Call Me A Tree Hugger

Across the Fence #449

We’ve been trying to get some trees growing around our house. Let’s put it this way, I won’t be climbing in them anytime soon, even if I could get up in a tree without a ladder. I read a Chinese proverb that said the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The next best time is now. How true that is.

It takes many years for a tree to mature; depending on what kind you plant. I guess most of us who have a few years behind us, are planting them for the next generation to enjoy. I think of the big maple trees we climbed in when I was young. The Jacob Sorenson family, who sold the farm to my parents, probably planted those trees. I can thank them for all the fun we had and the shade they provided. We spent many hot, muggy summer evenings sitting in the shade under those trees. We didn’t have air conditioning back then. We also rested there after eating the noon meal, before we headed back to the fields.

The grove of trees that is west of the house where we now live, were probably planted by Gullik Gullikson, a bachelor who lived in a small house in that grove of trees. There was also a two-story shed that was still standing when we were young. Both are long gone. Now the area is a haven for birds and wildlife. For three years, a doe has given birth to her fawns in the secluded safety of that grove of trees and brush. We love having those trees next to us. I can thank Gullik for those trees and our McClurg neighbors for leaving them standing and providing a place for wildlife and birds. Many of those trees are old and full of holes where the birds find refuge from the cold days and nights during the winter. We have a bird feeder and birdhouses in the trees on our side of the line fence. I suspect the Eastern Screech Owl, that ended up sitting in the rafters of our house when it was being built, has a home in one of those trees.

Call me a tree hugger if you want, but I find it hard to watch trees that have been growing for years, destroyed. I know I railed on about all the trees that were destroyed along Sherpe Road when the new highway was built. They were pushed down, put in piles, and burned. I looked at the plans and they could have left the trees on one whole side of the road. It wouldn’t have affected the highway, bike path, or the relocation of Sherpe Road. It would have provided a nice windbreak, sound barrier, and place for birds and wildlife. But I guess it’s easier to destroy than to work around something.

I also see a lot of trees disappearing along fence lines. Actually, the fence lines are disappearing too. Large corporations buy up the land for crop farming. The fences are the first to go, and then they cut down and burn the trees so they can have one large field. I now see open fields with hundreds of acres, like you would expect to see out west where the land is flat. You wouldn’t expect to see long, straight rows on the rolling countryside of the Coon Prairie. What happened to the strip cropping that our fathers practiced to preserve the land from eroding?

I realize that everything is changing in the world we live, and as farms and equipment get larger, we’ll see even more changing of the farm landscape from what it once was. The timber frame, red barns that dotted the countryside are disappearing too. Many that still stand, are falling apart from non-use and neglect. I can see the day coming when all those farmsteads will be gone, along with the trees that surrounded the houses, and they will become part of the large, open fields. 

I know the local farmers who have increased the size of their farms are concerned about the land, but I wonder about the large, out of state, corporate owners. Do they care about how their farming practices may affect their neighbors? Another quote about trees could also include all those disappearing farmsteads. “The tree, which moves some to tears of joy; is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.”

We are lucky that we live in the Driftless Area of Wisconsin, where we have an abundance of wild areas, with tree-covered hills and valleys, as far as the eye can see. I can’t imagine living in an area where we weren’t surrounded by this magnificent landscape. I should also mention that it’s hard to find a straight road anywhere in the area. We have lots of curves and crooked roads. Even the Kickapoo River is referred to as the Crooked River, because it meanders back and forth through the coulees. And to top it off, we only have three stoplights in the entire county to slow you down. Most people find that hard to believe when they’re used to a stoplight on every corner.

This is great country. We just need to be aware of how we treat the land, so future generations can enjoy it too. A few shade trees to enjoy wouldn’t hurt either.

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A House Is Not A Home

Across the Fence #448

Five years ago I wrote about the death of our old barn. It had outlived its usefulness and was falling apart and was pulled down and buried. That barn held a lot of memories for me. Since that time, several other buildings from my younger days have met the same fate. Most of the friends, neighbors, and relatives of my parent’s generation are now gone, along with the buildings that were a part of my life. 

Life and the world we live in are constantly changing. Many of those changes are subtle at first and we don’t notice. But as time goes on we begin to see physical changes as things begin to show wear and tear, and start to deteriorate. The same is true for people and buildings. There are many similarities in the aging process.

