III. “History & Rommegrot”

May 11, 2008
Rena

This was the day that enables me to call this trip a pilgrimage. I guess I’m liberal with the vocabulary of pilgrimage because nearly every trip we take gets that label, but how could I do otherwise as I reflect on visiting the home where my grandfather was born and the church where he was baptized?
I never met either one of my grandfathers. Grandpa Peter Ronning, my mom’s dad, died in 1936, and Grandpa August, my dad’s dad, died in 1939. And since my dad died when he was only 53, before he would ever meet any of his 14 grandchildren, these are three pretty good reasons why I take such delight in being Juliette’s grandpa.
All I ever knew about Grandpa Peter was his picture on the radio in the sunroom of our home in Milan. Grey hair, neatly trimmed grey moustache, deep set dark eyes, thin face—that’s what I saw in the picture. He worked for the railroad, I learned, loved to put a plug of tobacco in his cheek, and kept dandelion wine in the basement. He was Gertie’s husband and the father of nine children, including my mom, the next to the youngest.
Mom told me her dad was baptized in the Amot Church in Rena, so it was appropriate that we witnessed a baptism on Pentecost Sunday while visiting the church. He was not baptized in this building since it was built in 1902, well after he had left Norway for America, but he was baptized in this congregation, which has been in existence since 1537. While viewing the baptism of baby Solveig today, I imagined Grandpa Peter as an infant back in 1864, in the arms of his parents Peder Nilsson and Martea Olsdatter Lillehaug as they heard the words, “Peter, child of God, sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.”
After church we began a day set aside for socializing with relatives we were meeting for the first time. There was Agnes, who at age 19, 35 years ago, met my mother and presented Frances with a home made klokkestreng as a gift that began a friendship marked by sharing Christmas letters for the next 14 years until mom’s death. Agnes and her brother, Per, live together on the farm that has been in their family for over 200 years, and they were joined for the day by three aunts, sisters Ingeborg, Karste, and Nelle.
We came to their farm home overlooking Rena after church to first enjoy what Agnes described simply as “coffee”. Come for coffee, she said. Coffee began with two delicacies—a cake, creamy and rich, covered with strawberries and small grapes; and a cracker called syrupthynncake, a sweet cracker made with corn syrup, tasting like a Norwegian version of Greek baklava, although looking more like a flat bread. The sugar buzz I began to experience reminded me of high tea at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia. Agnes and her aunts laughed at my tea-drinking, and along with Rose Ann, all swilled strong Norwegian coffee, but we all needed something to cut the sweetness of the main course.
Then began the conversation about family history, the sharing of pictures and gifts. We were given ribbons to wear for next week’s Syttende Mai celebration, when we’ll be in Sweden, and mittens knit by Agnes. She is a weaver, quilt-maker, and knitter, hobbies she works around her full time job as activities director at the Rena Nursing Home. She’s ten years younger than we and a year older than her brother who just retired from farming and is renting out the land for the first time.
In mid-afternoon we drove about 5 miles away to what is called the Lillehaug farm, where Agnes’ great grandmother, who is also my great grandmother—Martea Olsdatter Lillehaug—came from. She was mother to Peter Ronning, my grandfather, and mother to Martha, Peter’s sister and Agnes’ grandmother. Make sense? The Lillehaug farm is a small acreage provided by the wealthy land baron who owned most of the farms here in the 18th and 19th centuries. The householders worked for the land baron, and in return, he provided them with a place to live and some land to grow vegetables and livestock. After some land reform legislation in the 20th century, the workers could own their land. All of the farms have a name, and the Lillehaug farm is where Grandpa Peter was born. There is a cabin here that most likely was the home of his birth. No one lives in it anymore, but Eric Bolstad, who I met in 1969 and who is now a manager of endowment money for the University of Oslo, owns the land. He is three years younger than I, and he and his wife use this building as a “hut”, as the Norwegians call it, a summer cabin, we would say. He and I are related; his grandmother and my grandfather were siblings. They drive two hours from Oslo to get away into the country and enjoy the natural beauty of this region.
The cabin is a natural beauty in itself, just two rooms with low ceilings, but filled with unique cabinetry, and sturdy doors and windows that make it picturesque. It must be over 200 years old, and even without plumbing, is very livable. There were several out-buildings, sheds of several kinds, and a classic outhouse with a view of the mountains and the sound of a gurgling mountain stream. Wildflowers were in bloom, and the area felt like a rougher hewn version of Julie Andrew’s Bavaria. We were reminded of Leavenworth, Washington, where we own some land next to the Wenatchee River, but what makes Rena’s beauty more complete is that it’s not trying to look like somewhere else like Leavenworth’s Chamber of Commerce says of itself. It just is Norway, and that’s enough.
It was hard to imagine a family with four children living in these two rooms. Winters must have been hard, but summertime with the long days of sunshine must have been a wonderful reprieve. I can imagine my grandfather knowing there was no future for him here. He and his two brothers left for Norway, leaving his parents and sister here. Brother Nils returned and died in Norway, but Ole and Peter remained in America.
We returned to walk around the farmstead of Agnes and Per with Per showing us around. Three homes still stand, and the newest—the one they live in now—was built in 1815. It has been re-roofed and re-sided recently, but inside there are many treasures. Two other homes, each about 100 years older than they one they live in now, are not used. Other out-buildings include a former sawmill, several storage sheds, and a playhouse built for Agnes when she was a child. Several buildings have recently been leveled and cleared, but others could be removed and wouldn’t be missed. What would it be like to daily brush against 200 and more years of history?
We were now ready for the evening meal. I knew what was coming because in earlier conversation I had mentioned my mother and her sisters frequent gatherings on a Sunday evening for rommegrot, and before I could comment about how we kids hated the stuff, host Agnes announced that rommegrot would be the main course for tonight’s supper. I was glad to have not stated my dislike, but I wondered how things would go. Actually, I had never eaten it before. I had looked at it frequently in the past, and that was enough. I held my breath while dishing up two scoops of the gooey sour cream, butter, and flour mix, but when covered with sugar and cinnamon, it was downright tasty! Pork sausage, beef sausage, venison sausage, cheese, syrupthynncake, flatbread, beer, and more served to complement the meal and the day.
And what a day it was! I was reminded of being in the company of my mother and her sisters because we were with three Norwegian aunts for the day, and they were delightful company. Good humored with hearty laughs, faces reflecting strength and character, Nelle and Karste still stood tall while 90 year old Ingeborg was shorter, though not frail. She looked like a character out of “Babette’s Feast”, blathering on in Norwegian as though she fully expected us to understand every word and laughing when we didn’t. Nelle walked with a cane, but she never held back even on the hillside crossing the fence to the Lillehaug farm. Karste was a bit more reserved, but while clearing the table broke into a dance step and laughed with us. Agnes strained to handle all of the day’s translations plus the food, but she was always gracious and eager to help us understand not only the daily activities but the historical connections to family roots I was searching for.
We walked home from the farm, about 30 minutes into town and our hotel. We walked down the hillside, along the road, on a walking trail we had to climb out of to avoid the accumulated spring melt runoff at one point, then back on the trail onto the main street of Rena. At ten o’clock it’s still daylight, and the sun will rise about 4:30 tomorrow. But it’s been a good day in Norway. A good day for a pilgrimage.