I call myself Norwegian. I eat lefse and lutefisk at
Christmas. In times of duress, I often mutter “Uff-da.” I have blonde hair and
blue eyes, a decidedly pronounced brow. Left to its own devices, the hair on
that brow would have me looking like a Flash Gordon villain. Why?
Because
I am a Kjolberg.
Ah,
but what is a Kjolberg? Or what was/is a Kjølberg? A Kjolberg is one who, brow
aside, is defined as one descended from a large family, a family rooted to a
farm near a hill near Fredrikstad, on the Oslofjord in Norway. Kjølberg is a
farm—and a family—named for the nearby hill that looks like the hull of an
upside down ship.
Kjøl=keel
Berg=hill
It
is a well-known landmark in the region. So famous in the area that there is a
school and a street named for it, that when I lost my way once I needed to only
say the name (more like “shell-berg” in Norske) and was pointed to it. In 2001
I visited it and had my photo taken in front of my great-grandfather’s boyhood
home and climbed that hill, in 2007 I lay my grandmother’s ashes upon that
hill, and in 2014 I visited that spot with her daughter—my mother—and her
great-grandchildren—my sons.
I
tie myself, by a rope that runs a quarter-length of my identity, to a young man
named Gunder who was born on that farm, in sight of that name-giving hill, who
would settle via the northern United States near Instow, Saskatchewan. I tie
myself and my boys through Louise, through Gloria to Gunder.
Because
I am a Kjolberg.
My
link, my mother—a woman good enough to marry another Norwegian descendent whose
own name is derived from Norwegian farms involving hills, thus doubling my 3rd
generation Norseness—is the link. Through her, and through Gloria.
Because
she was a Kjolberg.
Gloria
was and remains my muse. I owe much of what I am to her and to my mother, my
personality stamped with their values as it was with their DNA, as if the
goodness in me I derive from them is in some way compensating for eyebrows that
will one-day require hedge-trimmers.
My
art, my values, the way I love. My ideologies, my lifestyle, my outlook. Many
of the philosophies I live by today are rooted in things Gloria said to me in a
too-short quarter century.
“A
real man shouldn’t be afraid to cry.”
“Of
course you’ll write about it—it’s what you do. You’re a writer.”
“Your
sensitivity is what makes you a good person.”
“Stop
not feeling good enough and start feeling good about being you, because you
make me feel damn foolish for loving you so much when you don’t.”
Because
she was a Kjolberg.
One
of the passions that came from her is my obsession with our heritage,
especially because it was something I shared with both my parents. As early as
I can remember I recall an interest and an intrigue in the Old Country, in the
mythic place where people ate more fish and talked a different language, and
found the farming options so lacking that two of my great-grandfathers left it
in a few short years of each other to settle within a few miles away of each
other.
When
Gloria’s aunt passed away in 1995, her cousins chose to spend the inheritance
to bring her, her brothers, and the American Kjolbergs—those known at the
time—to Norway, to the farm, to the hill.
Because
they were all Kjolbergs.
When
I went there in 2001, fresh from university, I was welcomed as close kin by
Kolstads and Haugens and, yes, by Kjølbergs. They welcomed and loved me,
because we shared that link, that blood.
To
be a Kjolberg, I have noted, means to be informed, intelligent, gentle. Often
political, always opinionated. Kjolbergs are good speakers, some are great
listeners. They value a meal and a sunny day.
My
earliest memories of my grand-uncles Gary and Ken involve being spoken to as a
rational and intelligent person, disregarding my youth. Despite our
near-opposite ideologies, Gary and I would spend much of the time we had
together at family functions conversing about mutual interests. He never spoke
down to me—as a boy, as a teen, as a man—when we spoke about politics, history,
geography, or of the Norwegian versions of all three. He always showed respect,
and from him, from our modern patriarch, I have learned respect even in
disagreement. I marvel, having grown up with two brothers and a cousin who many
in my world couldn’t tell apart from myself, at how Gary and his wife and their
children have always spoken to me with individual interest and respect, even
when years have separated visits. It’s how they treat everyone.
Because
they are Kjolbergs.
