THE HARVEST PORRIDGE

Mother coocing Harvest porridge

In my boyhood days was "Harvest porridge" a fixed annual tradition on line with Christmas. It was an event that had the status of a family fall harvest thanksgiving. But there was a big difference; while the Old Norwegian tradition indicated that Thanksgiving should be celebrated around Michael-mas on September 29, was Harvest porridge until pushed forward to Saturday before school starts.

The Christians Vikings boasted something violently by Archangel Michael (Mikkel) because he, according to Revelation, had led the white angels of the heavenly war against Satan and his black comrades and displaced abominations from heaven down to earth.

On Bringsjord there was no sympathy for the Archangel. This was do to the first Degner on Bringsjord, Ole Omundsen, tragedy. Heading to his church ministry he received a strong personal affliction down in Døldegrova where he had to give up in a fight with the Devil. The Ugly ripped from him Kingos Psalmebok and throw it into river´s Kirk Vade.

After this experience Ole stood on the barn ground and provided a compelling argument that there was no reason to celebrate Thanksgiving that Mikkel had driven the Devil down on Earth, indeed that they had come far better off both  Degner and other Bringsjord-people if The Ugly had remained where he really belonged. He was Degner (clocks and church songs) in Aa Church from 1705 to 1739 when he had to stop because the pastor and congregation for some time had annoyed at his obvious drunkenness.

There was never talk about celebration of Degner or Mikkel that Saturday night mother summoned the family to enjoy "Harvest porridge". The timing was determined by the hay entered the barn house and the farmer's oldest son had to return to her work as a teacher at Storhaug school in Stavanger. It was not so much the farmer's son could contribute to haying, but everyone who had contributed anything, had the right to of bushes around the table when turned porridge was served. And Ludvig was fair to have around in the lengthy coffee breaks where we waited for the hay to dry. Then he shared his vast knowledge with us, knowledge that we a beautiful day could well get use of.

When we, for example, one day asked the master of why his fingers were so much thinner than the father, we got a good introduction to Darwins theory of evolution. "It's so that the giraffe has a long neck because he should be at the leaves that sits at the top of the trees, and the pig has short neck because he has short legs and should only reach down to Sydra in pig faith. Likewise, it is with the hands size. Dad have large, powerful hands because he works hard with them all day long, while I using hands little, mostly for writing with chalk and pencil, and therefore mine fingers are much slimmer”.

He looked searchingly at us twins, to see if the message had sunk in and I hesitated before I came up with a crooked finger: "If it is so father most work with his hands, and you work mostly with the brain, so should you well ..." He realized the drawing and got me forestall: "Yes, Finn, I see enough where you want to go. The reason I have so much higher brow than our father, is of course because I after many years of education have so much more lessons in my head. In the past there has blasted on to his forehead and even has begun to turn bul wearing. "

He bent forward and lifted the straw-hat. "Do you see the two bulges I've gotten at the top of my forehead?". And he was kind and let us respectfully recognizes the bulge with fingers.

Kjell thought about it and came with a clear warning: "If you now will be even wiser, you'll grow horns on his forehead - just as The Ugly!" This heartfelt brotherly warning fell not particularly on good ground and the straw hat came quickly back on space.

Much know and Much Warmth...

My mother took boiling porridge very serious. As long as I can remember was the porridge cooked in milk and rice to "rice porridge." Since I was born in late 1941, I do not remember how it was with Harvest porridge during the war; probably they had to settle for "gruel", porridge cooked in flour and milk. But after the war we got «america packages" from the family "over there, you know," with packets of "Uncle Ben's" rice and other goodies as "Sun-Maid" raisins and Wrigley's gum.

The first years after the war, we still had a large, black wooden stove in the kitchen. Then it was fairly easy for mom to cook rice porridge. The amount and thickness of the sticks of wood, regulated her heat so that the porridge was not burnt in the bottom of the thick iron pot. A stirring now and then with wooden spoon was all that was needed.

Much harder was it a few years later. Then the wood stove replaced with a white electric stove magazine. "Magazine" was a large metal container that was hot all day and always a little too hot to cook rice porridge on. Accordingly, had the mother stand strong and stir in pan constantly. And the pot grew larger year by year. Now it was not just mother and father and the nine kids who were of bushes to rice porridge. As the older sisters our grew, came in-law and grandchildren, "an mass."

And these sons-in-law knew certainly not to stay silent. Mother was glorified for the unforgettable good porridge. And mother flared and tried each year to make it any better than last year.

Everyone in the family knew the great porridge expert was Peder Sandal, married to Lillian, and son of Adolf who worked at “Lyngdal Hattefabrik” before it burned in 1913. Peder had the big biceps that could lift more high on pitchfork than anyone else. 
One could see that he was an expert in the way he ate porridge. A little careful breath at the age of the spoon before he slowly and carefully chewed and candies on porridge, not just once, but five or six times the porridge rolled back and forth across the palate. He used a similar technique a sommelier user when he will sample the wines to fill the basement with.

And we Twins, who did not know better, used to say, "I chew no porridge for you twice times!", when someone was slow and asked, "huh?" even though a laborious had explained a case thoroughly once. Although we realized now that this the saying was all wrong use. The porridge should be chewed several times, perhaps five,!

Peder Sandal; porridge gourmet

There was silence around the table when Peder stuck spoon porridge dish and slowly try tasted at this year Harvest porridge. Then he raised his eyes browns, looked at mother-in-law and said: "Lina, this is the best porridge I've ever tasted!!!" Then the celebration erupted and blackcurrant juice, butter flakes, sugar and cinnamon, were moving fast.

After this porridge-orgy had the men and the kids to stretch their legs and father led the way into the barn where a hay barn filled to the ceiling tempted kids to boisterous cliff. Earlier in the day, while my mother cooked porridge, we had swept the barn and yard with paste of birch twigs, and disconnected “hay drum” - with the brand new “drumtonga” - from the long sled and stowed it along the wall on grain hayloft. There were still several weeks to grain harvest would begin and everything was well presentable and organized.

Years later, when mother was retired in the yellow house on Riverside and Kjell harvest hay in "white plastic farmer-eggs" at all times of the year, admitted mother that she had not quite coped pressure of expectations from Peder and the rest. Some years, she had mixed in a little cream to rice porridge. At first it was just "a little bit", later it became something more...

This story was printed in the local newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 8 August 2015

SUMMER HOLIDAY WITH "TØK"

Far photographed with the bull "Tøk" at the Exhibition space for cattle

It was the week just after midsummer, and the steady rain period was miraculously replaced by sunshine and high pressure over Scandinavia and 3 hay-drying racks in Nodeneset stood in long rows and well made in the hot sun, hay that simply and easily could have been dried on the ground, But it was when the weather gods pointed nose to the impatient who had lost the belief that it would be sunny days that summer.

