Don't mess up our Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
I won't stuff the turkey, but I will certainly stuff myself, and all the thirty-some guests.

But first of all, there's the pre-Thanksgiving stage, which starts weeks before the holiday.

Planning -
Even though I print out my own Thanksgiving-lists of everythings from chores to shopping, it takes time.
I sit and stare at my lists -
That takes time.

I think what I find most time-consuming every year is pie-baking. I love pies, but I also love to bake them. To me it's all in a flaky, yummy crust and a luscious filling. Every year I want to try a new recipy. Some linger on for several years, others are a one-time appearance.  
We usually have:

Banana Cream Pie
Chocolate or Chocolate Fudge Pie
Coconut Cream Pie
Raisin Pie
Berry Pie
Pecan Pie

Some years we have:
Apple Pie
Orange Creamsicle Cheesecake

This year I would like to try:
Mississippi Mud Pie
Pumpin-Chocolate Swirl Pie
Peach Chiffon Pie

Oh, my, the choices.

We'll see. Since we live in Norway - and Thanksgiving is a distant American holiday - there is no day off tomorrow. We will invite our family over on Sunday instead. I still have a few more days to choose which pies to bake.
I try to explain to my Norwegian friends, that Thanksgiving dinner is more work than the Norwegian Christmas feast. I guess it all depends where in Norway you come from. There are several variation from lutefisk, ribbe, ham roast, sausages and pinnekjøtt. What makes it less work? You guessed it, they don't serve pie.

Is tradition important? At the Duck and Cherry it is. My children expect nothing less than a Thanksgiving celebration  with "every procedure the same as the year before". There's no room for a sudden change of the traditional recipes - like putting jalapenos in the mashed potaoes or mushrooms in the turkey gravy.

And when evening comes and the guests have returned to their respective homes, I will be so tired that if a mere butterfly landed on my shoulder, it would tip me off balance and I would topple over. Happy, full, and oh, so tired.
A good kind of tired.
Maybe this year I won't even get up if that happens, but just lie there on the floor, and dream of chocolate-pumpkin swirl pie and traditional mashed potatoes with creamy turkey gravy.

"Happy Thanksgiving" from over the river and through the woods.

The Magic of Aunts

In the beloved musical "The Wizard of Oz", the main character Dorothy, lives with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry. Why? I have no idea, but the Oz books indicate that this was a good home for Dorothy.
When the young girl first comes to live with her aunt and uncle, Aunt Em screams and presses her hand upon her heart. But Dorothy is wildly and ferociously taken away from the Kansas farm as she is swept up in a large tornado bringing her to the fairytale land of Oz.
All the time in Oz, Dorothy's biggest wish is to go home - home to her aunt and uncle in Kansas. When she finally clicks the heels of her ruby slippers towards the end of the story, she is magically brought home by the words, "There's no place like home!"
As Dorothy returns, aunt Em cries out, "My darling child!" and covers her with kisses.

In Jane Austin's Pride and Prejudice. there are two aunts who stand out. Elizabeth's aunt Gardiner is sensible and understanding. On the other hand, Darcy's aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh is  almost feudal, representing an old aristocracy where pride and traditional values are more important than people. Darcy needs to go out on his own, and change the old ways of the family to win Elizabeth's heart.

Charlotte Brontë give aunts a bad reputation in Jane Eyre. Jane's aunt Mrs. Reed favors her own children and treats Jane terribly.

Charles Dicken's aunts and uncles are colorful examples of both good and bad in Victorian England.

In David Copperfield, Betsey Trotwood (his great-aunt) is not happy that David's mother has a son. Because of abuse and abandonement in her life, she does not favor men and boys. She storms out of the house when she hears about the birth. When young Davis, then motherless and alone, appears at her doorstep, she carries a knife and yells, "Go along! No boys here!" David is ragged, starving and exhausted. "If you please, aunt, I am your nephew."
Betsey is a complex charactoer. Her heart is soft, although years of bad experiences and trials have built a tough wall around her. She takes care of the boy
and eventually helps him with both education and employment.
"Never," said my aunt, "be mean in anything; never be false; never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of you." (David Copperfield)

Dicken's Oliver Twist has a different kind of aunt. His maternal aunt, Rose, is portrayed as pure, innocent and beautiful. She helps rescue the young boy.