Old bodies and old buildings eventually begin to wear out. The structure isn’t as strong and firm as it once was. Things begin to sag, joints begin to creak, things break down from years of use, and the list goes on and on. I don’t like to think about it, but I’m getting closer and closer to the condition our old buildings found themselves in. Years and years of physically challenging myself have taken a toll and are catching up with me. Arthritic joints and a weakening infrastructure let me know that I’m not in the physical shape I once was. The memory storage compartments of my brain seem to be filling up and it’s becoming harder to find and retrieve information or a name I’m looking for. It’s like that old storage attic or closet in most houses that becomes so full and cluttered you can’t find anything back when you need it. I refer to it as OTMRS, Old Timer’s Memory Retrieval Syndrome. I suspect a few of you have also encountered OTMRS from time to time. 

We were in Ixonia, near Milwaukee, over the weekend, celebrating our grandson’s first birthday, when another important building from my life was laid to rest. The old, two-story farmhouse that I was raised in, became just a memory. Luckily, I have no problem retrieving memories about that old house. My memory bank is full of them. The house was pushed over and buried in a large hole that had been dug next to it. We knew its days were numbered, but I had hoped to be there for its death and burial. It was like missing the funeral of a close friend.

As I stood by the hole looking at the pile of splintered lumber and twisted pieces that used to be a house, I realized that a house is just material stuff; it’s not a home. No house becomes a home until people and families occupy it and interact within that house. The people who once shared that house grew older and scattered to the four winds. Time caught up with our parents and they left us to journey to the next adventure in the great unknown. Time also caught up with the old house that was once our home. It’s also gone and buried. Now memories are all that remain.

I’ve written about many of those memories in previous columns. I wonder what Ma would say if she could see what was left of the house she once made a home out of, for all of us. The kitchen had been her castle. It was old, it wasn’t modern, but it was always clean and neat, and the smells of food were always present. I can still picture her standing in the kitchen window looking to the west as she watched the glorious sunsets we now get to observe. I wonder what she was thinking. I never bothered to ask.

I remember the cold winter nights in our bedroom on the second floor. The only heat came through the round hole in the floor, covered with a decorative iron grate. I wish I had saved that item to remind me of how lucky we are now on cold winter nights. I also remember the thick frost covering the windows and the patterns that Johnny Frost left in them.

I also wonder if our treasure map that fell between the walls in the attic, was still intact after all these years? We drew a map to show where we had buried my father’s collection of Indianhead pennies. We never found them back and my father was not a happy camper. It was not my finest hour. Even if we did have the map, I suspect the large bull thistle is long gone that we had to take ten paces to the west from. 

Now the map, the windows, and the grate are among the pile of twisted lumber and fieldstone blocks that was once the house I grew up in. It holds many memories, some good, some not so good, but the good far outweigh the bad. As I stood silently and looked around, with the rain still falling, I couldn’t help but think that it was just like standing in the rain beside the open grave of a friend while the minister blessed the remains and said, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The only thing missing was the minister.

I would add that my memories will continue to feel the home, even though I can no longer see the house.

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One Year Old and Full of Curiosity

Across the Fence #447

Sean on the rocking horse his mother received on her first birthday.

Our grandson, Sean, will be entering his second year by the time you read this. He was born on June 8, 2012. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since he came into this world. Where did the time go? 

At that time I wrote the following words. “It’s an exciting world that awaits Sean. It’s filled with challenges, wonders, and opportunities. There will be many roads to explore and many doors to open to see what’s inside. My wish for him is that he’ll be filled with curiosity to explore those roads and open those doors; that he will think for himself and not blindly follow others.”

We’re lucky that we live only three hours away and have been able to spend time with him, watch him grow, and reach new milestones in his life. It must be hard for all you grandmas and grandpas who have grandchildren far away and you’re not able to just jump in the car and be there in a few hours. Some people are lucky to see them once or twice a year. Sean’s other grandparents’ live in Mississippi and they’re in that category. We realize how fortunate we are.

Technology has changed a lot of things since we were young. Now we can send e-mails and attach photos almost instantaneously. We don’t need to wait several days to get the photos developed and then send them by mail. Depending on how far away you are, that could take several days. With digital cameras, we take the photos, download them to our computers, and attach them to an e-mail. If you take the photos on an iPhone or other Smartphone, you can e-mail them right from your phone in a matter of seconds. You can also take video (movies), and send them over the Internet. My grandparents and parents could never have imagined such technology. 