A major advantage was with the situation; the grass had been a wet start-up, and now the grass was damp and absorbed the heat of sun rays and grew at least a centimeter a day. For farmer Thorvald and his large family on his Bringsjord got busy getting stripped the hay-drying racks so cows could be moved from the forest and released on summer grazing out on the headland.

Those cows father had bred in recent years, was bigger and heavier than those who had grazed up in Skoglia in the past, and in addition, they were equipped with larger udders that milk blasted waiting for the mother and father were coming to milk them in the evening.

Thanks to Polish and Serbian prisoners of war, it was during the war filed a basic infrastructure for horse and cart from Strømnes and into the valley on the north side of the riverbank. It was okay to ride bikes there, and as little boys we were often, sitting behind the package carriers to mom and dad. Our main task was then - besides gorge ourselves with blueberries and strawberries - pick ticks off cows. Had parasites sucked blood a few days, they were big and blue as ripe blueberries.

In the evening was a 25 liter milk container with lid placed either in the stream or in the river, where it accounted for cooling until the next morning. For before the sun rose behind the uplands within Kvelland, Mom and Dad drove to cows in the woods by horse and cart, and then they came back with two well stocked milk containers which were put down by the post road where milk route brought them to the dairy. And one thing was for sure; nothing tasted better than "forest milk."

But father was not pleased, for milk yield dropped drastically when cows grazed in the woods, and he wanted them out on the headland (Nodeneset) as quickly as possible.

As soon as the morning porridge with sugar and milk was done, and the sun had climbed beyond the Stenberg hill, we went to Nodeneset by horse and hay-wagon. There was the black horse "Bring” hitched from hay-wagon, and so he spent happy summer days on fresh blossoming, juicy grass.

But we industrious ants had to work for food. One hay-drying rack was daily stripped of hay, which we bar beyond and leave to dry in the sun. So the day was used to eat and drink and swim and wade into the water and hunt for small trout and eels hiding in shallow water in the river, until three or four o'clock in the afternoon. Then all the hay was dry and nice and could be run in the barns. Fortunately we, together with father, had worked rely hard this spring and finished constructing a summer barn - with hay barn on second floor - here on Nodeneset, so a couple load of hay were driven the short way there, the last one being taken home to Bringsjord.

After three such “strenuous” days, when the sun only for a few short hours disappeared behind the mountains, all hay entered the barns, and the five milk cows were brought home from the woods and released to pasture outside the summer barn. It was significantly larger deliveries to the dairy, but milk was ram and lost the good flavor.

Summer barn in Nodeneset. Drawing by Finn Bringsjord

So began the hassle to be allowed to stay in the hay barn on Nodeneset. There was a persistent hassle from the two youngest members of the family, but the mother was steadfast: "A no is a no," she claimed and swept it away, "You can lie in the barn at home. None of my other seven kids have ever been allowed to lie in the hay far out on Nodeneset. "

When I then objected that perhaps it was not surprising, since it was the first year we had a summer barn there, came a faint chuckling away from the easy chair by the radio unit, and she realized that the paternal backing was about to unravel, so she played as good trump card: "Think about the “Krusher “comes and takes you? One never knows what the madman can do! "

Kjell and I looked at each other and realized that the battle was lost. The Krusher was a pain in the ass as at night walking around and shattered windows at Bringsjord-Neset. In Samlingslunden - the part of farm fields that lay just below the Bank - Father had set up a creeping-in of some limbs from a dismantled German barracks, so we could make coffee and enjoy packed lunch there when it was cold and miserable weather, but window glasses were systematically crushed one by one. Finally father had to bolt a limb in front of the window, and the whole coziness disappered.

In the new summer barn father had put into a window with six small squares. These were also smashed, one by one. But summertime it did not meant so much. When five cows standing in the stall, it must be aired in the barn anyway.

"We should have a real watchdog," said Kjell, "a Doberman had chased the villain into the river." I nodded. "Any kind of shepherd dogs had frightened the life out of Crusher," I said with pathos, "but we - we have not a single animal that is able to strike terror into the mouse ...". This was obviously provocative said that cat Bianca got up and strutted out contrary to the food bowls in the kitchen.

But father looked up from the easy chair and cleared his throat, "Now, now, do not say that, Finn". he said thoughtfully.» We've the bull Tøk. Don’t you think that guy deserves a few days summer out on Nodeneset? "

It was a gruesome uproar when Kjell in flustered tilted his dining chair back too far and fell straight to the floor. With a sheepish smile he recovered quickly on their feet and sent ahead as though we might as well take a trip out on the headland now with the same? But father asked him to calm down, reminding that Tøk had built up a large and loyal "customer base", and that therefore in good time must  announce the holiday period so that the Lyngdal farmers would not have to go wasted journeys to Bringsjord with horny cows.

Then father opened the bureau in the guest living room and took out a white writing paper, scissors and stationery. After testing exactly he clip he sheet into three equal pieces, dipped the pen in the inkwell and wrote three identical announcements that he carefully crafted with a suitable blotting  rolls. The day after the tag attached with thumbtacks on the telephone poles by Presthøl-. Møska- and Faret bridge. On sheets stood there with squiggly font:

   

It should be known!

The bull “Tøk” takes summer holiday in the week 28 this year.

Thv. L. Bringsjord

The spread was tipped on to a cucumber-employed summer substitute in the local journal “Farsunds Avis”, and he turned up with the newspaper's camera and snapped pictures of the bull Tøk in the yard. For dimension sake bull flanked by Kjell and me - and in the background, behind the glass pane of the kitchen window we could see the mother and sister Tordis.

The image was printed over a "four-column" on "Animal welfare in Lyngdal".  It will be the first time the term "welfare" is used in the Norwegian press, and since it was 40 years before the English etologen Donald Broom came with an international definition of "animal welfare", and 60 years before the "Animal Welfare Act" was born in Norway, it should awaken the Norwegian Language Council interest. The article emphasized that the contemporary requirement that a bull will stand on stick for its customers 24 hours a day - year in and year out - is totally inhuman, and that a weeklong summer vacation therefore is a minimum of what should be granted on the poor chap welfare Account . He had to get off to recharge.

The newspaper article was hotly discussed at Bringsjord when it clearly went between the lines that Thorvald L. deliberately withheld information about the bull summer should be shelved - and consequently feared now womenfolk where it was released right in the blueberry season.

The twins were highly sought after as interlocutors in the days before the 28th week began, and Jenny at the house of Edvarda stood in the middle of the road for Kjell when he came cyclists while she waved with a collar bag filled with three fat Smørbukk caramels. But brother's mouth was closed so tight with seven seals, the only thing he could confirm was that it was probably somewhere near Mandal which began on Greips-, but that neither was clearly after that Thorhild only was engaged to Arthur. This secret was well received by Jenny, who now had "plenty of dry powder on the mill" and collar bag changed hands.

