Dear Arvid, God Jul

Kjaere Arvid,

Arvid, it’s snowing in Vermont! The forest outside my window is transforming into a winter wonderland of birds and four-legged creatures, a frozen pond, and trees blanketed with a soft white coat.

God Jul, or Godt Nytt År! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Once again, my dear friend, that may be the extent of my Norwegian. The only time I use what years ago became a second language for me is when I write to you at Christmastime, and each year the unpracticed words elude me in greater numbers.

I do, however, remember some choice Norwegian swear words that I’ve freely used this year in public settings here in Vermont. Only once did someone turn toward me—a woman my age, or so she appeared to be, who nodded, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up!

There are numerous ways to describe 2020, swearing included, a year to be remembered for the personal and global impact we’ve all been subjected to: injustices and inequities, disease and loss of life, uncertainty and diminishing hope, and a renewed sense of humankind’s frailty and vulnerability.

However, as I write this Christmas greeting to you while drinking coffee from a Christmas cup, I find joy in the absurdity and humor of John Baron’s cartoonish figure emblazoned on the cup’s side—a mallard duck clothed in Santa Claus attire! Beneath the wonderfully rendered bird-like caricature is the word, Sanducklause!

 The inspiration for this card, aside from the annual pleasure of reconnecting with you, is the silver letter opener next to my laptop with the inscription—Til Roger fra Arvid Julen 1962. Your Christmas gift, sent a few years after our families last saw each other, gets use every day when I open mail, serves as a reminder of our childhood friendship, and occupies my mind with nostalgia.

Those years when our American family lived in Drammen, your family embraced and made us feel at home. The summer gatherings in your family’s rustic cabin at Krok, swimming and boating on the lake, and the bonfires celebrating the summer solstice were carefree and filled with adventure.

Forgive me as I reminisce, and though these events have been written about and shared between us in previous years they deserve a nostalgic revisiting during this year when “once upon a time” has new relevance.

Do you remember skating at Marienlyst during the darkened winter days and quiet nights when we seemed to have the great rink all to ourselves? And what about the culinary treat to which you introduced me—a hotdog (pølse) roll soggy from a quick dip and soaking in the pølse’s briny boiling water then served slathered in mustard on a piece of wax paper. The cold may have affected my tastebuds, but those empty rolls were delish!

Speaking of food—what about my first days at Fjellheim Skole where we attended fourth grade together? The first day fellow students gathered around me during lunch recess and stared at my sandwich with two pieces of bread while they enjoyed their open-faced fare—a single slice of bread with cheese or other topping. The next day you stood next to me during recess, opened your brown bag, and unwrapped a two-bread sandwich just like mine. I knew enough Norwegian to say thank you—takk skal du ha—smiled and courageously bit into my sandwich.

I recently googled our school, and the picture of the courtyard is just as it looked decades ago, and so too is the memory of you making me feel like I belonged.

The Boy Scout International Jamboree we attended in Larvik introduced me to pan-fried Smelt. Perhaps it was the adventure of being out-of-doors, but the buttered fish hit the spot—though I’ve never had Smelt since! Once back in the States my mother often served fiskeboller, a minced white fish dumpling—cod or haddock. A flavorless fish whose rubbery texture almost caused me to gag, but which I ate and made palatable by thinking of pan fried Smelt prepared over an open fire in the company of you and the other Scouts.

That troop of Scouts came from the Methodistkirken where our families worshipped. I looked it up on Google too, and the exterior of the brick building looks as it did when we attended services there. Members of the congregation smoked, loved good food, and enjoyed an occasional beer—all but the good food were taboo in our Stateside congregation. That “good” Christian folk enjoyed those indulgences helped me, even at that age, question and free myself from the oppressive restrictions of my early, ruled-based religious upbringing. Today I worship in a United Methodist Church, and though smoking is now considered a public health issue I imagine good food and “spirits” are enjoyed by some members of my new worship community.

The four Sundays of Advent have passed, but I hope that you’ve experienced their respective themes of hope, peace, love, and joy threaded through this Christmas letter to you. Though not mentioned this morning because we’ve written about them on other occasions, I want to reiterate how special the memories of the Christmas Eves we shared in Norway remain for me this December.

Before I close, I’m going downstairs to fetch another cup of coffee. Emblazoned with three Santa-clad ducks above the caption, “We wish you a Mallard Christmas,” this cup, like the previous one, enhances the French roast’s flavor and also makes me smile.

Now, back at my desk, I’ll share with you the last few lines from Mary Oliver’s poem Gratitude:

What did you think was happening?
The green breast of the hummingbird;
The eye of the pond;
The wet face of the lily;
The bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
The red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve
of the first snow—
so the gods shake us from our sleep.

This brief time with you, a gift on a snowy December morning, reminds me that God appears and gifts us with His presence in unanticipated ways and wakes us from our uncertain-laden sleep.

Love,

Roger

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