These days, you can also Skype with your grandchildren. It’s a great way to see and hear Sean in real time. The Davis grandparents in Mississippi also have Skype. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Skype, it’s like having a phone conversation with someone, except you can also see them and they can see you. All you need is a computer or iPad. The Skype program is free software. You can even converse face to face with relatives and friends in foreign countries. When I was young, this would have been something that only happened in science fiction movies. As I said, technology has really changed things since I was young. What changes will Sean see by the time he’s old enough to be a grandfather? 

I mentioned a year ago that I hoped Sean would be filled with curiosity. I can now report that he is. It’s so fun to watch him as he tries to figure out how to do things. It will serve him well as he explores the world around him, and it will always keep him young and energized. I think having the curiosity to explore different roads and ideas, and being willing to open new doors and see what lies behind them, is so important as we journey through life. Just as technology is constantly changing, our thinking also is in constant change as we adapt and try to understand all the changes around us. I personally think that’s an exciting part of life. 

I’d love to live long enough to see what kind of changes Sean will see and experience by the time he’s 21, or 50, or my age, 69. I know I’ll be just a fading memory in 68 years, but aren’t you curious to know and see what the world will be like by that time? I’d like to be around to see humans depart on a one-way trip to Mars in ten years. At least that’s the projected timetable. Remember how exciting it was when Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon? 

Without curiosity about the unknown, there would be no discoveries and advances, whether it’s exploration of our universe, or trying to find a cure for cancer and other diseases. The human race would still be mired in the past and we’d still think that if we sailed far enough out into the ocean, we’d drop over the edge of the world. Thank goodness for people with curiosity and the guts to explore the boundaries of the known world. I know there are still people who think the earth is only ten thousand years old, but I think I can safely say that Sean won’t be a member of the Flat Earth Society.

I’m glad to see that he already has a curiosity about nature. In this modern, technology-filled world, it’s important that he also knows and appreciates the natural world around him. I want him to know of the rural roots of his ancestors. No matter where he ends up in the future, I hope he always has an appreciation for the land, nature, and all the species that populate the land, including the rural people. 

Many people are losing their connection to the land and rural people. They feel like rural America is as alien a world to them, as if they had landed on Mars. This old grandpa will do what he can to help Sean view nature as a wonderful part of his technological world.

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Sing and Dance In the Rain

Across the Fence #446

As twilight envelopes Sherpeland on this Memorial Day, a light fog has descended upon the countryside. Everything is very green and very wet. It rains and rains and rains. After a very long winter we’ve been blessed or cursed with a very wet spring. Your outlook all boils down to whether you see the rain gauge as half empty or half full.

Right now, it’s full enough for most people around here, especially the farmers. It’s almost the end of May and many farmers haven’t been able to get in their fields to plant the corn crop. It never dries out enough between rain showers to get in the fields without burying the equipment in the mud. Farming is a tough job, but this spring has been an especially trying time for them.

I’m tired of the wet weather too, but I can’t complain. I’m high and dry as I sit here and I don’t have to worry about a corn crop that still needs planting. On this Memorial Day evening I’m safe and dry in our house as the fog sets in and darkness begins to surround us. As I sit here looking out the window, my mind drifts back to nights like this many years ago in a far away land. Rain-soaked vegetation with fog settling in low areas, especially at twilight, seems to be a trigger that unlocks those memories for me.

We were miserable at times in the stifling heat and humidity, torrential downpours during the Monsoon rains, water-logged boots and socks, mud that sucked us in and trapped us, blood-sucking malaria-carrying mosquitoes, creepy-crawly critters, poisonous snakes, booby traps, and oh yes, enemy forces lurking in the bushes that wanted to kill us. But, I would rather have had all those conditions to deal with than the snow and freezing cold that our troops endured during the Battle of the Bulge in World War II and in Korea. I can’t imagine how miserable they must have been and how hard it must have been to fight when they were freezing to death. I have so much respect for them. 

This year marks the 60th anniversary of the signing of the armistice that ended the fighting in the Korean War on July 27, 1953. Lately, there have been articles about the war and I imagine there will be more as the anniversary date approaches. It’s about time the Korean vets are recognized for the sacrifices they made. Korean War KIA’s and MIA’s were the focal points of my talk at the Viroqua Memorial Day program.

I also stressed that it’s important that those of us who are still alive, remember those who weren’t as lucky as we were. These extra years have been a gift and we shouldn’t waste a single day. 