Very early Monday morning the 8th of July 1950 ran a procession out of the yard at Bringsjord direction Neset. The black horse Bring pulled a cart with three empty milk containers and a closing window with six new window glasses. Gemini Kjell and Finn sat in front of the driver's seat with each horse rein, and in the center seat sat Thorvald L. backwards and held the large bull in a sturdy rope that went an extra loop around the iron yoke on the on the rear trap door on the wagon in case Tøk would turn out wrong and take the opposite direction of Bring. But there was no reason for concern, the bull wandered kind as a lamb into the summer and sunshine and green clover meadows.

No oncoming traffic were out before the rooster, so the twins noted with satisfaction that equipage arrived Nodeneset unseen by all - except Uncle Anton stood in the window down in Garden and candies on a slab wort bread with orange marmalade and waved when we procession flashed past.

In our view, was now the chance that Tøk frightens live shit out of Crusher increased significantly. But pessimists, as the evening gathered round the table in the living-room to Anton in Garden, believed that newspaper´s  summer substitute had ensured that Crusher "smelled fuse" and that all the meticulous approach they had hatched went down the drain.

Well out on Neset  was Tøk released on his own ox grazing pasture  in the tip of Nodeneset, and he was filled up with Spring fever and happy and sprinted back and forth with tail ass aloft and father commented smugly that the bull also was man enough to scare away fish rustlers  from Nodehølen.

Fragmentary map of Nodeneset
Beite for kyrene = Pasture for cows
Oksebeite = ox pasture
Buksetap = trouser loss (red cross)
Sommer fjøs = summer barn

Father hung the repaired window in place, and so we helped dad to carry manure out of the barn into a dung heap outside, and a while later came the mother on bicycle, and then milked the cows and let them out to pasture. Then we went back home with filled milk containers, but before we left, fastened father a handwritten note on the gate. It was written in pencil on brown paper from a concentrated feed sack:

CAUTION !!! 
 Free-range bull graze!

"A warning is a warning," said the father, "although this may be easily neglected."

With consistently Tøk as "watchdog" outside wall of the barn, was raised security so that the mother gave up her opposition with regard to the twins' desire for accommodation. We enjoyed ourselves tremendously for evening and day snailed slowly along while checking batteries for flashlights and restlessly slithered in and out. The mother took out blankets and made two big food packs wrapped in butter paper, and then we got with us each our empty bottle with pressure-cork that should be filled with milk from cows in the evening.

When the sun rose over Faret, was father tired of the hustle and sourced Bring home from Vollen and schoolgirls Laila and Tordis demanded to be to see how the "mad boys" would hedge against the evil crusher. 

The large barn door was at the back of the barn. Originally lay hay almost right under the corrugated iron roof, and on sunny days it was hot up there as in a greenhouse. But now we got help of Laila and Tordis to trample hay, and after numerous requests also had our easy-legged mother - who passed for the best load of hay-step opportunity for miles - with much happy laughter come to our aid. There were many frog jumps and crow precipice before her mother believed that enough was enough and went to milk the cows.

In between all the hassles of the barn we had carefully made sure that it was left an opening between the hay and the long wall facing the front of the cow. There we could slide down and keep looking through woodpecker holes and cracks in the planking.

As soon as the cows were put on stall and milking was done, father opened the gate to the bull pasture so Tøk could wander freely around the property. Both girls and Bring felt uneasy at having the great beast around them, and his mother hurried to pour new silt milk on our bottles and with every good wish for the night they were soon disappeared behind the bend up the road.

Kjell and I looked at each other, and quickly agreed that it was too early to bunk. So, when the sun disappeared behind the moors up at Tjersland, we began to look for fat earthworms under stones by the muck heap, and then we went to the river with bamboo poles to try fishing in Nodehølen.

It was unbearably exciting when the trout snatched the worms on the hook, but we did not get real fish on the hook and mosquitoes and small flies became very so bothersome. Eventually Tøk was tired of the whole fishing trip, and when dusk sets in and the mist came sagged across the river, he stood up and walked towards the barn, and we suddenly felt that hunger gnawed - and went after.

Packed food has never tasted so good as this late evening, and the half warm milk tasted not quite as ram as before, so most were greedily drunk.

Eventually it was pretty cool, and barn door was closed and bolted within. Then we had to wrap oneself in the blanket down in the warm hay, find his flashlight and scout for spider and wasp nest under the roof. Cozy sounds of milk cows under us seemed soothing and soporific, and wide barn door we could hear that took had taken a rest and chewing cud and breathed deeply and snorting in between.

Kjell was talk blissful and told that Arian in a conversation with Uncle Anton had called Crusher for "Dirt- Crusher " and then Kjell afterwards asked Anton why "Dirt", had uncle told that every time he had broken a window glass, had "the condemned cuckoo left a pretty disgusting “wisit card "on the stairs. "Uh, uh uh ...!", I said and twisted me in half sleep: "This is totally sick."

Nocturnal sleep was somewhat disjointed. First Kjell began rummaging for his flashlight. Then he hobbled over to the wall where he found a fit knothole in the wall board and got done defecate. It was totally forbidden to pee in the hay as this could lead to overheating and the whole barn could catch fire.

Everyone knew the story from last year when a jungman (sailor) from the neighborhood put a 60 liter can of cherries under a bale of hay in the hayloft of his father’s barn. To bring up the temperature and speed of fermentation, he and his buddy urinated in the bale of hay. But it was too much of a good thing. The resulting heat was so strong that the contents of the balloon almost came on the boil, and was completely destroyed. "The only rate could be used for marrow at a Yngres (kind of YMCA) trip to Selma's cabin," he claimed. But Sister Plata, who was insider in Yngres denied that this could be true, "Selma serves never other than blueberry juice and aces cheek milk from the dairy."

That night I slept troubled and dreamed about the war and the Germans were driving on their green motorcycles and sidecars set cavalrymen with tall shaft boots ready to jump out to steal our horses.

Then there was a bang, and we ascended and were wide awake. Glass had singlet from a broken window down under, and there was a fearful commotion among the startled cows inside the barn.

"C c-crusher is here," stammered Kjell and neck hairs bristled while we startled glances. Fortunately we heard that Tøk got up and walked down to the gate. He did not like the cows excited bleating and moaning and would check whether they were attacked by bears or wolves.

As two otters we slipped into the gap on the long wall and looked out through each our observation holes built by a persistent black woodpecker earlier that spring. A silhouette of a hip broad man with a helmet and motorcycle goggles silhouetted could be seen below at the front place, and I knew that I was really piss scared.

