Driving Audhumla

In Sweden's army

This photo of my grandfather Ole Gunderson Slind is slightly mysterious. It was shot in a studio in Trondheim, and shows him in his Swedish army uniform. It's difficult to pin down just exactly when this photo was made, or how old Grandpa was at the time.

Although he was a Norwegian citizen, Grandpa served in the Swedish army because Norway was yoked to Sweden in 1814 and the union wasn't dissolved until 1905. So we know the photo has to predate 1905. Grandpa was born in Selbu, Norway in 1884. And according to immigrations records at the Ellis Island website, he made his first trip to America in 1902, when he was 18 years old. The records of his second emigration to America in 1922 indicate that he lived in America for seven years on his first trip. That means he would not have returned to Norway until after the dissolution of Norway's union with Sweden.

So he would have to have been only 18 years old in this photo. It's hard to tell how old he is in this photo, but he looks to me somewhat older than 18.  The ship's manifests available at the Ellis Island site are accurate historical documents--although my father Bjarne Slind's name is misspelled as "Bjarra" Slind--so I can't figure out how Grandpa managed to serve in the army and emigrate to the US all in one year.

The passenger manifest for his second trip to the US contains much more information than the earlier record. It says that in 1922, he and my grandmother Ingeborg Klegseth Slind and all six of their children traveled aboard the Norwegian-American Line's Stavangerfjord, a 533-ft. coal-fired steamship that brought thousands of Norwegian immigrants to America. According to the manifest, Grandpa identified himself as a farmer, and was 5'8" tall with brown hair and blue eyes. (Actually, not surprisingly, everyone on the manifest had blue eyes).

My grandmother Ingeborg was 5'7" tall.    The manifest says all of their children could read and write In Norwegian with the exception of my dad who was only three years old at the time. Grandpa arrived with $700, a goodly sum in those days. (My kids great-grandfather Arturo Pistoresi arrived from Lucca, Italy at the age of 18 in 1904 wsith only $10 to his name, according to Ellis Island records).

To return to this mysterious photo, I have to say that Grandpa does not make the most impressive-looking soldier. His boots appear to be unshined, and his uniform could have used a good pressing. His trousers look like they've had hard wear, with the knees all stretched out. I think he is standing in front of a painted backdrop and that the potted fern and fancy wood paneling are only paint on canvas.

Dad says that Grandpa was part of the honor guard for Queen of Sweden, but he hardly looks like a spiffy member of anybody's palace guard. That Queen, Sofia of Nassau, was the daughter of a German prince, and wife of King Oscar II. (This is the king whose photo appears on the can of one of my dad's favorite foods, King Oscar Fish balls).The Norwegians did not at all enjoy being ruled by a Swedish king, despite his rather optimistic motto of Brödrafolkens väl, which means "the welfare of the brother peoples." So I can't quite imagine how it must have felt to have served in this army.  Norway and Sweden had a minor war back in 1814, with the involuntary union with Sweden one of the aspects of the accord that ended the conflict. 

Unfortunately, there's nobody left in the family who can unravel this mystery. The photo is definitely my grandfather, but the date is uncertain.

Norway Norwegian Swedish Sweden army union immigration immigrant emigrate family genealogy.

That white dress

Found this First Communion photo in a stack of old photos my aunt lent me. This was taken in April 1951, when I was seven years old, just ending my first-grade year at Holy Names Academy  in Seattle, Washington.

I don't remember all that much about this day. Mom made my dress, which was scratchy white organdy. My veil was like many of the other girls in my class, with a clear plastic headband and a sprig of fake lily of the valley. I'm grasping the fronds of the weeping willow tree in our front yard that I used to climb. I'd sit in the tree reading a book, and pretend I was Jo March from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women.

I was in one of those huge post-war first grade classes at the academy. I think there were over 50 of us first grade girls in one classroom. I wonder how our teacher--a very young nun named Sr. Rose Imelda--managed with all of us.

We made our first communion at St. Joseph's Church in Seattle. This was a huge art-deco building with a stark interior livened by a large Byzantine mosaic and a rose window that took up most of the space behind the altar.  Here's a shot of the interior of the church.

