Skip to main content

Cultural Anemia

   
For the fourth year in a row, I've spent my 4th of July in Red Cliff, Wisconsin. Red Cliff is a tiny Native American reservation north of Bayfield, WI, about 5 miles, and a stone's throw from the Apostle Island chain on Lake Superior or 'gichigami,' as they say in Ojibwe, and home to our 4-year old grandson.
 
Grandma, on his paternal side, has Metis as a part of her ancestry, and her son, our grandson's father, has Lakota as well, on his father's side. Our son and his son are very close to their Native heritage whereas, in contrast, I'm culturally anemic. My mother's parents and grandparents were Swede and Norwegian; and my father, by all counts, was Scots-Irish, neither of which was celebrated much when I was growing up except on Christmas or Thanksgiving when my mother would cook up a few pounds of reconstituted lutefisk in melted butter and urge me and my three sisters and their husbands to eat it--or at least taste it. As a child I disliked it, but for some strange reason, as an adult, I began eating it after I moved to true-north Minnesota where my mother was born--to the point of even craving it when local churches began posting fall supper dates and menus that included 'lutefisk.' But that, was as far as her culture took me. Okay, okay, she did teach me to count to ten in Norwegian--or was it Swedish? But that--absolutely--was it.

When I was growing up, we didn't attend Sons of Norway meetings, nor celebrate Syttende Mai, nor attend Norsk Hostfest gatherings. My sisters and I didn't sometimes wear scandanavian head-wear, shirts, pants or shoes on special occasions. I didn't wear short pants with suspenders or armbands--none of that. We didn't even have rosemaling in the house. No fjord horses. No gnomes in our front yard. No celebrations of any kind centering on her heritage. And, like I say, my father--other than being extremely good-looking, didn't pass any of his heritage along that we could hold up and say "This, is our ancestry," although my youngest sister was selected as City Beauty back in the 1960s; my other two sisters, lovely in their own right, landed highly successful husbands. Though I came up with the short end of the stick in the good-looks department have managed to accumulate three marriages in my short tenure of plus-six decades. However, this is neither here or there.

When I Googled "Top Events in the U.S." and managed to link to topeventsusa.com there was nothing scandanavian listed in the general list. The list began with something about Afro-Americans, continued on to include Dragon Boat Festivals, Top Fruit events and Gay Pride, Saint Patrick's Day, and Powwows--which doesn't surprise me in the least--and brings me directly back to the subject of my long weekend note pad that I scribbled on, whenever the opportunity arose or inspiration gripped me. Hence: "I Am An Observer: July 3, 4, 5th & 6th, 2014"

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

1972 An August Adventure: Stormy Lake, Snake Bay, Ontario

My 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser   A life changing event. I've had asthma all my life and it limited me somewhat until 1972, when after an event on a remote Canadian lake I was rushed to Dryden Area Hospital for emergency treatment of a pneumothorax /lung collapse. Early one morning, my dad and I left Des Moines, Iowa on 1530 mile round trip fishing expedition to Stormy Lake, Ontario; stopping in Roseau, Minnesota to join six family members: My uncle  Martin and aunt Irene Davidson of Roseau, their son Jack Davidson and his 8-yr old son, Jeffrey, of Thief River Falls, Minnesota, and Jack's older brother Dean Davidson, and his 11-yr old son, Larry, of Clive, Iowa in addition to their two two vehicles, one with a boat atop it. We were pulling a one-wheeled trailer behind my brand new 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser to handle extra gear. Leaving Roseau as the last vehicle in the three car caravan, we headed off toward the...

Mac Furlong: Real Hunter

   This last Tuesday, October 1st, in Reed River, Sven saw Mac Furlong hurrying down Main Street on his way to sign up for the Big Buck Contest at Normies On Main . Mac was wearing his Reed River Bank clothes so Sven didn’t recognize him right off, Mac walking so serious like, but Sven ought to have known that about this time of year all the local deer hunters are getting real anxious. Beginning soon after the Roseau County Fair in July, hunter types begin walking about the outdoors sports departments in their local hardware stores and sporting goods shops salivating over the latest hunting gear, wearing at least one parcel of florescent orange on their person as if to let the ordinary public know that, they, in fact, are real hunters of a serious nature, although temperatures are yet in the eighties. “See here, my florescent orange insulated cap with earflaps?” “Lo and behold, my florescent-orange camo jacket with elbow padding and several important pockets?” “Check o...

Friends to the End: Delmer Roseen and Curtis Johnson

  Delmer and Curtis: Friends to the End      From where he was buried on Saturday April 11th, 1992, the tin roofs of his buildings could be seen through the trees. Across the fence, at the foot of his grave, were the fields he farmed. Between them, Mikinaak Creek--so much a part of Delmer Roseen’s life and sadly, his death--still winds through willow slough, over beaver dams below the Palmville Cemetery, and past his door to the South Fork of the Roseau River, only a few yards to the southeast.         Delmer lived northeast of us in Palmville Township. If I looked just right, I could see his yard light through the woods between his place and mine. Either of us could hear the soft ‘clung’ of the rope and pulley against the flag pole in the cemetery at the corner of our two farms. Red willows, popple islands, and slough grass; green mossy fence posts; the often submerged patchwork of woven wire, and the depth of water i...