I think Wisconsin author Ben Logan said it best. He was an LST commander in World War II and the only one in his crew to survive the war. When I visited with him at his farm nine years ago and interviewed him about his World War II experiences for a Veteran’s Day column, he told me, “I still think of those men. The incident changed my life and made life increasingly precious. I pledged then that I would never waste a moment. I dedicated myself to live for them too.”

This past week I was talking with a Vietnam vet friend. We’re both rather driven and always busy doing something. I mentioned what I was going to talk about in my Memorial Day talk. He said he felt the same way. He didn’t want to waste any of these extra days and years he’d been given either. Life is precious. We must make the best of the time we have. Too many of our friends didn’t get this chance. I used to think I was the only one who felt that way, but now I suspect a great many veterans feel the same way.

Because I don’t want to waste this extra “bonus” time I’ve been given, it bothered me when I read the new Department of Veterans Affairs report that said 22 veterans commit suicide every day. That’s alarming. Also alarming is that 69% were over the age of 50. That puts them in the Vietnam, Korea, and World War II age group. Evidently those people were hurting and didn’t seek or get help. Maybe it’s the old medic in me that wants to help and heal everyone, but I think it’s tragic that so many people see no hope ahead, and the only way out is to end it all. That needs to change.

Perhaps for some, the fog of war gets in the way, just like when driving in a heavy fog, they can hardly make out the road ahead. When people can no longer see clearly, it’s easy to lose the way. We all need to remember that the fog will eventually rise and the sun will shine again.

These rainy days we’ve been experiencing will eventually give way to dry days. Like Gene Kelly, when it's raining we need to sing and dance in the rain and enjoy it. When dry weather comes and we need the rain, we can even do a rain dance! Keep dancing and don’t waste these years that we’ve been given. Our fallen comrades would love to be in our place. 

Every day is a great day to be alive! 

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Some Things Never Change

Across the Fence #445

I know most people hate dandelions, but the bright yellow color, contrasting against the green grass, makes for a rather colorful, spring appearance. 

I’ve tried for years to keep the amount of dandelions in our yard to a minimum, all to no avail. I’ve used dandelion killers in lawn fertilizer; I’ve sprayed them; I’ve mowed them; I’ve stomped on them; I’ve tried digging them up by the roots… all those methods have been a real waste of time and money. I’ve even tried ignoring them, thinking they’ll magically disappear. They don’t. I’ve told friends who make dandelion wine, to come and harvest all they want!! They declined the invitation. If I could grow flowers like I can grow dandelions, I could quit my day job and go into the flower business.

When we lived in Madison, I tried my best to keep our small yard looking green. When you have neighbors all around you, they don’t appreciate your dandelions invading their manicured yards. Unfortunately, one neighbor whose lawn was right next to ours, didn’t do anything about their dandelions. No matter how much I tried to keep our yard looking green, it was always decorated with yellow in the spring. Every time their dandelions were in full bloom, it didn’t matter which way the wind was blowing, the little white puffs became airborne and made pinpoint landings in our yard. 

I found out that dandelions have quite a history. Did you know that dandelions were introduced from Europe and have been used as a potherb and medicinal plant since Roman times? See, during all that time, nobody’s been able to destroy them so I don’t feel so bad that my attempts to eradicate them have been a failure too! They have a high vitamin and mineral content. Mature leaves are dried and used to make a mild tea. Roots can be used to make stronger tea, or dried and used for various medicinal purposes. And all this time, I’ve been digging up those roots and just throwing them away! Dandelion leaves are used in salads, and of course we’ve all heard of dandelion wine. Have any of you ever brewed or tasted the wine?

As you can see, a plant that gets such a negative reaction has a lot of positive attributes too! 

Now that we live in the country, we have a much bigger yard and a lot more dandelions. At least I don’t have to worry about any next-door neighbors getting irritated because I have a dandelion that went to seed and blew into their yard. They do blow into the corn fields and hay fields, but they already have nice crops of dandelions so I don’t think a few more will bother that much. 

After the strong winds that blew through here a couple nights ago, we now have a nice assortment of chopped up corn stalks on our yard. I didn’t bother to rake them up. That would have taken hours. I just chopped them into smaller pieces with the lawn mower and now they can help nurture the dandelions. It makes for a rather colorful lawn. Yellow dandelions, dull yellow dried corn stubble, and patches of green grass scattered throughout the mix. Actually our lawn is thriving with all the rain we’ve had this spring. It’s a good thing I didn’t fertilize or I’d really be in trouble. There’s no way I’m going to mow twice a week. Have you noticed how much money it takes to fill up that little two-gallon gas can these days? That’s an Uff da. 