Why do aunts have a more significant role in novels from the 1800s? Where are the mothers? One answer somes from:

Ruth Perry's book The Transformation of Kinship in English Literature 1748-1818

...mothers in novels of the period are notoriously absent – dead or otherwise missing. Just when motherhood was becoming central to the definition of femininity, when the modern conception of the all-nurturing, tender, soothing, ministering mother was being consolidated in English culture, she was being represented in fiction as a memory rather than as an active present reality.

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Irish Novelist Colm Tóibín explains the important of aunts:

The novel in English during the 19th century is full of parents whose influence must be evaded or erased, to be replaced by figures who operate either literally or figuratively as aunts, both kind and mean, both well-intentioned and duplicitous, both rescuing and destroying.

Interesting.
But 19th century aunts may not be so different from today's aunts. The aunts of  2016 also come wearing different hats. Some aunts have great influence on their nieces and nephews, love them as if they were their own children and rejoice when they succeed. But there are also those who are too busy, not interested, or not present.

One of the things that make my heart smile, is when I see my children carrying each others children. They truly love their little nieces and nephews. They want them to be safe and happy.
In my book, that is love. That is family.

Photo: My daughter with her nephew and daughter.


Sources. wikipedia, Literary aunts by Charlotte Higgins

The Fishermen's Widow

 The story of my great-grandmother, Hansine Marie Hermansen (1859-1942). This story was long-listed in the British Writing Competition Multi-Story, Flash Fiction in 2012.

Life of the Fishermen’s Widow          

            There are no ships in sight as I stand on the stony beach looking out at the living water. Not like my family, all gone a long time ago now. The wind teases my grey hair, what is left of it anyway. It used to be thick and wavy. Now I pull it back in a small bun and when strands of hair come undone and play with the wind, I don’t mind.

            Hats were never for me, I would rather wear a kerchief. My neighbor, Milly jokes about that. “I would like to see the person who can put a hat on Hansine,” she says. She’s a good neighbor, Milly. When the winter nights here in the north are dark and gloomy, she lets me come and stay with her. I hear people say I am afraid of the dark, but being worried and being afraid is not necessarily the same thing.

            “How do you manage?” Milly asks. “You have lost both your husbands and all three of your sons at sea.”

            They wonder why I always come down here to the beach on tempestuous days. I stand as close as I can without getting wet. The blustery weather is cold enough. Here I can be alone with my thoughts. Only the ocean moves towards the shore and the occasional seagull looks for fish in the waves. There’s never anyone here to respond to my voice, only new thoughts entering my wits, wondering and grinding.

            Questions about my family often emerge when Milly is around. “It will help talking about it,” she says and puts the kettle on. But I don’t speak about my children. They were given me, they were taken away. Words won’t change that.

            Sometimes I will mention funny things Berner said. He was the love of my youth, the one who chose me for life. Two and a half years was the time we were allotted. Enough time to learn to love, but not enough to be satisfied. I gave birth to our second child a few weeks after the sea claimed him.

            Then there was Karolius, who also chose me, a widow with two small children. I learned to love again, to live again.

            “Tell me about your grandchildren,” Milly continues. She has not given up on me. My thoughts go to my daughter, who married and settled in a town north of here. Photographers enjoyed capturing her beauty, but the Spanish flu grasped her life, along with her husband’s, leaving six children nine years and under. My grandbabies were divided among families far away from me. There’s not much I can tell Milly about them.

            What I would give to be able to do it over again, this life. I have spent enough time pondering on the outcome of the years past. When I was in the middle of things I did the best I could. Why is it that I think it would be different if I had a new chance at life? Both my husbands would still be fishermen, all my sons would follow in their fathers’ footsteps.

            I believe that when my turn on earth is over, I will look back thinking I spent too much time worrying. Though I can state this as a fact, my whole being is permeated with anxiety and concern.

            I wipe my hand across my wet cheeks, thinking it’s time to go back. The wind has picked up, a storm is approaching. As always, I will stay out of the lamp light when I return. On a night like this, I won’t engage in conversation.

