TreeHouseView

I never met my Norwegian grandmother and only ever heard whispers and snippets of tales of her life. She was my father’s mother, and immigrated to America from Norway in 1938 with her three children about a year after her husband Arnt had come over to work and send back money to pay for their passage.

They settled in Mullan, Idaho, where the mining boom was in full swing. According to records, Mullan’s population peaked in 1940. My grandmother was a homemaker and to my knowledge, did not hold a job outside the home, but this is something that I’ve never actually inquired about.

My dad was not a talker and even when asked, had a very difficult time articulating what he was trying to say. He had a razor sharp analytical and mathmatical mind, but his conversational skills were rudimentary at best. Curse words were his first language. Norwegian was definitely not a language he chose to remember.

My grandmother on the other hand, remains in my memory as a woman who only spoke Norwegian after she was in a bad car accident late in her life. Family lore has it that she wasn’t quite “right” after the accident and never spoke another word of English again. Whether or not this is true, I cannot say, and honestly I love the drama of the tale and would rather have it remain.

(For clarity, I am the youngest of four siblings and was a “whoops” of epic proportions. My sibs are twenty, eighteen, and sixteen years older than me, so there was law and order until one fateful encounter between my parents, and then chaos descended in the form of moi. Everyone says that I kept my parents young–everyone except my parents. They never said that.)

Family photos of Johanna show what looks to me a stern, stout, and seemingly cold woman.The photo I remember is of her in a dress with an apron over it, and so I think of her as a woman who spent the majority of her days in the kitchen, perhaps baking Norwegian treats for her family and neighbors.

I have no knowledge if she was loving, loud, or leaned toward silence like my dad. She had the deep-set, almond shaped eyes that many Norse are blessed with and many in my family carry, including myself. We have always called them ‘hooded eyes’ in my family, and that’s highly inaccurate but really we are referring to the droopy eyelids we all have and that seem to be a Norwegian trait, as my grandfather had them as well.

My sister has a few memories she has shared with me of Johanna, but not much to contribute, and to be honest, I haven’t asked a ton of questions. Having become a grandmother in recent years myself and being gifted a little book from my grandson called “Tell Me About Your Life, Grandma” (cue the tears!) has triggered the long-latent desire to know more about my bestemor Johanna. She was gone before I was born and the ghost of her has always been a friend that has followed me throughout my life, ostensibly biding her time.

I will be doing some digging and calling some cousins to find out more about this woman that I can see myself in as I’m aging. I’d like to bring her ghost to life and give my beste Johanna a voice.