me he felt uncomfortable at the lodge because "they're more Norwegian
than the Norwegians." Other native Norwegians I know aren't entirely comfortable
at the lodge either. They feel, I think, that their culture is contained in only
a few iconic yet outdated and out-of-context elements; Norwegianness is limited to
lutefisk, trolls and wool sweaters -- the tourist's vision of Norway. Indeed, most
of the members of the Sonja Lodge know Norway only as summertime visitors. Those
who have never been there have watched tourist videos on Tuesday nights or Wednesday
afternoons in the Lodge's library. They have toured the most charming cities, the
most pristine valleys, the most dramatic fjords. They've found a land where the sun
shines, the men are healthy, the women are blonde, and all the children laugh and
smile.
Longing to Return
Among the first to arrive today and drink coffee under
the flourescent lights inside the Sonja Lodge is Selma Vangsnes. Selma is a small
woman and at age 91 is the eldest active member of the lodge. The first time I met
her I made the mistake of thinking she was frail. She is not. She has nimble fingers,
sharp eyes and a clear voice. In celebration of the big day today, she has on her
lovely bunad (boo-nawd), the national costume of Norway. It's a wholesome
look, and it suits her well: a long and full blue wool skirt embroidered with flowers;
a billowy, white blouse; a shocking red vest; and highlights of silver jewelry. Scrunched
above her blouse collar, Selma also wears the neck brace she will wear for the rest
of her life, payment for a bad fall that broke her neck.
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Selma Vangsnes
is the eldest active member of the Lodge.
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Selma is half Dane and half Norwegian, but she grew up in the U.S.
She met her husband, a full-blooded Norwegian, on this day, the 17th of May, about
65 years ago. He was a sailor stuck in Coos Bay because of a dockworker strike when
they met at a Norwegian choir concert. It wasn't long before they were married, and
Selma boarded the freighter for a four-month honeymoon through Asia and the Pacific.
Now Selma's husband is dead, but she has four generations of family to keep her company.
She stays busy at the lodge, too. She is a regular at Lunch Bunch, a coffee klatch
of about 10 or so members who bring sack lunches and share a pot of coffee, some
cookies and an hour or two every Tuesday afternoon. She also takes careful notes
as secretary of the Noras, the women's group that organizes bingo socials, raffles
and dinners in coordination with the Norsemen, the men's choir. Selma is perhaps
most widely recognized, though, as the lodge's expert in rosemaling (literally
rose painting). Rosemaling is a traditional decorative craft from Norway's
heartland that Selma took up 10 or 15 years ago. It is the painting of rose images
on wooden boxes, cutting boards and trim, which has the effect of making these things
look old even if they are new.
Selma still has family in Norway. They live in a town called Vangsnes,
just like her last name. She is excited this morning because she spoke to them on
the telephone. "I've got to go back!" she tells me and clutches my arm.
"I'm losing my Norwegian!" Then she skirts off, bunad flowing, and
goes about setting up for the big day. Later, though, as she sits hunched over a
cup of coffee, her neck brace smushing up the skin around her cheeks, I hear her
admit to herself, "I'll probably never be back now."
Hot Dogs & Ice Cream
Lunch is served at 12 sharp. It is simple fare: hot dogs
and ice cream cones. About 40 of us sit in the dining room and eat without utensils.
Some people don't think hot dogs and ice cream are very Norwegian, but Bev and Howard
assure everyone that hot dogs and ice cream cones are just what Norwegians eat in
Norway on the 17th of May, which is true. I sit and eat with Wally and Bill and Hazel
and Alice. They joke about their last bus tour to Reno. Something about Alice getting
a job mopping floors at the Mustang Ranch.
As part of the after-lunch program, Selma does some rosemaling,
and a few women sit in the corner under the Viking statues and do some hardanger
(har-dong-er) needlepoint work. Hardanger is an old pastime of farmers' wives,
in which women's fingers work delicate patterns into fine, white cloth. They make
aprons that can be worn over bunads, ornate cloths draped over tables on special
days or decorative wall hangings.
One of the most avid hardanger needlepoint enthusiasts is
Virginia Number Two (Virginia Number One boasts the more senior name because she
has been doing hardanger longer). Virginia Number Two is an attractive woman
in her 60s or 70s who has probably been attractive all her life. She isn't Norwegian,
but she does have some Swedish blood. Her husband, Jan, was a full Norwegian who
served in Norway's Royal Guard and immigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s. The two met
in their university days when Virginia gave Jan and some other fellows -- who she
thought were Swedish -- a ride up to the mountains to go skiing. Jan forgave her
for thinking he was a Swede, and the two were eventually married. Jan and Virginia
visited Norway a number of times and dreamed of spending their summers there after
they retired, but they never quite made it. Since Jan died, Virginia has been spending
a lot of time at the Lodge. She started taking Norwegian language classes, she comes
to Lunch Bunch, and she's become addicted, she says, to hardanger. She does
it just about everyday, often at home at night with the television on and the volume
down low. Virginia would like to visit Norway again; she's looking for a travel partner
-- though not a man -- to accompany her. The last time she was in Norway, Virginia
was disappointed that she couldn't find any good hardanger books or patterns.
A woman in a shop there told her, "We've got TV here, too, now." She meant
that farmers' wives had better things to do these days.
A Crafty Bunch
Like hardanger, chip carving is an old Norwegian
handicraft that may be more popular among Norwegians in America than Norwegians in
Norway. The Sons of Norway recognizes different levels of chip carvers, as well as
practitioners of other crafts, in its Cultural Skills Program. You can, if you're
dedicated enough, earn the title of specialist, generalist, mentor, or master of
cultural skills. The chip carvers are men who meet every Wednesday evening to carve,
cut and whittle their designs into blocks of wood. Among the carvers is David Elliker,
who, in addition to being a dedicated chip carver, has great skill with hardanger
fiddles (which are real fiddles, not needlepoint ones as the name may suggest). He
collects them and plays at Scandinavian gigs whenever he can.
Although his wife has some Norwegian ancestry, David isn't Norwegian,
nor is he of Norwegian descent. He isn't Swedish or Danish. He's a middle-aged music
teacher, balding on top with a gray ponytail. After David entertains the crowd with
a few tunes on his fiddle, after the Norsemen sing and after we all eat our fill
of open-faced sandwiches and Jell-O salad with marshmallows, David tells me and Ed
Gunderson about his traditional Norwegian wedding. Ed is a man about David's age
who enjoys Norwegian folk dancing and likes to make gammelost, a flavorful
Norwegian food that literally means "old cheese" (you can find the stuff
at www.gammelost.com, in case you're curious). As he recounts how he and his wife,
Claire, were married in a small town in Norway, David smiles, and his eyes light
up. David and Claire had both worn their bunads. The entire wedding party
had paraded through the town, led by a few fiddle players, to a Stavkirke,
one of Norway's ancient wooden churches, where the ceremony was performed. Reporters
from the local television station came, too. They wondered why two Americans would
want to have an old-fashioned Norwegian wedding when almost every Norwegian these
days prefers the white-dress-and-tuxedo style popular in the U.S. David, in English,
says something about appreciating the Norwegian culture.
After talking to David and Ed, I walk around and see if I can't
find Marvin. Marvin is just about the only Son of Norway I haven't seen today, and
I'm a bit worried about him. It's not like him to miss an event at the Lodge, especially
one as big as today's. I ask around a bit, and Bill Gunderson tells me Marvin is
home in bed, sick.
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Two flags fly at
the Sons of Norway Lodge.
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Marvin is the Sonja Lodge's class clown. People like to give him a
hard time, and he likes to take it. The other night at a Norsemen practice session,
big Oscar Thomsen, a robust, lively Dane, ribbed Marvin about his singing, saying,
"He went down so low he fell off his chair." To which Marvin responded,
"I sang it right. I sang it right. Just ask me. I'll tell ya."
Marvin likes to mess around with Virginia Number Two, too. "Du
er eldre enn meg," he tells her. You are older than me. "Du var
født før meg." You were born before me, he teases. Virginia
just smiles and says, "Nei. Du er eldre enn meg."
Marvin usually makes it to Lunch Bunch, the potlucks on the last
Saturday of each month, the Norsemen's practices and performances, and most other
events. He's the unofficial building manager, too. He's been a member of the Lodge
since 1952, and he served as its president in 1974. He joined because his parents
were: "you know, first generation and all that." They came over in 1907,
and Marvin grew up with Norwegian in the home; he still speaks pretty well today.
When I asked Marvin how Sons of Norway has changed over the years, he told me, "I
think it's gone down," and he traced a downward path with his hand. "We
try to get in new people, but ..." . But they're not interested, he said. They
don't have time. And what's Norway for them?
The Good Old Days
Like most of the members, Marvin remembers the glory days of
the Sonja Lodge like they were yesterday. The social exchanges up in Salem or Junction
City. The time the Norsemen sang in the Mormon Tabernacle, or the time they and some
other singers chartered their own plane -- a 747 or something big like that -- and
flew direct to Tromsø, Norway, bypassing Oslo. Or winning the first Lodge
of the Year Award in 1961. Sometimes 1960 or '70 or '80 doesn't seem all that long
ago, but the Lodge is changing; it's aging, getting smaller. Since the early 1980s,
the Sons of Norway has lost over 30,000 members nationwide. The Sonja Lodge is dwindling,
too.
But you would never know it tonight. Two men in black vests, black
slacks and black cowboy boots are bowing a fiddle and squeezing life into an accordion.
Jim and Mitzi, Ed and Linda and a bunch of others are spinning to the polka, shuffling
to the fox trot and performing some hop-lift-spin move to a Norwegian folk dance.
Bunad skirts twirl through the air. Norwegian and American flags are crossed
in a complementary flush of red, white and blue. Oscar Thomsen is laughing somewhere.
Virginia Number Two left a little while ago; she was tired. But David and Howard
and Bev are still here. And Bill and Wally and most of the Norsemen -- they're all
still here. Selma is here, too. She still looks beautiful in her bunad, and
that neck brace doesn't seem to be giving her any trouble at all.
Junction City's annual Scandinavian Festival begins at 10 am
Thursday, Aug. 9 at Sixth and Greenwood streets. Thursday is Danish Day, Friday is
Finnish Day, Saturday is Norwegian Day and Sunday is Swedish Day. Admission is free.
See Calendar or visit www.scandinavianfestival.com for a complete
schedule.
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