Foto: Hansine Marie Hermansen

The Joy of Anticipation

Christmas time brings me more joy than I can explain in words. It's something about the anticipation of things to come, the happiness of preparing surprises, and the joy of opening the heart and home to family and friends. It's as if I travel with the magi, following the star, excited to meet the Savior of mankind.
Wonder of wonder. Miracles of miracles.
Just believe.

The Os of Life and Death

And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death.
Charles Dickens

This saying means everything after the Pentecost weekend we have experienced in our family.
Saturday evening, watching TV with my beloved Arnfinn, he suffered what the doctors debated was a heart attack or not. He was rushed to the hospital in Oslo in an ambulance and went through extensive testing and treatment during the night.

Now he is home again. He is alive! And we are happy to have more time together.

Life is fragile. An experience like that is an eye opener for many, especially the younger members of our family, but also the older, as it makes you want to make the best out of the days we have together here on the earth.

To top it off, I went to the funeral of a good friend yesterday. Her children and friends praised her and reminisced on the many unforgettable, funny and unselfish acts of kindness and love this woman had shown throughout her life.

The variety of days in life, like Dickens mentions in the saying above, is important. There are moment when sadness, despair or pain may overcome us in a way, that we wish for a better life on the other side of the veil. Then again, the next morning, the sun is shining, the birds are singing - and here at the Duck and Cherry, I can add, the sheep are bleating - and we are grateful to be alive and enjoy another beautiful day under a Heavenly Father's watchful care.

So, on a personal note, I have a husband who is a pillar in my life. He encourages me to be better, and believes in me when I don't. He makes me laugh - a lot - and he strives every day to be a better man.

Below are a few words of wisdom about life.

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”― Dr. Seuss

“You’ve gotta dance like there’s nobody watching, Love like you’ll never be hurt, Sing like there’s nobody listening, And live like it’s heaven on earth.”― William W. Purkey

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”― Oscar Wilde

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”― Dr. Seuss

“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.”― Albert Einstein

“If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.”― Lewis Carroll

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”― George Bernard Shaw

“Where there is love there is life.”― Mahatma Gandhi

Photo today, Arnfinn as "Bestefar" and Aksel, one of our grandsons, at the cabin.



June 9, 1865: Charles Dickens was in a train derailment in England, 149 years ago today. He climbed out a window and saved the manuscript of Our Mutual Friend, but didn't leave the scene until he'd brought the victims water from a nearby river, which he ferried in his top hat. 

Off The To-Do-List

Some days are prone to change. Today has been one of those days that I had a glorious to-do-list prepared and hardly accomplished any of the things on it.

What did I do instead? Walked with Ida and her three munchkins to see the sheep and horses on the neighboring estate. Played with our youngest munchkin, Phoebe. Walked with Hector, the Wheaten Terrier, Linnea and her baby to the store to get milk for breakfast. Made scrumptious French toast (which in Norwegian has the swinging name, "Beveiled Farm Maidens"). I drove Tiffany to the train station.

Oh, I did the dishes, a couple of loads of laundry, and got my budget sorted out, so I am actually happy with that.

So it does not matter if dust bunnies have not been evacuated from the premises today. I don't worry that my Broom Closet still has sheet music all over the floor. Today has been a good day. I love my family. They are my happiness and joy. They make me whole.

Today's water color is a fairy called Mie.

Matriarchs and Choices

An Irish proverb for the 17th of March - St. Patrick's Day:

You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was. -Irish Proverb

In other words, we have to do our own thing in this life, make our own path, choose our battles wisely, give of our time, and love those around us.

Most things that will make us grow--be it in personality or stature--cannot be delegated, nor handed over to someone else. We need to take responsibility for our choices, our actions, our paths.

There are days when I wish I was a child again. A young girl with little responsibility, few worries, and innocent dreams and fears. Safely under my mother's wing and my father's all-seeing eye, I grew up feeling safe and loved.

Now I am the matriarch of our family. 

Responsibility, worries, dreams, and fears are still there, only deeper and there are more of them. But I can also choose to use the backpack my mother and father gave me. A backpack full of cherished moments spent with wise and loving parents. 

