By the time the last of the ice and snow melted, the fresh ground water had completely nourished the trees and grass. The gray and white slate of winter had been thoroughly replaced by a luxurious shade of green. Winter’s last gasp came before May, and buds blossomed on the Linden trees and wild lupines throughout the fjord. Everyone in Bergen was more than ready for spring’s arrival.
It was early in the morning on the seventeenth and neither Erik nor Bente had school. They would not, however, be sleeping late. The sounds of cannon’s fire and snare drum cadences reverberated through the Larsen house. It was Constitution Day.
Bente sprang from her bed and rushed to Erik’s room.
“Up, up, up!” she commanded him.
Erik grabbed his pillow and wrapped it around his head as he tried going back to sleep.
“Come on, lazybones!”
“I’m too tired.”
“How could anyone possibly sleep through all this racket?”
Erik just growled and grumbled at his sister. Bente smelled her mother’s cooking downstairs and decided to leave Erik alone – at least for now.
“God Morgen, mamma!”
“Morgen, Bente!”
Mrs. Larsen stood over the stove, stirring a saucepot with her wooden spoon. The creamy white porridge bubbled gently as she stirred. Mrs. Larsen turned off the stove as soon as Bente came to her side and filled a bowl with the steaming hot porridge. She sprinkled sugar and cinnamon on top, followed by a pat of butter and cold milk.
“Rømmegrøt?” asked Bente.
Her mother nodded. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’s still sleeping.”
“With all this racket going on outside? I knew he was a heavy sleeper, but…”
“Where’s pappa?”
“He’s down the street, watching the bands playing.”
“Maybe I should go there,” said Bente.
“Maybe you should eat and shower and change into your Bunad first.”
Bente ate a bowl of the simple porridge and quickly followed it with a second bowl and finished her tall glass of sweet goat’s milk before heading upstairs.
Her mother went with her. There were two reasons for this. Firstly, she had to wake little Erik. Secondly, she had to place all of Erik and Bente’s Bunad on the children’s dressers.
Bente’s Bunad was a frilly, but simple white blouse and a blue velvet costume dress. Tne embroidered flowers trimmed the cuffs, breast, and necklines. Erik’s Bunad was a bit more complicated. He wore a frilly dress shirt with a dress tie. His blue velvet vest had brass buttons. His leggings went just past his knees where they met white knee-high socks. His plain black shoes had buckles across the top.
Bente put on her dress followed by a pair of red sneakers. She had been in the Children’s Parade many times. The children marched throughout Bergen. By the end of every Constitution Day her feet were tired and sore.
“Not this year,” she said proudly. She actually had the idea a long time ago, but never thought about it until the end of the day. As she tied her shoelaces, a knock came at her bedroom door.
“Are you ready?”
“Ja, mamma.”
Bente hurriedly flipped her dress tail over her sneakers and went downstairs. She was careful not to step too quickly or else her shoes would peek below the hemline of her dress.
A few minutes later, Erik came along. Mrs. Larsen had prepared him a cup of porridge and gave him a spoon.
“What’s this?”
“You were late, so you’ll have to eat on the run.”
Erik ate and drank his porridge as they hurried to the school. A mass of people was gathered, including Ingrid and her parents. Ingrid was waving two tiny Norwegian flags. She immediately handed one to Bente.
“Hey! Where’s mine?” asked Erik
Ingrid pointed the way to one of the adults who was handing out tiny flags. Erik took two and returned to his family, proudly waving his flags. Meanwhile, the tubas and trumpets played quite loudly as they seemed to battle with the practicing drum corps.
Just before ten in the morning, the children took their places while the parents picked a spot on the curb. The marching band led the way. Then, the oldest students followed, waving full-sized Norwegian flags back and forth. Then came the middle grade children, leading the chorus of children singers, which included Bente, Ingrid, and Erik.
"Ja, vi elsker dette landet!"
“Yes we love our country,” the chorus sang. It was the National Anthem.
The children paraded through Bergen’s streets, stopping by an old World War II cemetery, Bryggen, and a nursing home so the older folks could enjoy their patriotic songs on this most patriotic day.
After it was all said and done, Bente and Ingrid found Erik and escorted him back to their parents.
“That was wonderful!” said Mrs. Larsen.
“You must be tired!” added Mrs. Berg, “please do rest your weary feet.”
All three children crouched on the curb beside their parents. Bente’s red sneakers poked out conspicuously.
“You’re not supposed to wear those!” said Erik.
Ingrid tugged on the hem of her dress. She wore tennis shoes, too. Hers were white.
“Bente!” said mother.
“We’re just being festive you know, wearing the national colors.”
“Such a disgrace,” added Mrs. Berg.
All of the other girls, young and old, were wearing black buckle shoes. The girls were a ashamed. As they walked home, Erik limped as if his feet were swollen and sore. Finally, Mr. Larsen put Erik on his shoulders and gave him a piggyback ride. About halfway home, the road parted where the Larsens and Bergs would go their separate ways.