Ken
is gentle, wise, possessed of a delicate and caring manner that calms any room
he enters. He is a man of peace. He worked in the same field as my mother, his
daughters blend in at every gathering like aunts of my own, his son is a
delight as in touch with his Canadian heritage as I am with my Norwegian. This
summer at a reunion, I watched Ken make men I love dearest in the world bawl
like babies after he told them how much he loves them, thinks of them, and
prays for them every day. He is a good man.
Because
he is a Kjolberg.
One
of my greatest memories is returning—at 23—from Norway, and being sat and
debriefed by these two men. I shared it with them, I got it. I had been a part
of this great memory they shared with my grandmother. We held court, we
discussed, we laughed, we debated.
Because
that is what Kjolbergs do.
I
had made a connection with their cousins—Olav, Reidar, Helge, Per, Berit—and
their extended families. Cousins, family, peers separated only by an ocean, men
and women much the same as these. People who would have such an influence and
effect on my life that it would boggle the mind that I see them only once every
seven or so years. Names like Olav and Magnus, Else-Christin and Jan-Christian,
Monika and Hans-Peter get said in my house on a daily basis. These are our
family, our Norwegian cousins. Intelligent, gentle, tall. Kjolbergs.
One
of my greatest friendships and greatest losses was one of these, a Norwegian
cousin who became a friend far greater than either of us had expected, gone too
soon, gone the same week as my youngest son was born. We built our friendship
around talks, around debates, around music, around drinks and laughs in Norway,
Sweden, Canada, and Taiwan.
Because
he was a Kjolberg.
The
farm, the Instow heritage, visited for the first time this summer by young
Ryan—filmmaker, artist, pure and regal Viking, tall, because he is a Kjolberg—a
place of peace, wonder, love, and fine meals.
Great
Grandpa Gunder and his Jenny, Al and Rick. Quiet and respectful, loving,
decent. I recall humbugs and leather-armed grey chairs, turkey dinners and full
laughs at TV shows on CBC, tee-hee tickles and “Hello, Paul” said through clenched
teeth, light beer at the King’s on a Saturday night with Scott, and plaid to
envy my own grunge-era fashion sense.
Because
to me these were the first Kjolbergs.
Last
summer with the Norwegians, this summer with the North Americans—including the
recently-discovered and loved Perttula clan—we share this walk, this identity.
Our beloved Uncle Gary ails, Ken speaks about feeling his own mortality, Gloria
is gone these thirteen (!) years, her sisters lost to stories outside my memory,
all of us wonder still at seeing Al without Rick despite four years of time,
and Margaret’s family cross the bridge of her connection to visit us when she
cannot.
We
are Kjolbergs.
We
are engineers, managers, clerks, health care workers, teachers (so many!),
artists, painters, entrepreneurs, musicians, gardeners, talkers, writers, workers,
and—of course—farmers. We are intelligent, caring, compassionate, loving,
argumentative and—in all male cases but mine—tall.
This
is what it means to be a Kjolberg. That an identity that makes up a quarter of
who I am can so define me, so influence me. It is an identity I value because it is
something I feel I must live up to. Earn. Every day I hear Olav’s accented
English in my head. Every day I hear Magnus say “cheers.” Every day I hear
Uncle Rick’s laugh. Every day I see my grandmother in my dreams.
I’ve
never told anyone this. When Grandpa Gunder died I was not yet seven. I started
having recurring dreams. I’d enter this hall on a cold, wintry night, and all
my relatives past and gone would be there, waiting for something. I’d arrive
and have trouble seeing their faces, but one thing that happened again and
again was time would pass and Gunder would come in, young and lively, a farmer
resembling more my father in his 30s than the man who died old when I was
young. He’d see me and say, “There’s my boy.” And then he’d embrace me because
my grandmother told me that he was a man who could cry, and thus a man who
could hug. Years later, the night my grandmother died—I was living in Asia and
it had only been a year since my first trip to Norway—I dreamed of the hall
again. There she was, the glory that was Gloria, and this time she welcomed me
into the hall. Again Gunder was there, but this time seated at the head rather
than arriving late, as if something had been righted in his world. (Of course I
was reminded of the story my grandmother used to tell about feeling his presence,
just behind you, just there, for the nine years between his own death and Great
Grandma Jenny’s). But it was about Grandma, bringing me in, making me home
before all of those faceless, passed-on relatives stretching back to King
Harald for all I could tell. And she and they welcomed me, raised a horn, said
hello.
Because
we are all Kjolbergs.