Just like a piece of beautiful material can be transformed into a lovely dress, a blank sheet of paper can receive the words to a magical fairy tale, and a white canvas can turn into a wondrous painting admired by all who see it, so can this day with its clean slate be a good day - no matter what happens - it can have good in it.

Today's water color is aclled "On y va!"

Let's go!

Mothering

Above all the jobs, callings, opportunities, gifts, blessings, chores, and joys in my life, I would choose mothering again and again. This time-consuming, all-encompassing, happy and sometimes frustrating task is in one word wonderful.

I would not give it away, nor change it, just make the best out of every moment, every day.

I admire my own mother. Watched her. Learned from her. Chose to be as much like her as I could. I watched other mothers as I was growing up, picking out good traits that I thought I would implement in my life when I had children one day. I also observed things I decided not to do in my future family life.

Wikipedia will tell you that a mother is a woman who gives birth to a child and raises it, but I believe it is so much more than that. Mother is a title, a loving bond, a connection, an honorable relationship. The word itself brings on a flood of emotions and loving feelings.

Sheri L. Dew, an inspirational speaker, talks about motherhood in a wider perspective that any encyclopedia will explain. In her famous talk, Are We Not All Mothers? , she explains how every woman is a mother. I love that concept.

Yesterday was Mother's Day here in Norway. I thought about my mother and my heart swelled with thankfulness and love.  I posted a photograph of her on Facebook (above), remembering her many smiles and always open arms.

Today's pictures: ice cream with my mother, water color showing motherhood

Frames and Other Hang-Ups

I have a hang-up.
Only one? Well, not to reveal too many faults all at once I will let you in on this one:
When I visit people--and their pictures and paintings hang crooked on the wall--I straighten them quickly, when no one is looking.

I grew up with a pappa who was an artist, an architect, a cabinet maker, a builder of beautiful houses. He had strong opinions and knowledge about frames and how--and where--to hang something on the wall.

My parents came from Norway to Utah, USA for my wedding many moons ago. In his suitcase Pappa brought a painting for the newlyweds. The evening before the wedding he asked if I could take him to a frame shop. We found a small shop in Provo right before closing time. My Pappa had a special place in his heart for elaborate gold painted frames and chose one for this painting, even thought it was slightly smaller than the painting itself. The shopkeeper shook his head, reminding us he wanted to close in a few minutes. There was no way he had time to get it ready to fit the frame.
Pappa said, "Do you have a saw?"
"Yes," the shopkeeper answered and went in the back room to fetch a saw.

My Pappa looked at the painted board, then pressed it against a hard surface and sawed a piece off two of the sides. Then he placed the perfectly sized painting into his chosen golden frame.

You should have seen the shopkeeper's face. He had not seen anything like that before. But he made a sale and was probably happy with that.

In the eighties I lived in Okinawa, Japan. At that time, women in this proud and honorable country still walked a pace or two behind their husbands. When I went to a local store to order custom made frames for my paintings, the frame maker would never speak directly to me. He would only speak to my husband. I got my message across and fortunately was able to make the orders I needed, beautifully made wooden frames.

Just like my Pappa I have feelings about where and how a frame should hang, what it should look like to meet its purpose best. It is there to show off something.
There have been times that I have been asked to come help people hang pictures on walls--in their homes, or for exhibitions, like for my artist friend David Sandum.

So for a quick advisory:

• How heavy is the painting? Decide what hanging implement you are going to use. Simple nail, screw, picture hanging hook or stronger items?
• How do you make it level?
• How close to a door frame should you hang it? To the corner of the room, furniture, curtains? Give it space if you want it to be noticed. If you want to hang it up there, don't let it be swallowed up by disturbing elements.
• Think harmony when you choose frames; How does the frame match the photograph or painting? How does it match other frames? How does it match the interior of the room?
• Hold it up, or even better, let a friend or family member hold it. Take a few steps back and take your time observing space, colors, textures.
• And please, this is probably number one mistake: Don't hang your pictures and painting up too high. Unless your whole family towers above everyone else in height,  center your art work and photographs in a pleasant "eye" height, don't let it cling to the ceiling. 