I have a John Deere riding mower now and it still takes almost an hour and a half to mow everything. I don’t think I’ll go back to the old push mower. It would take me all day, but at least I’d get a lot of exercise. I still know how to use one.

When we lived in Madison our lawn wasn’t that big. I could mow it in forty-five minutes with our power mower, but it finally gave up the ghost one day. I tried fixing it, but it was terminal, so I went shopping for a new one. When I shop, the first thing I look at is the price tag. Even the smallest ones were not that cheap! Then I spotted a push mower! You know, the type without a motor. Yes, they still make them… for people like me. I checked the price tag. Under $80, that was more like it. I told the young salesman I’d like one of those. He looked at me like I was nuts. 

“Are you sure you want that one, you have to push it,” he said. “It doesn’t have a motor!”

“I know,” I said. “I used one of those long before you were born. It worked then and I imagine I can still remember how to push it!”

He looked at me like I didn’t have a brain in my head. Actually, a lot of neighbors thought I was nuts too. But I had fun pushing my motor-less mower, quietly around the yard and driving the neighbors nuts, thinking I was going to drop over from a heart attack.

Now I sit on my riding mower as I cut the grass, but we still have a wonderful crop of dandelions. Some things never change!

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Korean Veterans Are Not Forgotten

Across the Fence #444

This Memorial Day, a small percentage of Americans will attend programs and parades to remember those veterans who are no longer with us, especially those who gave their lives fighting for their country.

Too often they’re just names on a memorial or tombstone. We don’t know anything about their short lives. I’d like to tell you about one of those heroes.

Pfc Ernest Simonson

Ernest Vilas Simonson was born on October 27, 1928 near Viroqua, Wisconsin. He was raised on a farm west of Viroqua, located along Highway 56. His family later moved to Viroqua where he attended high school. He loved fishing in the local creeks along the Bad Axe River. After they moved to town, he helped the Gerhard Birkelo family as a farmhand. At the time, a young teacher who taught at the Sag City country school, also lived at the Birkelo’s. One evening while they were eating supper, Ernie asked her if she would go to a comedy movie with him at the Temple Theatre in Viroqua. She accepted. He was going to buy them each a bag of popcorn, but she thought it was too much money, so they shared one instead. She said later that he was a real gentleman. Others said he was easy going and had a nice personality. 

In 1948 he enlisted in the army and spent time in Japan with the occupation troops. He received a hardship discharge in May, 1950. Six months later he was recalled when the Korean War began. His sister, Beverly Aspenson, who lives in Westby, remembers the day the family took him to the train station in La Crosse. It was a very difficult and sad time for all of them, knowing he was headed off to war. It was the last time they saw him.

He soon found himself on a troop ship headed for Korea as a member of K Company, 3rd Battalion., 9th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division. On January 29, 1951, he wrote the following (edited) letter to Beverly.

“Dearest Sis, Received your most welcome letter yesterday. I just heated up some water and took a bath and shave. Of course it was a chilly job. Sure feel better. It’s rather nice out today. I’ve got a chest cold now. Some of the boys went out and butchered a young heifer yesterday. The mess hall is going to fix it up so we’ll really eat good today.

“Yes, I bet you are lonesome now. I am too. I’m a couple hundred miles from Puson and I think 30 or 40 miles south of Wonju. I’ve been up around Wonju and Check Chon. I was on the front lines, but never did get into a fight.

“Sure wish I would get some packages. Hope you all are sending some. I sure like candy now. Never used to like it at home. I’d like to have some Planter’s Peanuts too. I don’t need cigarettes. I can always get them one way or the other.”

The next day he continued the letter. “I will tell you about my good deed from yesterday. I was here at the CP and I was mad at everything. So I took a little walk to cool off. About 200 yards from here I found a little Korean girl about 10 years old. Well she couldn’t walk. She was crawling along backwards. She was half froze and half starved. The cruelty of war sure causes the innocent to suffer. She was in pain. Well all I could do was to carry her back here to the CP. I got some C-rations and fed her. I don’t think she’ll live without medical care and I doubt if she’ll ever walk again.