The man was initially silent and looked around as he began fumbling with trouser belt and went and squatted down on the porch in front of the stable door, and the large rear section appeared as a white crescent moon against the dark background, but seen from Tøk´s angel that now came ambling down from the gate, it must have looked like a bright full moon.

"What is he doing?" whispered Kjell.

"Looks like he'll ss-shit on the porch," I stammered excitedly, "but we will be two about that"!

Now I was so nervous and so in pee needs that I stood and jumped up and down in search of a fit knothole. The beam went initially far over the head of the figure on the porch, and I had to get up on my toes and correcting downward, and then slammed it into the neck of the crusher with a strength in line with a bullet sprayed Kalashnikov and ricochets vent  to all sides; down the back and up under the helmet.

Crusher let out a roar and turned back to see what hit him, and there; right out of the night, he stared into the eyes of Tøk. Big Bull had expected to deal with predators the size of hyenas and jackals, but found instead an overgrown insect; a giant ant that was stinking piss.

Tøk chose to blow up another few notches, so he dug hooves deep into the ground while he indignantly snorted and blew white smoke out of his nostrils, so he lowered his head and let out a roar that gave echo far away Romskogen.

Shit-crusher sank down on the porch and rolled backward in dirt down against mitten heap - with roughly the same suction power as our father pull paper rolls over black- and as he screamed and waved like a maniac, he came up finally on the legs. Then he stooped down and gathered waistlines in one hand and ran like a crazy beast down toward Nodehølen. Tøk saw amazed by him, so he began to run, first slowly, then faster and faster.

And I went absolutely bananas; rushed to the gable wall and began to jump and scream:

Come on Tøk! Crush the gjøk (cuckoo)!

Come on Tøk! Crush the gjøk!

Crusher sprang to life against Nodehølen, but on the road he had to let go of waistlines when he would dive between strands in a transverse fence, and his pants slid down and hung up. He counted himself anyway as salvaged from bull monster and sighed with relief. But alas, how long was Adam in Paradise? Who else but Tøk came trotting through the open gate into the bull pasture? And the sigh of the trouser resolve became a sob and he left his pants and sprinted for a lifetime in Nodehølen where the current took him waving in the direction downwards to Bershølen.

We were excited and happy, but vigilant and insecure when we do not quite dare believe that Crusher had drowned in Bershølen. After a while we heard a motorcycle was started up in the Nodenes road, and then we realized that he had salvaged him selves away for this time.

Tøk was a little bit angry and scared the pants off Crusher

When the sun rose, and the father and mother came with horse wagon to milk the cows and to bring us home, we had lots to talk about the night's events, but we just had to confess that we had not been able to see so much as a trace of the face of crushing - cuckoo. But it worked out when my father went to shut Tøk inside the bull pasture. There he found the Churcher´s pants lying in the field, and in the back pocket there was a green motorcycle license.

Later that day rode the father of Alléen, and delivered pants and driver's license at the lost property by the sheriff. What he and sheriff Kvarenes otherwise talked about I do not know, but what I know is that window crushing on Bringsjord-Neset ceased from that day,

This story was printed in the newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 3 October 2015.

TONSIL RATS AT FARSUND HOSPITAL

Tonsil rat

Summer 1946, we checked out the sanitary facilities at Farsund Hospital and found them under any criticism. We came from a furnished home on Bringsjord in Lyngdal, where it was installed properly toilet in a small enclosure under barn bridge where our father had fine planed a disk with two holes, with two round openings, one large and one small. The large hole, which was aimed at adult buttocks, was admittedly dared to sit on for a 5 year old, for if one was inattentive and plunged in through there, bar the flux into the darkened basement fertilizer.

With "grandma in the new building" there were much safer conditions, thus, since the fall height there was little. She had the toilet in the hen house and there was only a dirt floor with chicken dung and other muck as she chopped away and spread out over the potatoes in the springtime. There were still stubborn rumors that the roost toilets one could be exposed to rat attack from below, and all knew then that kid gear was most vulnerable...

The toilet under the barn was little used after bedtime. Who would shiver across the darkened yard on a dark autumn night? Then there wisely put forward a white enameled bucket for common use in a corner in the upstairs hallway. So everything went as usual on the farm, and everyone was happy and fresh until Kjell got a sore throat and could only drink hot milk with honey and eat porridge.

The mother was afraid that there was something wrong with the prospective farmer, and drew us to dr. Lande in Alleen. There we had to gape and swallow and the diagnosis was that Kjell had red, swollen tonsils as promptly should be removed. So what about me and mine, there was no red on them too? Oh yeah, dr. Lande had even twins, Gunnar and Per, and knew how such'd toured; just as well that Kjell and Finn were operated simultaneously, so it was done.

A few weeks later we sat together with our mother on the bus to Farsund. Bus driver Mr. Bryge had kindly stopped at Presthøl Bridge, when we eagerly thrust forward right arm and leg. The bus trip to Farsund was like a fairy tale, and it peaked when we got to the Girlmountains where the road crooked forward and Bryge honked angrily horn to potential oncoming to warn that now came the bus and that they saw getting into first and best meeting place.

Farsund Hospital on the hill. Photography: Finn Bringsjord

We were greeted at the hospital, examined, washed and groomed and commanded to bed, even the sun shone outside. We had not eaten anything the day it was uncertain whether we would be right on the operating table when we arrived. But now it was said that we should not be pruned until the next morning, so it was silly, but now it was too late to eat. It gnawed in villi, but we got a glass of water for consolation.

Our good-hearted mother, who would be with us until the operation was over, went to get a cup of coffee, but it lasted and slid several hours endlessly until she came back. Finally, we drew a warning line on the wall over the bed, and a sour nurse came and told that it was not allowed for mothers to stay in the hospital, so Lina had traveled back to Lyngdal with ½ five route. Then it was cast long shadows into the room and we looked rather dark throughout the hospital stay. Should we ever see again father & they and 5 newborn kittens to Bianka?

Having depress a while, came back discouraged, and we thought of the brother Ludvig had told about how easy it was to operate away some tonsils: "It is like picking cherries from the tree. The tonsils hanging on stalks, and then comes the doctor with a pair of scissors and cut them down as soon as you have fallen asleep on the operating table. No big deal! ". When I asked if we could get tonsils home to Bianka, this was laughingly dismissed, "Oh no, tonsils goes to the dark red tonsil rats in Farsund".

A while later came the sour nurse in and said that now we had to sleep because tomorrow we should get up early and operated, so she said "good night" and turned off the light. Slightly depressed we were lying there in the dark, feeling the tears pushed forward. No praised and evening prayer this evening. No circumspectly mother's hand through hair...