And one more thing . . . hang only what you feel is uplifting, inspirational, and positive in your life on your wall. After all, it will hang there in front of you every day. It will work its influence on you.

I think I should add, I personally never use rulers, measuring tapes or a
level when I hang something up. You may want to. It's probably a smart thing to do.

Today's art is Pappa's wedding gift. It is an oil painting of a beloved place where our extended family had berry picking reunions every August while i was growing up. Good memories.

Family History is Fun!

Genealogy.
The study of family history and the tracing of their lineage.

The word has Greek origin and means generation and knowledge. And that's what it is.

My mother has a mother, who has a mother, who has a mother . . .
We are all connected. We all belong to the same family. Some came to earth first, some of us later. Right now it is my turn.

Mothers and fathers have walked the path before me. I admire their hard work, their perseverance, their diligence. I have gotten to know them through entries in Church Records, Census Records, history books, oral tales and more. Through this information I have an idea of what they were like. I collect all the knowledge I can and make a personal story. A short written biography about an ancestor can give me insight into their daily life, their successes and failures, their family relationships, their work, their faith.
Interesting? Very.

I have learned to love them dearly and look forward to meeting them one day. I don't doubt that at all. I would like to speak with them, ask them questions, hug them and just be around them. I hope to be an x-times great-great-granddaughter they can enjoy spending time with.

A popular Norwegian genealogy blogger recently interviewed me. Her blog is called "Hearts of the Children to the Fathers" and you may read the interview here. Please use the language translator button on the top right hand corner if you don't speak Norwegian.

I started collecting information about my ancestors as a young fifteen year-old. I visited my old grandmother numerous times, asked her questions, and wrote down all the stories she told. The information about each person was kept alphabetically in a shoe box. I copied photos found in relatives homes. I wrote to priests, parishes, distant family members, and official offices. I visited state archives and loved flipping pages in the original Parish Records. The pages were large and fragile and smelled of libraries of old.

Like it says in the interview, I believe that if a person does not enjoy genealogy, he or she has not tried enough. I promise you, that if you search for your family, you will learn to love them and be excited about getting to know them. I have.

Today I have outgrown that old shoe box. I still have it, but computer programs are so much easier for gathering all the information about your past families.

I hope you will be excited about finding yours. Good luck!

Today's photo: This is my 2gg father, Elling Pedersen. He was born in 1828 not far from where I live now and walked on ths earth for 99 years.

Sharing is a Good Thing

We have two dogs at the Duck and Cherry right now. Hector, the Wheaten Terrier, has to share his space with Sean's Border Terrier, Bellie, for a couple of months. She is little and cute and loves to cuddle. Only problem is mealtime. She gobbles down her little portion and runs over to Hector's bowl to see if he has anything left. Not a popular move. He can share his home, his family, his time, his space--but not his food.

What is sharing about anyway? What do we share? Why do we share it?
In a sense Bellie is Hector's niece, in a human's sense of thinking; she being Sean's dog. A family shares.

When Tiffany was little I would give her two crackers and say, "One is for you. One is for your pappa."
She would obediently walk into the living room and hand one of the crackers over to her father.
She has become one of the most giving people I know. She would give her life for someone who needed it. Growing up in various countries, she one day received an envelope from her Norwegian grandfather with some money. She wrote back, "Thank you for the money. I will spend it on a gift for you."
That's her in a nutshell.

That same grandfather was the same way. He gave away what he had, never expecting anything in return. An older brother visited him one day. My father drove him to the train station, gave him the money he had in his pocket and waved goodbye. As my father returned to the car park, he had no money left to pay for parking.

In the Scriptures it says that your left hand should not know what the right hand gives. There is a lot of wisdom in that. Giving in a way that you never expect anything back, that it comes natural and without strings attached, is a way of being, a way of serving others, and a way of showing love.

I am grateful for people who have shared with me; be it time, love, food, money, insight, talents, and knowledge. They are heroes in my life.

Photo today: Bellie cuddling with a large teddy bear at the cabin during Christmas.

Grandma in the Drawer

Invasion of people we love during the holidays. Rooms are filled with people and bags. The refrigerator is filled to the brim. Shoes and winter boots crowd the hallway.