When are you going to send some pictures? What’s the new songs out now? Hit parade or hillbilly? Signing off for now. Much love as always, Ernie.”

Fourteen days later, on February 12, 1951, Ernie was captured when the 2nd Division suffered severe losses during the Massacre at Hoengsong. They were attacked by more than 25,000 Chinese and North Korean troops.

Robert Dyer of Fresno, California was also captured. After his release from a POW camp, he wrote a letter to the family of their friend, Francis Stutlien from Wisconsin, and told about their capture and imprisonment. After being captured they were marched for 47 days to what was called the Bean POW Camp, because that’s about all they got to eat. They arrived April 1st. Many men died or were killed during the march. By the time they reached the camp most were very weak and sick. Malnutrition, dysentery, beatings by the guards, and death were a daily occurrence. Stutlien died on April 24th.

On May 25, 1951, 102 days after being captured, Ernest Simonson died from dysentery and starvation at the age of 22. After that battle in February, his family received notice that he was Missing In Action as of February 12, 1951. From that time until August, 1953, his family, and the girl he hoped would wait for him, didn’t know if he was alive or dead. That’s when they finally received notice that he had died in captivity. In 1955 his body was recovered and returned to Wisconsin where he was buried with military honors in the Viroqua Cemetery.

This Memorial Day, I’d like us all to take a moment and remember all those who lost their lives in Korea, and all the other wars we’ve been involved in. Like Ernie, so many lost lives and lost potential. They are not forgotten.

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Hothead Sven Remembers Norway's Civil War

Across the Fence #443 (Syttende Mai Extra)

This story about the Ornes (Urnes) family and Hothead Sven is an excerpt from the “Hothead Sven Saga,” a historical fiction story I’m writing about these early ancestors. 

Sven ran his calloused, thick fingers through his thinning hair. His bloodshot eyes peered up at the bar-covered window in his small, dark cell. The first light of dawn was visible behind the mountains that rose high above Hauklandstølen. A few lights dotted the landscape as the residents of Moi began to stir and prepare for the day many had dreaded to see arrive.

Sven turned away from the lights and retreated into the darkness of the room. The thick log walls and heavy wood door captured the chill of early autumn and the small room was cold and damp. His large body shivered as a chill shot through it. They would come to get him as soon as the sun appeared over the mountains.  

A wave of despair swept over him and he sank slowly onto the straw-covered, wood bed along one side of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his large hands as tears rolled down his weathered face and disappeared in his bushy, gray beard.

Sleep had not been possible this night as he thought about his life and what awaited him at dawn. He didn’t want to die. He lay back on the hard bed and covered his eyes with his large, muscular forearm, trying to block out the light of the coming dawn and the fate that awaited him. 

Me in the same jail where Hothead Sven was held, wearing the handcuffs he once wore.

His thoughts drifted back to younger, happier days when he roamed the hills and mountains surrounding their small farm at Skåland, and later at Steinberg, in southwestern Norway. The mountains rose up from the waters edge on the west and east. He wished he could see that beautiful lake again, where his father had taught him how to handle a boat and fish. A stone-lined path from the Skjerpe farm went up into those mountains where the Østrem and Mageland farms were located. To the south the lake narrowed before joining the sea on the southern coast of Norway. 

Sven Pedersen Skåland was born in 1575, the oldest son of Peder Atlaksen Steinberg and Berete Iversdatter Skåland. Their small farm, just south of Moi, was located near the shore of Skålandsvika, a small inlet that emptied into Lundevatnet, one of the largest lakes in the area. In earlier days, Sven’s ancestors had pushed their Viking boats into the water at Skålandsvika, waved goodbye to their families, and sailed the fifteen miles downstream to where it emptied into the sea near Flekkefjord.

  

When Sven was a young boy he sat and listened in wide-eyed wonder as the old men told tales of Viking exploits that had been passed down from generation to generation. Each telling of the tales became grander, in direct proportion to the amount of ale that had been consumed. 

Sven could still see and hear his grandfather, Atlak Steinberg, as he sat on the heavy bench by the old wood table in their small house and told the stories on long winter nights.

Grandfather Atlak leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. Strands from his long, shaggy beard fell into his large ale bowl in front of him. The bowl with dragon heads had been hand carved by Atlak’s grandfather, Ståle. Atlak used the dragons as handles when he drank from the old ale bowl. He pushed the bowl out of the way and ran his fingers through his soggy beard, then licked the ale from his fingers. A slight smile creased his lips. “No sense in wasting good ale,” he said. “Now, did I ever tell you about old Gaut One-Eye’s family?”