“We’re having lutefisk tonight and I have plenty for you and your children,” said Mrs. Berg, “would you like to join us?”
“That would be splendid,” said Mrs. Larsen..”
Bente, however, never really liked lutefisk. It was fish that had been dried and cured. Bente didn’t think it tasted like fish at all, but more like fish-jello-gone-bad. Maybe that was an accurate description.
The Larsens changed out of their holiday best and put on comfortable clothes. Late in the afternoon, they hiked the steep hill to the Berg house. Again, Mr. Larsen gave Erik a piggyback ride. Erik put his hands above his head as they reached the house, attempting to touch the archway. Mr. Larsen took Erik off his shoulders.
“You should be able to make it these last few steps.”
Erik looked around.
“Why is this house so different from ours?”
“It’s an old house,” said his father, “built about a century ago.”
“It’s called neo-classical,” interrupted Mr. Berg,
“What’s that mean?”
“During the early 1900s, it was a trend to build Norwegian buildings to resemble the ancient buildings of the Roman and Greek empires.”
“Why is our house different?”
“Over time, people’s tastes change.”
As Erik continued is investigation, Mr. Berg invited everyone inside. Mrs. Berg invited Bente to the kitchen. She helped Mrs. Berg mash the boiled pink potatoes, skin and all. Then, she added the potatoes to a dough mix to make potato bread. She formed small patties and put them on a cookie sheet before opening the oven door.
When she brought the baking pan of lutefisk out of the oven, Bente wrinkled her nose. Erik saw Bente’s reaction, so he wrinkled his nose, too.
“You don’t like Lutefisk?” asked Mrs. Berg.
“Not really.”
“I’ve also got some Swedish meatballs. They are just like the ones Mr. Berg’s mother makes.”
Bente smiled. She did like Swedish meatballs.
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Larsen, “how can a Norwegian not like Norwegian fish?”
Bente shrugged her shoulders. Erik shrugged, too.
“Have you tried Lutefisk?”
Bente shook her head while Erik remained motionless. Mrs. Larsen put a serving on each of her children’s plates along with a piece of potato bread. She sliced the bread open, forming a doughy pocket. She inserted a few chunks of lutefisk into the pocket, forming a sort of lutefisk sandwich. She did this for Erik, too.
Both of her children cautiously took their first bites. Bente really did like it. So, too, did Erik. Still, Bente preferred the Swedish meatballs and ate two portions of them when she’d only finished off one helping of lutefisk.
After dinner, everyone went onto the Berg’s patio. A cluster of pine trees and tall hedges formed a fence around the backyard. Mrs. Berg had taken the time to carefully plant several flowerbeds, too. It always reminded Bente of a botanical garden.
Mrs. Berg set out the lawn chairs and then returned inside. She turned on the music and came outside. The two small speakers sitting at the edge of the patio played. Bassoons bounced lightly through a parade of eighth notes, counting out a soft, plodding opera. Violinists plucked their violin strings in perfect measure with the bassoons. Soon, cellos, clarinets, horns, and finally tympanis and cymbals joined in. It was a very familiar song for everyone.
“Erik, do you recognize this?”
Erik shook his head as the notes built to a crescendo.
“You know Edward Grieg, right?”
Erik shrugged.
“He is Norway’s most famous composer. This is ‘Hall of the Mountain King’. .It is one of his most famous works. He’s world-renowned.”
“Oh.”
“He grew up right here in Bergen…you know, ‘troldhaugen’.”
Erik nodded. Although he’d heard of troldhaugen, he did not know who or what it was. It was, in fact, Edvard Grieg’s home. The word troldhaugen meant troll-hill, but the house looked like an old two-story railroad house, where engineers and rail conductors could spend the night between runs. It, however, was just another house built by his own cousin.
His cousins, it seemed, had their business mixed with Mr. Grieg. Another cousin, Ole Bull (pronounced Ollie) was another Bergen native and another of Norway’s famous residents.
The music turned to a soft lilting violin concerto. Bente recognized it immediately.
“That’s Ole Bull,” she stated happily.
Mrs. Berg nodded.
“You can just tell. This is something he performed and wrote himself.”
Bente lay back in her chair, gazing upwards. As it got late, Bente peered up through the canopy of leaves. Shadows shifted slightly and slowly as the sun tracked across the sky until it reached the lowest point on the horizon.
“Bente,” interrupted her father, “it’s getting late and it’s time we got home.”
“Do I have to?” she asked her father.
“It’s been a long day.”
The Larsens and Bergs said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. This time, Mr. Larsen carried his daughter home, but she rode horsey-back not piggyback. When he tucked her into bed and kissed her gently on the cheek. She rustled slightly, half awake.
“Sweet dreams,” he said to his daughter.
“Sweet dreams, pappa.”
Bente dreamt of marching bands and Norwegian flags and violin concertos, too. Dreams sweet enough to make for a perfect night’s sleep.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment