On Being of Norwegian Heritage

My father was half Norwegian, his mother pure blooded, as both of her parents were from Norway and married in Minnesota after their immigration. They changed their names from Olson to Nokleby, for reasons I can only guess at, namely, that maybe there were so many Olsons already living in Minnesota that they took their Norwegian hometown name, I think, as a surname to help distinguish themselves from all the other Olsons.

Who knows? Incidentally, the picture I've posted on this page is of Norway, a beautiful, cold land of fjords, lakes and rocky shoreline which saw the rise and fall of the Viking culture more than a thousand years ago. I am proud of this heritage because my brief and not-too-in depth study of the Vikings reveals that they were more than savage invaders who repeatedly raped, pillaged and terrorized the shores of neighboring lands, especially Ireland, England and northern France (e.g., Normandy). The Vikings settled in many of the places they visited, including far off Russia (which they named), and they were expert merchants/tradesmen with a knack for languages. They co-existed with other cultures and brought prosperity and progress to many otherwise backward areas. And, yes, they did discover America before Columbus. They were fearless seafarers and savvy businessmen (why do you think they named a thermally heated island "Iceland" and a cold, desolate island "Greenland"? They named them thus in order to confuse or misdirect potential settlers in Europe and thereby keep them out of Iceland!)

Anyway, Great-grandma Lottie (her real name was Charlotte) Nokleby married her second cousin, Ole Nokleby (nee Olson), an older man who moved her to Calgary, Alberta, Canada shortly after they were wed and began homesteading there. She bore five live children (as opposed to the more than three or four stillborn she lost) for him- three girls and two sons- and I have heard stories of Grandma Lottie having to get up from her childbirth bed to go put out a raging fire in their corn field. She was tough as nails and finally divorced her first husband and married four more times. The last fellow she married, a man named Peterson , had some money and owned a rendering factory in Mt. Vernon, in Washington state (by the way, my dad's birthplace). Lottie learned to fly airplanes and owned and raced thoroughbreds after the age of 50. I vaguely remember that she was short, only about five feet tall, and broad, and she had a distinctive Norwegian accent and cooked "pretty cribs" (boiled, ground-potato balls stuffed with a piece of salt pork or herring) and potato pancakes and other Norwegian delicacies. She never let me play with her extensive collection of horse statues when we visited her in Sedro Wooley, Wash., which were beautiful. I never felt like a beloved granddaughter as she never hugged or spoke to me (our branch of Norwegians held the belief that children should be seen, not heard, EVER!) and when she died, she left all of her estate to her youngest daughter, Pearl, ignoring all of her other children, including my grandmother, Gladys.

Well, the point of all of this diatribe is to discuss what I think are the pros and cons of being of Norwegian descent. I inherited the native intelligence and natural curiosity of the race, and a bit of wanderlust flows in my veins, as well, since I love to travel and see (discover) new places. I also inherited the Norwegian musical ability. Grandma Lottie played a mean accordion and her husband played the fiddle. My dad played guitar which I took up at age 12 and later I largely taught myself to play the piano (or play "at" it, as best as I can) and I have been a pretty good vocalist for most of my life. I inherited the coloration of the race, being olive-skinned, light-green-eyed and auburn hair (unlike my three siblings who were all fair-haired and blue-eyed, in the truest Nordic tradition). I also inherited a natural athletic ability but not as much as my sisters, and the long bones and facial features, high cheek bones and full lips, of the Nordic people.

But there is a dark side ... the bad part of being Norwegian is the temperament and stubbornness that besets so many of them. A harder working group of people than my Nordic family branch you will never meet, but God help you if you catch them after a few drinks and tick them off. The violence, both physical and verbal, was horrifying, and drinking exacerbated the situation, acted like fuel to a roaring fire. When angry, and especially when I used to drink a bit, I, too, seemed to lose my mind temporarily, would actually black out as I struck out at people and things with a force and blood lust that is terrifying when I look back at it after calming down, or after all the years that I have behaved myself. Then deep remorse would set in, and I would do all I could to make up for the storm of emotion and screaming, throwing things, hitting myself and, if mad enough, striking another individual. These rages were not uncommon and many a sheet rock wall has been caved in or pieces of glassware thrown and broken over the years.

After the violence of my childhood, the rages my father made us endure, seeing my mother and siblings and myself beaten into the ground nearly every time he drank, (I took my first beating at age four for running away from my father: my last one at age 18, when dad tried to kill me by strangulation, punching me in the stomach, ripping out my hair, and putting me through a sheet rock wall) you would think I had enough of violence to last forever. But his continuous beatings and rants and destructive behavior imprinted themselves on all four of his children, and we self-destructed, each in our separate ways. I will not speak of my siblings, as those are their stories to tell (or not), but I married four times, each one progressively worse, more violent and more heart-rending than the last.
It was only after years of psychotherapy and repeated suicide attempts (and a couple of "lock-down" sessions in Baton Rouge psychiatric wards) that I was able to regroup, stop the drinking and the ensuing rages, and try to build some self-esteem.
For the bottom line was that after being raised by one rage-filled parent who tore us down emotionally, mentally and physically - (and another who was a victim herself and so let it all happen, did not save us from him), - neither I nor my siblings had any sense of self worth. Our individual liberties or rights as individuals had long been stripped away, and I, at least, did not believe I had any worth at all; I felt that I was nothing and meant nothing to anyone, and so I deserved to be punished ... I became a victim and, as a result, nearly died at the hands of a husband.

After years of abuse, I finally came to the conclusion, (especially after my father died this year of a disease -Type 2 diabetes- that he stubbornly insisted for years that he did NOT have), that I was of some worth. My four children love me and I finally met a man who loves me for myself, in spite of all my failings. I have my college education, a good livelihood and a pleasant, modest home. I have so much to be grateful for and I am again proud of my Nordic heritage, that which gave me the courage to change my circumstances and dare to be more than I ever thought I could be.
Enough said about that, then. I am not mad at anyone anymore and life's too short as it is ... and these are the "good old days" now that I am living "la bon vie" with my beloved Philip and twins.