Before anyone could protest and say they had heard it at least a hundred times before, Atlak began the story again. Sven’s father, Peder, rolled his eyes, leaned back against the log wall, and crossed his muscular arms across his chest. “Here we go again.” Young Sven listened intently to his every word, even though he’d heard many of the stories before. 

“This story was told to me by my father and he heard it from his father before him. It took place a long time ago when our grandfathers were still sailing in Viking ships and took part in the Great Civil War of Norway between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers.”

The death of King Sigurd ‘The Crusader’ in 1130 set off the war. It lasted 110 years until 1240. There was fighting among many different groups and chieftains wanting control of Norway. During that time the clergy of the Catholic Church sided with the Aristocracy and together they ruthlessly gained control over lesser kings, chieftains, and their followers.”

The Church took much control of the country when they introduced a mandatory tax called ‘Peter’s Pence’. People who couldn’t pay lost their property. By 1500, only 100 years ago, the Catholic Church owned nearly half the land in Norway.”

Atlak continued his story. “Our Grandfather, Gaut of Ornes allied himself with King Magnus Erlingson and the Church, and became one of the most powerful families in Norway at the time. The Ornes family was also known as Urnes. The Urnes Stave Church had been built by them on their farm. Gaut also owned land at Mel and Ænes. We’ll forgive him now for siding with the rich folks. His grandsons would eventually see the light and join the Birkebeiners.”

Gaut’s son, Jon Gautsson, the father of Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson, became the skipper of King Magnus’ ship. He led the King’s army into battle with King Magnus fighting by his side.”

Fed up with the Aristocracy and Church taking their property, plus higher and higher taxes, a group was organized by the farmers and common people and led by Sverre Sigurdsson Prest. They were called the ‘Birkebeiner’, which means ‘Birchlegs’, because they were sometimes forced to wrap their feet in birch bark for want of shoes. It’s against this group that Grandfather Jon Gautsson fought, as he led King Magnus Erlingson’s forces.” 

There’s a story that Sverre is also our grandfather that involves an illegitimate granddaughter of King Håkon Håkonson, but that’s a story for another day.”

Peder shook his head and relit his pipe as his father rambled on, often getting sidetracked on another story, much like a ship sailing up a tributary of the main fjord and then having to backtrack to get on course again. But regardless of his story wandering all over the place, Sven knew Grandfather Atlak was coming to the exciting part of the story. As he sat on the floor near his grandfather, he leaned forward to catch his every word. 

Atlak continued. “On the 15th day of June, 1184, King Magnus, along with Grandfather Jon Gautsson, led twenty-four ships and 3,000 men against King Sverre and his Birkebeiners, who had fourteen ships and 2,000 men. Jon’s brother, Munan Gautsson, also commanded a ship in the battle. They met in a great battle at Fimreite in Norefjord, a narrow arm of the Sognefjord. Stories are told of a fierce battle that began in the afternoon and lasted until midnight.” 

Grandfather Jon had his ship in the lead as they closed with Sverre’s forces. Ships rammed into opposing ships and a fierce fight began. Grandfather led the charge, swinging his great sword as they boarded the Birkebeiner ships. Broad axes were planted in the chests of the enemy as the battle raged. Grandfather was a great warrior and had survived many battles in his day. Many Birkebeiners fell under his mighty blows. The Birkebeiners were also tough and fought hard, and Sverre was a great leader. The tide of battle turned against King Magnus and Grandfather. A Birkebeiner ship came alongside of Grandfathers’ and tied on. A violent battle began as the two ships battled each other with swords, spears and broad axes. Another Birkebeiner ship came along the other side. Now they had to do battle with both crews as the Birchlegs jumped into their ship. Grandfather fought hard, slaying many of the Birchlegs until a sword pierced his chest. He slumped to the deck of the ship. King Magnus realized the battle was lost. Rather than suffer the humiliation of being captured and tortured, he jumped overboard so that he might enter the halls of Valhalla as a fighter. The coat of mail he wore pulled him under and he drowned. He was only eight and twenty years.“

At that point Grandfather Jon struggled to his feet and with his sword, struck a man who was boarding their ship. Grandfather was struck again and the blow knocked him into the water, saving his life. The night was full upon them at that point and it was very dark in the water. As Grandfather struggled to stay above water, another ship almost ran him over. He realized it was one of his own ships and yelled for help. They pulled him from the water and laid him in the boat with the other wounded and dead. With their King and leader dead, along with many of their fellow warriors, they gave up the fight. What was left of their force broke contact and retreated. Many great warriors entered the halls of Valhalla that day, including grandfather’s brother, Munan. Twenty-one hundred and sixty men, nearly half of the 5,000 men who took part in the battle died that day. It’s said that if you sit on the shores of the Sognfjord at midnight, when the wind sweeps down the fjord, you can still hear the long mournful moans of all the men who died in the battle that night.”

Atlak leaned back, let out a big sigh, and lifted his ale bowl to his lips. He took a long drink, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and continued his story. 

“It was thought that Grandfather Jon also perished in the fighting, but he was taken home severely wounded and prepared to die. But he was tough and after many days of suffering he began to get stronger and survived. That was good for us Sven, or we wouldn’t be here. His son, Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson was born three years later.”

After the defeat and death of King Magnus, Sverre became King of Norway. Before that time, the Ænes family had been living at Ornes for centuries. They were a powerful Chieftain family, but, because they had been supporting the forces opposed to Sverre and his Birkebeiners, they lost their land at Ornes. Jon and the rest of his family moved farther south to Mel and Ænes, property also owned by their family.”

King Sverre knew he needed the support of the powerful Ornes families if he wanted to keep control of Norway. The war was still going on as pockets of resistance from the Church and their rich friends continued to fight against him. He allowed the Ornes family to keep their property at Mel and Ænes and invited them to join him as Birkebeiners.”

Atlak stopped and took another drink of ale.

“Peder said, “Father, you fill Sven with such wild tales, he won’t know what to believe. If we were descended from nobility would we be living like this, barely able to raise enough food among the damn rocks on these mountains to keep ourselves fed? What kind of bullshit is this you teach him? I teach him how to farm and fish. At least that will put food in his mouth. You fill him with nothing but words and stories that have nothing to do with us today. It’s all in the past and should be left there. We have no need for it.”

Atlak rose from his seat and straightened his bent, frail body as best he could. Pointing a bony finger at his son, he admonished him. “That’s no way to speak to your father! Bullshit you say! Lies you say! Are you calling your grandfathers liars too? Your own grandfathers, whose blood flows through your body and gives you life. These Sagas have been passed down from generation to generation. Thank the gods that Sven is interested in the stories.”

“The stories cause nothing but trouble,” Peder said. He pointed at Sven. “Look at him. He sits there in wide-eyed wonder as you spin your tales of the Sagas as skillfully as a spider weaves his web. You draw him in and he gets caught in that web. Mark my words, it will only lead to more trouble. Sven almost killed one of his friends playing war games because of the damn stories you tell.”

“Father, I was just protecting myself,” Sven protested.

“At least Sven’s not afraid to stand up for himself,” Atlak said. “Nobody’s going to push him around. Too bad you didn’t have some of his fire. Maybe if you did, you’d have a farm that produced more than rocks!”

Peder’s face turned red as he clenched his fists. He wanted to lash out and strike his old father, but he didn’t say a word. He rose quickly from his chair and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. ‘Damn you,’ he thought as he headed up a mountain trail to cool off. ‘Age hasn’t softened his edges at all. There’s no sense trying to argue or reason with him. Everything’s always been his way and he becomes angry if anyone disagrees. Now I worry that Sven is just like his grandfather. He has that same explosive temper. That temper and all those damn stories about fighting and war are going to lead to nothing but trouble.”

As Sven sat alone in the jail at Moi, waiting for dawn to arrive, he remembered how his father and grandfather had argued. It was true that the stories of the fighting between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers had made an impression on him and had fueled his imagination. In that imaginary world Sven was fighting alongside Sverre as one of the Birkebeiners. 

He remembered the day he had stood on the shores of the Norfjord where his ancestors had fought in the great battle that was the turning point of the Norwegian Civil War. He was certain he’d heard the mournful moans of the dead in the wind. He wished he were back there again. 

Unfortunately, he would never see it again. “Hothead” Sven now sat waiting for the dawn to arrive. He would soon be joining his ancestors.

Visit me in the Heritage Tent at Westby Syttende Mai on May 18th and 19th. Maybe I’ll tell you what happened to Hothead Sven.

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