I remember the oddest things from that day.  I marched in procession behind someone whose veil was attached to a wreath of snowberries that fell off as she walked up the long aisle. I remember trying to step on the berries and pop them, all the while maintaining perfect First Communion decorum.

We had practiced first communion with Necco wafers which were not anything in taste or texture like the host. We were told never to chew the host or touch it with our hands, We were not told horror stories about bad things that would happen to us if we did, but still, the idea of having to scrape a stuck host off the roof of my mouth scared me. (And my voluptuous grandmother said she was always afraid a host would drop down her cleavage when she was at the communion rail). Funny how silliy this all seems now.

The boys--who went to the all-boys' school several blocks away--all wore blue suits with white bows on the sleeve. They were less well-behaved than we perfect little girls, as I recall, and we used to resent their general horsing around during first communion practice.

Here in the Hispanic section of Oakland where I live, first communions are very big deals with the families. The little girls wear long dresses and the little boys all-white suits. Children seem to receive a lot of presents, and it's an occasion for a large family party. That's not how I rememvber it when I was little, but then, times and cultures were different then. 

Catholic Catholicism 1950s church first+communion Seattle dress veil

Finally online

Someone by the name of Maggie Rail visited the Selbu Lutheran Church cemetery in LaCrosse, Washington, and put all the records on line. I knew that many of the other Washington State cemetery records were available on the web, including the pioneer cemetery in Roslyn, Washington where my mother and son and buried, and where some of my husband William Mahannah's ashes are scattered. And I've been able to learn important information about my maternal grandparents and great-grandparents from the online records of Ellensburg's Holy Cross Cemetery.

But now my father's side of the family's genealogical information is available, because Ms. Rail has posted the data from this small Norwegian immigrant church's graveyard. I now know that my grandmother Ingeborg Klegseth Slind was born in 1889 and died in 1930. And that my grandfather Ole Slind--born in 1884 and died in 1975--is buried between two of his wives, both of who were named Ingeborg. (His third wife, Anna Walli Slind, is buried by her first husband, Johan Walli). And I learned that my great-uncle Jørgen Klegseth, who died in 1945, was only 45 years old at the time.

The names on the tombstones are the names I've heard my whole life long: Aune, Kyllo, Slind, Klegseth, Kjosnes, Wigen, Emerson, Carlson and Walli. Some of those names may not trip so easily off American tongues, but they're perfectly understandable to me because I heard them pronounced long before I saw their spelling.

It's a small cemetery, up on one of the bosomy hills behind the church, surrounded by wheat fields. My Aunt Magna Walli Slind, who was buried there in 2005, is one of the small cemetery's most recent residents. And I suspect that after the  last of the immigrant generation dies out, there will be few additional burials there as so many of the following generations have left farming and moved far from the Palouse wheat country. Here's the cemetery sign, with engraved wheat stalks, and there's another shot of the small church.  And I want to say that I very much appreciate Ms. Rail's work.

cemetery graves tombstones immigrant immigration Norway Norwegian genealogy family+history

In the news

With the release of Clint Eastwood's movie about the flag-raising on Iwo Jima, "Flags of Our Fathers," I''ve seen several recent newspaper pieces about my cousin Charles Suver S.J.  He was the Jesuit priest--and chaplain in the U.S. Marine Corps--who celebrated mass atop Mt. Suribachi amid one of the fiercest battles in World War II.  Apparently there has been some controversy about whether the mass preceded or followed the famous flag raising.

All I can remember is opening up my U.S. history book when I was in seventh grade and being shocked to see a photo of my cousin in his camouflage vestments celebrating mass. Charles Suver's mother was my great-grandmother's sister, and he and my grandmother spent a great deal of their growing-up years  together in Ellensburg, Washington. He died at the age of 86 in 1993 and would have had his 100th birthday in this past September. He's  buried in the Jesuit Mt. St. Michael Cemetery in Spokane, Washington. Here's a photo taken at the time of his ordination  on the summer solstice 1937. He's in the center of the photo, wearing the long black cassock and surrounded by family members.