It should not be so long before we noticed that there were also other things besides tears that pressure on, we had to pee. Carefully we slipped down on the cool linoleum floor to look for the white bucket, but it was not there. Oh, of course stood out in the hallway! But there it was not. The only thing we saw was an old woman in gray-checked bathrobe that went into a door, way down the corridor.

Farsund was a strange city! They had no white bucket at the hallway; so whoever was going to the toilet had to go way out on the hen house toilet. No thanks! City’s rooster house and tonsil rats? There cracked courage...

Back at the room, we realized that there was only one thing to do; we had to pee in bed. But there we had stopped to do long ago. And we remembered how disgusting it smelled of straw mattress for days after unfortunate relapse. Fortunately stood a ready-made bed no. 3 until a wall, also were constructed of green-painted pipes. Caution and guilty, we climbed into the high bed, pulled aside the covers, and were just about to open the floodgates, as I saw it: a wonderfully beautiful black hole in the top of the U-shaped pipe in the front end of the bed; a side stopper was falling out.

Gods carry and comfort, what a relief. Something similar had we done several times through the knothole in the barn wall on Nodeneset. We picked up a stool and with steady hand, we filled up piping in bed.

The morning after I was killed, suffocated by an ether-cloth was pressed hard against the nose and mouth. Oddly enough, I woke up again about the same minute and had a terrible pain in the throat and difficulty in speaking and eating for days.

In the afternoon gave a smiling nurse from Spind us insight into water closet incredible mystery; that with pulling the brass lace poured water from a huge water tank under the roof down into the toilet bowl without this was filled with water that flowed across the floor with plimp and poo and paper. No; "sim sala bim", so was all filth disappeared down the bowl. The cheerful sister did not know where the unspeakable shit vanished away, but she was quite sure that it not ended up in a city roost house.

"Where do you have the dark red tonsils rats here at the hospital"? I wondered, "Are they perhaps in the hen house"? But then she laughed well and allayed laughingly that it was not tonsils rats at Farsund hospital.

"Do you think we can get our 4 tonsils with us back home?" whispered Kjell, a voice like a crow came from his knife scraped through, "you see that freshly boiled almonds are the best Bianka know about - and they will come in handy now that she has five kids to feed”. The cheerful sister of Spind promised to look into the matter, but she probably thought they were already washed down the drain...  Where our four dark red actually took the road we never know.

A few days later, two of our big sisters came to Farsund and fetched us. Outside the hospital was the neighbor boy, Erling, in his dark red Studebaker Convertible waiting on us, and with open hood, we drove all the way home to Bringsjord. That day it was served cream cake, topped with strawberries, in a garden party for friends and neighbors. The twins were home.

Finn & Kjell. The photo is taken just before surgery

This blogside was printet in paper "Lister" 4th July 2015

POOR BOY´S POLAR TRIP

(This is primarily a google translation).

 Winter 1953 was a heavy snow winter. First came the snow tumbling down, then came north-east wind and cold. It blew night and day for a week. Though it also snowed was impossible to say, the air was thick with snow anyway. For guys boys were outdoor life limited to school road; plunged into darkness when the morning hobbled us forward over snowdrifts and dusk when we came home in the afternoon.

When the wind finally died down, and the sun came up, the landscape changed. On the west side of the house and barns were small slopes, and almost all Kjerringdølda (a rift vally leading down to the river before Grandmas house) was almoust filled with powder snow; a paradise for adventurous young promising that jumped and dived out through the overhanging cornice - and made slides and tunnels reminiscent of today's water slide in Sørlandsbadet.

One day during storm weather laid the groundwork for this year's big defeat and disgrace. Initially was innocent enough; mother and twins in daily living; good guy in furnace and with large and small panes more or less iced and snowed, and then the incessant drone of wind that howled fjoget and around the house corners.

Kjell lay flat out on the sofa and read "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," and I had manned "chair" father reading "Robinson Crusoe." Chair, standing in front of a radio apparatus of the type "Radionette", was highly sought after when it had an adjustable seat and back

While we dreamed ourselves away in alien worlds, the mother had occupied the entire dining room table and most of the floor. She had decided that a large dress in America package from Aunt Lydia, would reopened and sewn into two male escorts. But now it seemed that the entire project would overturn the home stretch. No matter how much she twisted and turned on the pattern, only managed drug to two shirts with three and a half arm. She called the girls, but neither they received the drug in the spawned america dress to stretch out.

My mother and sisters threw glances over at me - which was far away with Robinsons pursuit on the island - and discussed how they could get out of this scrape. The conclusion was that it was best to sew the sleeves of another substance, but that the bottom portion of the sleeve, cuff, sewn in the same fabric as america sleeves and collar. That would certainly shirt look decent out as long as I had it under a knit sweater.

I principle and sniffled excessively when the finished product was presented to me, and protested at the hottest toward going to school dressed like a wretch, lousy pauper! But nags did not help one bit.
"Just make sure you go with sweater," comforted Plata, "will go so well so. It is important that twins go dressed alike, you know." Then she went into the kitchen and opened jars of America drops. Aunt Lydia was very kind and had stowed a little of each in the package.

The depressed Pauper

...

Our teacher in the 5th - 7th grade, Thorvald Haugeland, had its historical favorites, and one of them was Fridtjof Nansen. He enjoyed reading aloud from the book, "Until the Arctic Ocean," especially the part that deals with Nansen and Hjalmar Johansen's attempt to reach the North Pole in 1895.

Nansen was an uncompromising man driven by an indomitable will to achieve their goals. In particular it made an impression to hear that he was not allowed Johansen to stop to change into dry clothes as this was unfortunate and fell into the sea. Nansen shall cards have rejected the request by lines: "Then we are not women either."

Fritjof Nansen was a man of guys boys, a real man did not seem to stop the forces of nature, and who was so bold that he jumped from floe to floe on their targets.

Then count the hour, an early spring day, was disturbed by loud bangs and rumbling down from Litleåna, we realized immediately what was going on; river ice was about to break up.
As soon as it was recess stormed all the pupils down to the river to look at the drama that unfolded. Larger and smaller ice floe broke away and became operational towards the place where Litleåna flows into Lygna.
But the ice had not gone in himself Lygna, so now piled ice floes up downstairs in the discus where they were contorted and twisted and sat upright so they blocked for river water that pressure on, and there was the sound of this "kvern" (mill) we heard up in the classroom. The left proppa discus bottom Litleåna got the water level to rise quickly along the entire stretch between Often Bridge and discus, and large ice floes was lifted up and broken loose.

Finally had guys boys the chance to prove capable of follow in his footsteps. Some "brave" 7th graders made halfhearted attempts to get out on the ice, but it was only window dressing. Along the banks there was little ice floes that hardly could carry a house cat, and it was more than enough that they gave up. But further out toward the middle of the river was larger floes operating as smoothly should wear a schoolboy.

Kjell and I saw the solution right away, but I was closest, and got me first in older tree. For hours we had trained in Erlings high bar in the yard of Jacob and Katrina, and could - hanging by the arms - climb like monkeys back and forth under the bar. I climbed up the tree and grabbed the branch that stretched out toward the middle river, and climbed slowly outwards, grip for grip. As branch thinned by, gave it under the weight and soon tøtsjet muzzle of Ski Boots a suitable ice floe.

In my thoughtlessness I dropped ceiling around the branch as soon swung least one meter up in their natural height, and I tried to jump for it with arms in the air, and some in the spectator mass up on Ofte Bridge thought I was looking for applause, as a winner of 10000 box; one Hjallis or Reidar Liaklev and girls waved back.
But Kjell immediately saw the danger I had come into and climbed as quickly as he could beyond the branch to bend it down, but the floe was growing, and before he could out of me, I was heading toward "iskverna" who painted and Gnura , stout and unstoppable.

The position was precarious, but as old-Sheriff John Wayne so aptly should have said it: "When the going get tough, the tough get going". No more frills I started to run inland on the small "housecat-flakes" and went straight to the bottom, but I got me now again and flailed and swam and plowed and crawled up on land.

All came somewhat delayed into the next hour, and Thorvald Haugeland sat and waited behind the catheter. He looked long at "the drowned cat" from Bringsjord and said, "You Finn, You Finn, you put gray hairs in my head."

"I'm very sorry," I said halfway sincere because I was still highly excited as the school's new "polar hero" and took my time to empty boots in the sponge bucket under the blackboard, and if possible, to impress girls from avenue even more , I turned toward the class; tore off me the green knit sweater and twisted ice water down on the scorching Jøtul oven ; which immediately transformed it into a gushing fountain.

When I came to cast a glance down at my shirt sleeves and got true the old Roman motto: It is a short distance from the Capitol to the tarpeiske cut, for here I was standing in front of the class and showed the shameful shirt to poor lice.

In a vision I saw for myself the next thing that would happen: The girls from Alleen would rise up in disgust and recoil back against the wall, while they pointed at me and start howling chorus:

"Finn, Finn! Poor-liceinn! "

"Finn, Finn! Poor-liceinn! "

o.s.v

And the boys would fall into the choir, and church singer himself would climb up on the catheter chair and directing choral with the pointer, and ... I went for the door, tore at me sweater and coat and ran down to the bike, and Kjell came by on the stairs and shouted and offered me the dry coat say, but I was in another world and Hoist back; "Then we are not women either!"

I remember not so much to his trip, but I remember that it was colder gradually on the two-kilometer-long bicycle ride.

It was good to come home and fall back into the kid role front floor heater in the living room and be pampered by the mother who came with towel and dry, warm clothes. And I bragged to my father about how I like a polar bear had swum between ice floes in the northern country, and father was with the notes and asked if it was true, as they had said on the radio, said it was well with sel in pack ice this spring. Then he shook me at isdripped hair and said with an exaggerated fatherly tone: "Yes, you Finn, you Finn ...»

But Thorvald Haugeland was well made when I came back to the school house a bit out in the fifth hour, and there came nod from the girl wing classroom.

My main lessons from this seedy incident was that the outside world did not matter whether Find gone orange yellow shirt breast with rødmønstrede sleeves. Soon it'll probably be the height of fashion?

This blog page was reproduced in the newspaper Lister 20th June 2015.

HILL HARE IN WESTERN FARMS

Lihare on the move. Illustratet by Finn Bringsjord

(This is primarily a google translation).

A Sunday afternoon with rain and indoors weather, were mother and sisters fed the hustle and bustle of the twins and sent us out the door. Since we went in Sunday clothes, we could not banished to the barn, so they were so clever that they sent us down to Uncle Anton Garden.

"Now go down and ask uncle if he does not soon to be married," was marching order that we got with us from mother. She had learned that Anton was accomplished tired of the hustle and bustle of the oldest sister about marriage, leaving the task to unsuspecting delegates. Men got nowhere in the world to be lazy and see time depends. It was hard contest for the widow in Kvås, and better party she could not envision for her little brother who now lived all alone in the old house for his late parents.
Now Uncle had acquired three-wheeled Tempo with large goggles, gloves and kidney belt, so it was just to embark on a random Sunday tour up the valley.

Anton had slept long enough that Sunday, for when we knocked, he sat at the round dining table in the living room and ate Sunday dinner's. There were half a blight-potato and well with potato peelings neatly arranged throughout oilcloth, and the plate was brown colored by sauce residues. Although he sat slicked and smiling reclining - with open waistband and unbuttoned shirt collar - and feasted on the flesh of a long thigh bone.

"Degn (church clerk /canttor) Brinch * price! Will there like fine Sunday visit to an old uncle, "he munched up with a mouth full of femoral meat," just sit down here at this table. " He kicked hospitably out a couple of chairs to the right and left, and we sat down at the tip of the seat and let ourselves be fascinated by an uncle who meticulously ate up all leftovers.
Finally clucking he vigorously to get a piece of meat out of hol tooth and pushed his chair back in comfortable position: "Nothing in the world is as good as a fat lihare (hill hare)," he said as he put his hands under the elastic suspenders and patted him self well pleasing on the stomach.

* Degn Brinch was Uncle Anton's ancestor. See down- blog page ...

"What you said, uncle; lihare? What hare is it? "asked Kjell.
Anton raised eyebrow and then feigned amazement at him. "Are not you the son of Thorvald L. - the keenest hare hunter on Bringsjord ...? And then you do not know what a LIHARE is ...? "
Anton shook his head over such a comfortless ignorance, and I fell into his trail and shook my head and grinned good of my stupid brother.
"Tell him what - you Finn!" Said uncle and pulled me right into pillimentet.
"Lihare," I said uneasily and wandered around in the chair, "it ... it's a hare as eating when it starts to li (linger) out at the afternoon."
"Ho, ho! It was great! No, you, that there was total failure. "

He got up and cleared pan and plate of the dining table. So he went into the kitchen and put the coffee pot. We followed with potato peelings and other small things, and I was ahead as and got grind coffee at the mill. Meanwhile cleared Kjell room table for Arbeiderblad newspapers and put up a coffee cup, tree saucers and a blue glass bowl with piece of sugar which he found in mirror-bureau. As soon as the coffee had boiled over three times, it was bestowed in the cup and in the bowls, and so was Sunday coziness started.

"Now you must tell,Uncle! What is a lihare "? said Kjell, and sucked on a strong coffee listed sugar. But uncle had as usual good time, he pulled up a snuff boxes and left a juicy rosehip under cheekbone before he - with his hands clasped behind his neck - leaning well back in his chair and began to tell:
"A lihare - you see - is a hare race which can only live in a li - a the hillside on the slopes around a hill that is shaped like a sugar loaf. It is completely lost if it is to stand on a plain or in a forest. "

We looked a little perplexed at each other, this was something completely new for two inquisitive boys heads. "Completely lost?" I said, "why is he completely lost?"
Anton leaned even more back, let his legs on a wooden chair, and continued: "Yes, I'll tell you, Finn; That is because it will be taken off the fox before nightfall; liharen is so created that on flat ground running it around in a spiral, and it is only for the fox to seek the center of the spiral and wait. "

"But why", said Kjell, bursting with curiosity.

"It is because li-hare's right foot is considerably longer than his left foot. In this way they have a huge advantage when they jump away along a slope; one li. It's easy to understand! And that is why this breed is called lihare, or as it says in the lexicon; Lepus timidius clivo. "

Anton smiled proudly and nodded in all directions as thanks for an imaginary applause and admiring glances, so he pushed snus over on the other side of his mouth and took another gulp of coffee and two sugar cubes. He was obviously in his element, and continued in high gear:
"But to have longer legs on the right side of the body, is not only an advantage for liharen. For example, it can only run in one direction around the peak; in the same direction as skaters and trotting horses running around its orbit. If they try to run the other way - as clockwise - it goes completely wrong; then comes the long bone in the upper slope and short leg bottom and tilts over and rolling helplessly round and round down to he is knocked out at the bottom of the hillside. " He showed and demonstrated the "tall man finger" and "Little Petter fiddler" on a slanted copy of "Kon-Tiki Expedition".

"Do you know where there lives liharer, uncle? It is only with the widow in Kvås? "It just slipped out of me, and I grieved me deeply for it was very shameful to bring women and marriage on the court at the time.

But uncle was as always the gentleman to finger tip. He blushed easily and overheard it all. "Here in Bringsjord heath is just liharer in two places; on the hillside with Voråsen and the hillside with Kålåsen.
As you well know situated Voråsen here Vestigarden, right up there behind my kitchen window. The hill ends into the horizontal delete we call Fladen. Now in hunting season, when I hear dog pilot goes up there, I often take a trip up at Fladen and picks up a knocked lihare. How do I get me a wonderful Sunday dinner without so much as loosening a shot. "

I was sitting gape: "In Degn Brinch name *, uncle, is this true? Why it ends up that hares trills like ripe fruit cakes down at Fladen? "

"A good question," stated uncle. "We have researched up a bit, and think we have found the answer."
"It is the speed that kills," he said, nodding knowing for both of us, "speed kills, you see. Liharen run so fast that it shortly after taking back the dog with a round. When the dog that he gets liharen just behind in heels, yes it breathable and panting even trying to push past, the dog insulted and sits on its hind legs. Thus, it is done. Haren must turn around and run back ... in the wrong direction. It goes of course wrong, and he rolls downhill. "
We got busy - raised the under bowl and wanted with grave seriousness "Degner bowl" before we supt in the coffee remains - and hurried home to talk further with the father about where to add tomorrow's hunting trip.
When we breathless came home and told our father about liharer on Voråsen, father smiled well and told that Anton had served us an ancient lie about liharen. I remember that we were quite snurtne and promised bloody revenge.

Anton was too soft-hearted to shoot an animal, so in reality he ate a hare he had received as thanks of a hare hunter who hunted on his estate in Hobaskogen.

Afterword

* The first Degn on Bringsjord, Ole Omundsen b. Ca. 1678, should on the way to his church-work had a strong personal affliction down in Døldegrova when he had to give up in a wrestling with the Devil himself, who tore from him Kingos Psalmebok and throw it into Kjørkevadet. (Church wade. Brigde came first in 1884). The book was taken off the river stream, but by god luck ran it ashore at Bank Hølen. Degn was wet and forsoffen when he churned in the sacristy that Sunday. Ole was Degn (clocks and church songs) in Lyngdal Church from 1705 to 1739 when he had to stop because the pastor and congregation for some time had annoyed at his obvious drunkenness.

Son Omund Olsen, who was married to the vicar Nils Cold Bergs sister, took over as Degn father. He was right swell and swagger basse and called himself for Amund Brinch (ab Brinchfiore). Uncle Anton in Garden claimed stubbornly that Degner Brinch was his right ancestor, and he let himself into the ugly habit that he always ended a festive party to demand that all had to stand up and drink "Degner bowl."

Referred as Degn in Lyndal Church passed down for five generations. The fifth and final Degn on Bringsjord, Lars Ånensen, was fired by Pastor Gabriel Kielland in 1840 due to acidic pitch and deficient singing voice. A grandson of Judge Balle narrated that Lars sat in the choir with huge breeches and big wig and "Brek stykt" and Kielland even wrote that it was only with the new Degner from Bergsaker that he first heard "edifying hymn" in Lyndal Church .

This bloggside was printet in the
paper Lister 23. May 2015

THE KING VESSEL AND THE CLUCK HEN

In front from left; Kjell and Finn. Behind; Ludvig

(This is primarily a google translation).

Someone in the family say that this story shows just how ("ukjuraktige") rascals twins were. But that's because it's big brother Ludvig who usually tells it, and then you get the always unfortunate, subjective approach. This is what really happened:

In 1947 the war ended and the victors had returned from London and controlled and tended. An ordinance went out that it would gather money for a folk gift to King Haakon VII in gratitude for his great efforts for the motherland during the war. The People Gift was royal ship "Norway".

Although it was voluntary one would give, and how much one would give, it was decided that all households should be sought out by trusted men in the municipality. Teacher and church songer Torvald Haugeland was one of them. Some of the farms in the circuit lay deep on the moors, and Haugland confided when our older brother Ludvig (on Bringsjord pronounce the name "lådvi"), who by then had turned 18, the honor of visiting the most roadless farms built on the heath.

Ludvig in this way was away from the farm for a day, was a fortunate event for us twins. He had in fact a "klukkhøne" lying on nest out in the barn , and this klukkhøna passport he viewed as a blacksmith. (Klukkhøne called a hen who has "decided" to hatch chicks. It will then stop laying and begin to incubate as soon as it has gather some eggs).

It is essential that a dominant rooster rules the henhouse at the time eggs are collected for hatching, but it had not. Our rooster should have remained headless on the chopping block last fall, and now it was arthritis and no longer and lazy and ignored just as it was clear invitation from the white Italian fingertips (gallina bianca). But luckily grandmother in Nyhus one virile rooster, and Louis got traded with 15 eggs from her chicken run. These were placed under klukkhøna, and so was the countdown started, and until this royal collection day had passed 13 days.

Louis, which already at that time had left for the day pronounced intellectual interests, and who drank coffee with teacher Haugeland with his wife and daughters, went throughout the year at high school in Mandal. Already then he saw enough of an educational career, and took little brothers on her lap and explained as schoolmaster fun he could just about developments day by day was started inside the eggs. The conclusion was something like this: "If only Grandma's rooster has flapped in chicken and eggs, and klukkhøna not constantly was intimidated by hammering with the door, it will in three weeks get ready-made chicks from the eggs." Well, at that time was not the concept of time so strong, so already after five six days we began bustle if not the ready-made chicks soon to come.

For our parents came Ludvigs chicken-interest as a thunderbolt. During its first 18 years of life he had shown zero talent or interest in being a farmer, or closely related activities such as hare hunting and salmon fishing. They had well any written him as a future heir farmer, and had risked everything to get even a male child. They then would be blessed with two boys, was therefore of some viewed as a bonus.

But they could have been mistaken? Did not put himself grom boy here and raved about the chicken farm and egg production on a large scale, while he told about coffee drinking and trusted collection mission Torvald Haugeland and King Haakon VII?

Norway. the kings own ship

So far, the mother's egg production attracted to pancakes and hard boiled, sprinkler-sliced ​​sandwich toppings and a birthday cake every now and then. In addition, deliveries to the trader, which gave scanty cash to buy lottery tickets when representatives of the various associations woman knocked on their number books ahead of the bazaars.


Fortunately should not go so long before everything was back in good old thread. As soon as the royal collector had cycled off guard, took the twins for a walk out in the barn to investigate what happened to the chickens. When klukkhøna was uncooperative and chopped fingers, was she resolutely lifted away and shut out in the yard. Then we listened carefully on the eggs to hear about chickens was awake and wanted out. But no beep was hearing. Strangely, they overslept entire bundle?

This had to be investigated further. Relatively gently minced we hole in the eggshell to drop chickened out. But it was a big disappointment; just something slimy goo gushed out of the egg. Without rooster, no chicken, we remembered schoolmaster-germ had explained when he came carrying 15 Grandma's eggs in cap. Yes, yes, we thought; grandmother-cock must have forgotten fluttered on this egg. We'll check it out next ...

A while later looked our mother out of the kitchen window and saw klukkhøna who wandered around the yard. Once she saw that somthing was wrong and hurried out into the barn where she found two unhappy boys and 12 broken eggs nicely spread across the floor.

The young scientists Finn and Kjell in activity.

When Ludvig weary came home that night, he was greeted by his mother in the yard, and warned that a terrible accident had befallen chicken project. But then the culprits for the longest sent to bed and slept happily outside big brother's immediate reach.
The following day we were up early to go back and chase the cows when Mom and Dad hired them in herds, on the headland. Ludvig could lie and take up long into the day. Unfair? Fair enough for us!

..........

This blog page was printed in the newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 18 July 2015.

CHINA MISSION WOMEN´S ASSOSIATION IN LYNGDAL

My oldest sister, Marie Opsahl (1923-2012)
shows here China mission old moneybox.

(This is primarily a google translation).

Grandmas great interest for the China Mission was wakened by the charismatic preacher Tormod Rettedal when he early 1900s, on a mission to attend the "Ekjowe Bedehus" (chapel) on Bergmoen, spoke about the personal obligation Jesus had placed on believers to make disciples of all nations and about the great distress and anguish it now ruled on the mission field in China.

Both grandmother and Malla in Norbakken was so moved by the speech that they immediately were joined by other interested parties and founded "Kinamissionens Kvinneforening in Aa Sogn". The minutes of the association's foundation was destroyed during a fire, so the year has been somewhat uncertain, but all indications are that it was in 1905.

"Ekjowe" is a very special name of a chapel in Lyngdal. It spelled with 'w' indicates that the name is neither Norwegian or biblical. The word then falls nor easy on the tongue, and it turns out to be a Norwegian "distortion" of the place name "Eshowe," the name of the oldest town in Zululand. That being said locally in South Africa that the name Eshowe's etymology is inspired by the sound of the wind in the forest, which shows that the Norwegian "EKJ" sound must be a linguistic antics.

Eshowe was the name of Lyngdal-man and missionary priest Ommund C. Oftebros mission in Zululand which he established in 1861. He came from Oftebro, then croft under Aa vicarage.
Why the name was changed from Eshowe to Ekjowe in Norway, we can only guess. The fear that it would be pronounced "Æsj-hove" (= dirt head) of irony tongues is stumbling close and then not long that chapeau people also would get the tag hanging on them.

The name was introduced in Lyngdal when Aa Sogn Mission Society bought a small use of Bergemoen * they called Ekjowe, where villagers met to volunteer; primarily potato setting and potato harvesting. Revenues from crops went to Oftebros mission in Zululand. Soon old houses on site where demolished and replaced by an new assembly house; Ekjowe Bedehus.

* There was a piece of land that was purchased by heirs after Martine Øygården, of the Mission Association in 1880, that was named Ekjowe. Poor Bertine froze to death the night of November 18, 1879 when her row boat grounded in the river between Grøndokka and Bringsjord Neset. She was not able to get the boat away from the ground, and nobody could have heard her sore cries for help.

When Alleen Bedehus was erected in 1910, was Ekjowe Bedehus moved to Dragon Land and renamed Drageland Bedehus. Interest in volunteer work dabbet of gradually, and in 1919 the farm was leased. Later it was listed a detached house which was made available to refugee committee.

When my oldest sister Marie Opsahl (1922-2012), who is named after my grandmother, in 1993 received municipal Culture prize "for her work on Lyngdal Missionary Museum" took Farsunds Avis this photo of her with China Mission Female Society old monny box.

"The women of the association gathered in turn in each other's living rooms, and when grandmother had union at his home, was this monny box placed on the table", she tells the newspaper, remembering when she as a little girl was allowed to be part of the association's meetings the grandmother's house.

"The first thing I remember is the smell of coffee which finishes against me when I came into the kitchen. And it was little wonder that it smelled so, for something later I went around and collected the small bags of ground coffee that each one brought with them to the meeting - and which was then emptied the boiler. All also had his own lunch, so they should not be to any load to the hostess. Otherwise, I sat on a stool by the door and knitted and listened to what they talked about, and what was read from the magazine "The Chinese man".

Female Associations made an enormous effort for the mission. In the early 1900s ¾ of mission companies' revenues from the country's women associations. Later the eagerness been declining, and the belief to succeed in making all nations disciples of Jesus is strongly decreasing.
But Malla and grandmother Marie was in this respect optimists, and they knew everything about giving from a good heart. On Lyngdal Missionary Museum you will find this solid shaker that was always open to the widow's mite.

Grandma and Mallas moneybox stands today among many others in a glass case
on Missjons museum in Lyngdal.