When the evening comes and I am sleepy and tired after a day of play with young and old, the love of my life and I retire to the room with the trundle bed. Our bedroom houses one of the young families visiting.
The trundle bed is a large oak bed from California. It has been around for about fifty years and survived many moves from country to country. It creaks when you turn over, but the top mattress is comfortable.

I pull the drawer out, crawl in, and pull the feather quilt around me. I pretend that the mattress in the drawer is not as thin as it feels. The window is slightly open to let the winter freshness gently enter. I puff the feather pillow just right and drift off into dream land. Fortunately, I am a good sleeper. Off to weird, funny, and sometimes scary dreams I go.

I would gladly sleep on the floor if it meant making room for the family for Christmas. How wonderful it is to spend the holidays with those we love.

So a few days ago we brought four of our children with their families to our cabin in the mountains. Wilderness and snow, icy roads, and a cabin called Eljarbu filled with candles, lights, Christmas food, music, and happy people. A roaring fire in the wood burning stove kept the living room warm, where games were played and nostalgic Christmas movies on TV were shown.

Arnfinn chopped down a small, crooked Christmas tree with the grandchildren. Scott (3) brought his sword to help cut it down.

Christmas lights adorned the veranda and during the night, naughty dinosaurs raided the cookie jar.

Snowball fights, walks in the mountains, sauna, snow bathing, hot, cold, hot, cold. Healthy and fun.

Now I am back to a few more days in the drawer. And I am grateful.

No-Stress Stressful Christmas

I am concentrating on a no-stress Christmas season. I am a week and a half into December!! Yikes!! I am wondering if all of you also have just a couple of weeks till Christmas, or is it just me?

So while I am concentrating on stressing down, I am making lists, checking them twice, thinking of all the things I need to do, wondering how to get it done on time, prioritizing . . .all the while telling myself, "Calm down. No worries. Remember, Heidi, you love this month so much, it's bursting within."

I decided many years ago that December was not a month to play Superwoman. There are things on my list that simply are not necessary. Prioritizing is especially vital before Christmas arrives.


So what do I really want? What makes Christmas special? Because in some ways I get that special Holiday feeling the whole month of December. It's in my heart, it fills me with mushy, sentimental goodness and nostalgic impressions.

I want snow. Christmas needs to have fluffy white stuff fall down and silently cover the ground. Trees should have that frosty look, and when I walk Hector, the Wheaten Terrier, stars and Christmas lights should be seen from houses of neighbors and friends.

I want my house transformed into a warm, cozy abode with Noel written all over it and carols and happy songs of the season playing. Ingredients for special treats and hot chocolate should always be handy.

A couple of Christmas parties with good friends--annual Holiday traditions, Church meeting with Christmas carols and stories of the nativity.

Most of all I want my family around. I need my family. They make me whole and make me grateful to be me. To celebrate the birth of Christ with them is the greatest fulfilment of all.

 Too much for you? That's OK. We are all different. But me, I am perfectly maudlin when it comes to Christmas.

Today my water colors are based on Norwegian Christmas traditions of our Santa Claus, "nisse".

Me, a Suffragette?

This year we celebrate 100 years since the right for women to vote was introduced in Norway. Was it a man or a woman who first had the idea that maybe it was a good thing for women to vote also?

What do you think the debate was - would it be fortunate and helpful for the future if women  made decisions or would it mess up society as a whole?

I am thinking - when they voted for women's votes, only men participated. There must have been thousands of women who did their best to influence men to make a wise choice. Did they stand in the doorway, lipstick glowing, a freshly baked cake in their hands, encouraging their man to do the right thing? Did they flatter them? Did they hold their arm up in front of them, threatening with a rolling pin? Did they seriously discuss pros and cons with their husbands, brothers and fathers?

I am certain many were anxiously engaged in the cause. Some probably thought it was impossible and did not have the courage or strength to fight for it.

Votes for women became a reality even though when and how varied greatly in different countries.

It was normal that only married women could vote. In some places even that privilege was withdrawn.