I wonder what he would think of the horrible mess in Iraq in which we're presently involved? Would he still be a gung-ho Marine, or would he be worrying about the apparent futility of the war no one seems to have wanted except that guy from Crawford, Texas.

Marines chaplain Iwo+Jima Suribachi flag Jesuit priest mass Catholic Iraq war

Open at last

Yesterday I went to the grand opening of the new main library for the Alameda Free Library on the island of Alameda. Although I live in Oakland, California, I am so close to the island that I spend much more time there. It's where I do my grocery shopping, where I am more likely to eat a meal in a restaurant, where I take my pottery class at the Mastick Senior Center  and where I am more likely to mail a letter at the post office. All in all, Alameda is a charming small town that has lost none of that flavor over the years.

And in an era when library hours are being cut, it's a real pleasure to have a public library that is open seven days a week.  The new building is wonderful. There's all kinds of seating for casual browsing, and they have many many carrels where one can plug in a laptop and use the library's free wireless Internet access. The library even has a fireplace with cozy overstuffed chairs.

It's impressive that the architects and design consultants placed such an emphasis on building a "green" library. The carpeting is made from ground-up recycled plastic soda bottles, the insulation is made from discarded blue jeans and all the wood in the building is from sustainable sources. The building was designed by a woman architect, Kacey Jurgens, a principal in Portland, Oregon's Thomas Hacker Architects.  The firm seems to specialize in institutional libraries.

All in all, it seems a successful building, if the happy crowds at yesterday's opening were any indication. I came home with two new-to-me novels by one of my favorite writers, Ursula Hegi. The new check-out mechanism is very cool. You simply place stack books on a metal plate, run your card under a bar code reader, and instantly they're checked out, and you receive a printed receipt telling you which books you have and when they're due. It's excellent very fast technology.

library Alameda architech achitecture

On being a big sister

Every time I look at this photo, I think about everything that went with being the eldest of four children.  The combination of being the first-born, growing up in a Norwegian-American family and being born under the sign of Capricorn has given me a heightened sense of responsibility, I guess. When my sibs get mad at me, they always tell me I'm being "Mother Superior" and acting like I'm in charge of the whole world.

In this photo, I'm the big sister sitting protectively behind my five-years-younger sister. This photo was shot in 1950 at the house my father built in Lynnwood, Washington. Behind is is the alder-pole my father built. My brother and I had the job of peeling the bark from the poles before Dad nailed them into the fence. The sap from the alder(Alnus rubra) turned our hands red.

And behind the fence I see Mom's clothesline, hung with what looks like dozens of diapers. This was before the days of automatic washers and dryers, and I can remember her putting the wash through the wringer, and then toting a willow clothes basket full of wet  laundry out to the clothesline. It must have been challenging to get the clothes dry in the often-inclement Northwest.

Some sort of perennials are growing along the fence, probably Shasta daisies (Leucanthemum x superbum) that grew to astonishing heights because of the rabbit manure Mom used for fertilizer.

My sister is sitting in something called a "Taylor Tot," which was a cumbersome post-war antecedent to a baby stroller. In the background you can see some of the second-growth Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii  that covered the 10 acres we owned. I remember our days in Lynnwood as a magical time of closeness to nature, but, in retrospect, it must have been very difficult for my mother, at home with three little kids under six.

family photos childhood pacific+northwest Washington+State 

Writing, and being written about

A few months ago I wrote a piece for Matrifocus about how I spend Samhain. The piece was just published and you can find the link here.

And a couple of weeks ago, a reporter from the East Bay Express wanted to know about my seasonal reading. Here's the story he wrote.  I think I'm more comfortable as a writer than as someone who is written about. But I know what it's like from both sides, now. At least it wasn't the dread Halloween-morning drive-time radio interview I tell all my media students at Cherry Hill Pagan Seminary to avoid if at all possible. And he did give a good plug for the Pagan Book of LIving and Dying, which I think is an oustanding book.

Pagan Paganism Witch Samhain Halloween

Gone to a new home

Another quilt has left home. I wish I had better photos, but this piece was way too long for me to hang from any place that I could reach easily. And the section of the patio where I usually photograph quilts is presently taken up with the Dia de los Muertos altar. If I remember correctly, the quilt is something like 92" X 108". In any case, it's a big 'un.

