Because of
the language barrier, we knew neither what to order nor how. The woman looked
at our flushed, sweating faces, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned promptly
with a large, chilled bowl of rabarbar grød
and a pitcher of fresh cream.
I was
surprised and delighted. I knew three words of Danish. Two were rabarbar grød.
My
grandmother had grown up in a Danish speaking home in Cambria, Wyoming. Rabarbar grød —a refreshing dish
made from rhubarb juice—was a long time family favorite.
The year
was 1960. Since morning we had been wandering the byways of Mariager, a scenic
village in northern Denmark dating back to the 15th century.
 |
Mariager today
(visitor's info)
|
Finding
Mariager
The
previous week we had looked for the traveler information sign when we got off
the train in Copenhagen. We told the woman behind the counter we wanted to
spend a few days in a small town off the beaten track. She told us how to get
to Mariager.
The morning we left Mariager, found our way back onto the beaten track, and headed for Aarhus, I mailed my
grandmother in Riverton a postcard. It was postmarked Hobro.
Her letter,
just two sentences, was waiting a few weeks later in Zurich. "When you
were in Hobro you should have gone to Mariager. That's where our family came
from."
 |
Five generations.
Tipoldefader and Tipoldemoder Simpson, our great-great-grand
parents, seated.
My cousin Jim and I as toddlers in arms.
(family album)
|
Back home
to Wyoming
When we
returned to Riverton in late August, my grandmother was waiting with an
extraordinary tale about the family's migration. I had grown to manhood and lived
a year abroad without hearing it, not even a hint.
Our
grandmother spoke immoderately when her insecurities were stirred. As my
generation was growing up our knowledge of the family's Danish origins boiled
down to a distainful: "They always used to go on and on about how
wonderful life was in the Old Country. But they came to America because they were
so poor they didn't have . . . "
An expression,
familiar at the time, would complete her sentence. It portrayed abject poverty
using images of an open window, a container, and urine.
 |
Down on the farm in Denmark, 1885
(Museum of
Danish America)
|
Not a
good time for the Danes
The family
left Mariager around 1890 during a period of active Danish emigration to the
U.S. Good times had led to bad times. Driven by prosperity and improved health
care during preceding decades, the Danish population had outgrown the small
country. Jobs were scarce; wages were low; prospects were dismal.
From across
the Atlantic the Homestead Act and an expanding economy beckoned. A growing nation
was filling its blank spaces.
Workers
were needed. Farmers were needed. Agents of steamship companies and the American
railways—which had
land for sale—actively recruited
immigrants. Some corporate employers paid people's passage and subsidized their
resettlement.
Between
1880 and 1910, one in every ten Danes emigrated, 90% of them to the U.S.
 |
Down on the farm in the American Midwest
(Chrsjensen)
|
Not a
good time for those Scandahoovians either
While not a
first generation immigrant, our grandmother barely qualified as second
generation. Her parents were born in Mariager and their romance budded at age 12
on the ship coming over with their families.
At the time
Grandma was growing up, strong nativist, anti-immigrant feelings swept the U.S.,
especially during World War I. Many Scandinavians tried to hide their heredity
and become as "American" as possible. The 1919-1920 Red Scare
intensified pressures to assimilate.
The
prospect of social criticism terrified our grandmother. Reluctant to acknowledge
her own ancestry, she kept ours hidden from us kids. However . . .
The dam
broke that summer when she found out I had visited Mariager. The family story
unfolded, like a good drama, in three acts.
Act
One: Expulsion
Our
great-great-grandfather—Tipoldefader in Danish—was a town drunk.
To keep the
children fed and shod his wife—our Tipoldemoder—laundered other
people's soiled clothing and bedding. As such women have always done, she hid money
from her husband.
One day an
ocean liner tied up at the Mariager dock. The price of passage to America was posted.
Tipoldefader was on a
binge. Tipoldemoder packed a bag, dug
into her hidden savings, and strode down to the dock. She bought one ticket.
The next
day Tipoldefader woke up broke, hung
over, and seasick. He was emigrating to America. All he had was a bag containing
the few clothes he owned.
Act
Two: Hospitalization
Tipoldefader landed in
New York and turned up later in Texas. Nothing is known of the intervening
period.
According
to family lore, in Texas he worked as a cowboy, was gored by a longhorn, and spent
three months in bed with nothing to do but contemplate his life. He left the
hospital sober and reformed.
He hadn't
intended to emigrate. Perhaps he hadn't intended to dry out either. But he stayed
on the wagon.
 |
The mines at Cambria
(Wyomingtourism.org)
|
Act
Three: Redemption
In the
meantime important economic events had been occurring in northeastern Wyoming.
A few years
earlier construction of the nascent Burlington Northern Railroad had stalled at
Alliance, Nebraska, on the way to connecting with the Northern Pacific in
Billings. The trains had outdistanced their coal sources in the East and
Midwest.
Intensive
prospecting turned up major deposits of high grade anthracite eight miles
north of Newcastle.
Within two
years the Cambria Fuel Company established a technologically innovative mining and
coking operation there. It was building a stable work force by importing whole
families from Europe.
Tipoldefader
made his way north and went to work for the mines. After a time he arranged for
Tipoldemoder and the kids to come
over with one of the immigrant parties sponsored by the Company.
 |
New Danish Americans, just off the boat
(http://danishmuseum.tumblr.com)
NEXT POST
Death in Death Canyon, and Other Horse Stories:
That Summer in
Death Canyon, Third Day
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