Walt Disney made many movies with high morals depicting problems and challenges. Sister Suffragette is a joyful song from the musical Mary Poppins. The lyrics tells us the feministic battle in the beginning of the 20th century, where soldiers in bloomers fight for the right to vote for every woman in England. Mentor and prime example was Emmeline Pankhurst, a woman I admire. 

The song ends on this note, "Our daughters' daughters will adore us, and they'll sing in grateful chorus, well done, Sister Suffragette!"

Switzerland was late applying this right for their women. They did not acquire female voting until 1971. Lichtenstein was even later, 13 year after Switzerland. Unfortunately, there are still places on earth where women have no rights because of political or religious beliefs.

Discussing genealogy with others, I have often heard, "You have found so many names." I joke and reply that it's because I have so many ancestors. Everybody does! Actually, quite a few of them are women! Problem is, that even though we all know how families are made and how they grow in number, these women are often difficult to find in the records. Far back, mostly names of the male population are entered into records.

I am old-fashioned enough that I believe women existed then like now. It is difficult, if not impossible, to form a line of descendants without women, and without female intuition or tricks. Women were part of society and history, even if they were not always documented as such.     

Below are six generations of women in my family. Each one has a place, from Anna Magdalena who was born  in 1856, to little Sienna, my granddaughter, who has a better start and more rights than many of her maternal ancestors.

Sources:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sister_Suffragette

http://historyoffeminism.com/category/first-wave-feminism/page/2/

The Circle of Life in Our Families

The Circle of Life.

Elton Johns beautiful melody with lyrics by Tim Rice is a song that moves us.

We all experience this circle in our lives. Some members of the family finish their time on earth, others arrive as innocent infants with a life ahead of them.

This past week my 91 year old father-in-law quietly passed away. It was his time to go. A long life is over--at least, here on earth.

His expertise and talents were greatly developed during that time, relationships formed, endless stories told.

He was a storyteller, a man with much humor and entertaining tales up his sleeves.
I am grateful now for all the hours I spent next to him, notebook and pen on my lap, writing down all his words when he was in one of his telling moods.

People leave a legacy, a mark on the world. Every person is unique in their own way.

I am grateful today that I believe that families can be together forever, that we can see each other again.
And I am grateful for the time I had with Alf.



Today I have chosen a water color called "Family" and a photo of my parents-in-law.

Pay Attention to Trains

We have had some fun family trips. Venturing on a 3 1/2 week car trip through Europe with seven children in the car is no joke. Or maybe it is?
One summer we packed five children into a rental car and drove around England. We had a great vacation with some frustrating moments, but mostly amazing experiences.

On the scheduled day of our departure to fly back to the old country, we got all seven of us to Liverpool Street Station, a little scattered here and there, but mostly gathered . . .

The train heading for Stansted was in place and Arnfinn pushed me and the three youngest ones gently down the platform and told us to jump on the train and wait. The rest of the family would follow shortly.

I turned around and saw Linnea and Kajsa struggling to get their suitcases through the gate to the platform area, but obedient as I am, I got on the train with three youngest.

It did not take long before the doors closed and the train we were on left the station--not for Stansted--I still don't know where it was headed, leaving a surprised Arnfinn and two girls still at the Liverpool Street Station platform. I looked around in the carriage. No one had suitcases or baggage. They were just Londoners going home from work.

Had we chosen the wrong platform? Had the train for the airport already left? This was before I had a cell phone to rescue me out of any thinkable situation. I sat there with three children watching the city gradually turn into rural landscape and beautiful English countryside.

It took quite a while before the train stopped at a station. We got off, ran across to the opposite platform and waited for a train to take us back to Liverpool Street Station.

Miraculously, we made it back. We found the rest of the family, got on the very next train for the airport, and we made the last call for our flight back to Norway.

It turned out that a local train sat in front of the Stansted Express, ready to leave a few minutes before the longer airport carriage.

It's important to pay attention to which way we are heading in life.
Know the trains. Know where they are going and when.
We thought we chose the right way, but obviously we were not attentive enough.
With a little work and a lot of prayer, it turned out well, but we have often wondered what would have happened if I had not been there with the three children right as the train left the station.

Today it makes a funny story to tell. Hopefully, we learned something, too.

Today's water colors are of roads leading somewhere.