This quilt is an homage to Frida Kahlo, one of Mexico's most famous painters. No, it's not anything like her work, but the colors and the many floral fabrics remind me of the vibrancy of the Mexican folk art with which she and Diego Rivera lived in their Casa Azul (blue house) in the Mexico City suburb of Coyoacan.  The back label has an image of Frida that I drew and fused.

I collected the fabrics for this quilt in a wide variety of places. Whenever I travel, fabric invariably finds room in my suitcase. It took some searching to find the right kinds of floral prints, the chilies, and the intense blue that I used for the border and binding. Some of these fabrics have, of course, showed up in other quilts, including my son's wedding quilt, and even some of the Sheela-na-gig pieces I did for my show at the now-defunct--and lamented--Change Makers for Women.   Here's the whole quilt, but please note that it's pinned to two 4'X8' panels that are hinged together. The quilt is a flat rectangle, but the wind kept blowing the panels into a V shape.
 

I had to fussy cut most of the diamond-shaped fabric piece because I wanted a specific part of the print to show. This meant reducing a lot of fabric to Swiss cheese, but it was worth it to get the effect I wanted.

The quilt has many of my favorite flowers that I have grown in my garden: nasturtiums, cosmos, sweet peas, corn poppies. So it's a way of keeping my garden alive in memory all year round. The quilt actually has flowers from each season of the year.

The quilt is based on a design I saw in Kaffe Fasset and Liza Lucy's  Glorious Patchwork, a inspired quilt book with simple designs but incredibly sophisticated color choices. The original quilt was done all in reds--was actually called "Red Diamonds"--and it just knocked my socks off the first time I saw it. I knew I had to make a quilt using this design.

Before I sent the quilt off, we had a little quilt-blessing ritual here at my loft. Many of my witchy friends were here to carve pumpkins for last night's Samhain ritual, and before everyone went home, they all held the quilt and sent their best energies of healing and affection into it. (Every quilt I make is a spell, after all, and this particular quilt is intended to present a powerful surge of healing energy and protection).

Of course one always second-guesses a design after it's finished. Were I to make this quilt all over again. I might have used a little less orange, and arranged the bands of color differently. But what I really llike is the intense blue border surrounding the turquoise. For me, it powerfully brings la Casa Azul to mind.

quilt quilting fabric Frida+Kahlo Mexico art Diego+Rivera Pagan Paganism

Dancing under the moon

I've just returned from the final Samhain ritual, the most solemn, and, for my way of thinking, the very best. This is a ritual that takes place on a mountain top in an undisclosed location. Only trusted members of the community are invited to participate in this ritual.  This is not a ritual for observers, only for committed participants.

We make our way to the site one by one, each of us carrying a lighted jack o'lantern. We set them in a circle in front of us and wait in silence, seated on the ground, until everyone has arrived.

Then the circle is cast, the quarters are called, and the names of the Beloved Dead are read  as we dance in a slow circle, chanting "what is remembered lived." After this,  we dance the spiral dance one last time for the season, share cookies and juice, then say goodbye to the ancestors for another year.

It is my privilege to read the names of the Beloved Dead. The list grows longer every year--this year we had over 500 names--and I try to read each name with reverence and respect. It's hard when I come across the name of someone I know personally.

I go to the ritual site about an hour before everyone else. I sit in silence with my cloak wrapped around me, and my hood pulled down over my face, just meditating on this solemn act we will perform. And I call to mind all my personal Beloved Dead I want to remember.  I really love sitting there in silence under the moon.

Tonight, just as we cast the circle, someone pointed out that the spatter of clouds made a spiral around the moon. It was almost too perfect.

The hike is substantial, and my old-lady knees are already complaining about the downhill trip home. But I wouldn't trade this ritual for anything. It is the most sacred way to spend what is the holiest night in the Pagan calendar.

When it was time to dismiss the ancestors, I blew them all a fat kiss, tossed off into space beyond all time. It's a place where I know I will some day dance on Samhain.   And now to bed after a wonderful week of rituals and sharing. What is remembered lives.

Samhain Halloween Pagan Paganism ritual ancestors