of well-established social patterns and priorities.
The interviews in this section are arranged to give first a picture of rural life and then an impression of urban childhoods.
NOTES
1. Franklin D. Scott, Scandinavia (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1975), 1.
2. B. R. Mitchell, “Statistical Appendix 1700–1914,” in Carl M. Cipolla, ed., The Fontana Economic History of Europe, 4 (London, 1973), 747–749. Iceland was granted status as a separate kingdom under the Danish crown in 1918; in 1944, it became an independent republic.
3. Lennart Jörberg, “The Industrial Revolution in the Nordic Countries,” in The Fontana Economic History of Europe, 399, 377–378.
4. B.J. Hovde, The Scandinavian Countries, 1720–1865, 2 (Boston, 1943), 606.
5. Reino Kero, “The Background of Finnish Emigration,” in Ralph J. Jalkanen, ed., The Finns in North America: A Social Symposium (Hancock, Michigan, 1969), 58.
6. Florence Edith Janson, The Background of Swedish Immigration 1840–1930 (1931; reprinted New York, 1970), 484.
Henny Hale
“I couldn’t see over the mountains.”
Born in Eidet, Vesterålen, Norway, in 1903, Henny Hale emigrated in 1923 on a ticket supplied by an uncle in Tacoma. She did domestic work and became involved in activities at Tacoma’s Normanna Hall, where she met her husband. Upon marrying, she quit work. The Hales had two daughters.
My family was a good family. They were well thought of and they were hardworking. I guess we were very poor. We didn’t know we were poor, because we had a happy home life. And we had God-fearing parents; I think that made a lot of difference.
My father was a fisherman and a farmer. Father would go to Finnmarken in the late spring to fish, until he had to come back to work on his farm; and in the winter he went to the Lofoten Islands for cod.* My mother died when she was thirty-six, leaving six children. She was a slender, pretty little thing, and she shouldn’t have had to die so young. I remember her going down to the sea to get the heads of the fish and go home and boil them up and bring them to the barn for the cows. Mother used to crochet curtains and she had a loom and wove all the rugs for our floors. She was very handy. How she found the time I don’t know. Besides that, she was a seamstress and sewed for other people.
We used peat for heat; we had peat bogs all over the place. My dad would cut off about six thousand peat squares every spring; and we children had to slice these squares in six little slices with a spade. That was heavy work. We with our little legs would stand there and slice up all these and then set them to dry. It was marvelous fuel. We had a kamin [stove] in the front room; it was very beautiful, with several tiers of iron where we could set coffee pots to warm.
Henny and Louis Hale, Tacoma
After mother died, it was just me and my older sister that had to take over. I was twelve; my sister Mary was fourteen. We had to do the milking and the baking. Maybe I sound like we worked ourselves to death, well, we did. But that’s how we lived up in the north; it was hard going. In the winter, now here was I, twelve years old, had to hack a road through the snow, hack holes in the river in the ice, carry about fourteen buckets every other day to the barn for the cows and the sheep. We had it to do and so we did it.
We took the sheep in from the barn and I clipped them in the kitchen. I was so short, I sat on the sheep’s back and clipped the wool off of it. There was a lady that used to come to the house all the time and I didn’t like her. She was running after my dad when he was a widower. One time, I was clipping the wool of this sheep and she was sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee. And I happened to clip the skin of the sheep and he didn’t like it one bit, so the sheep leaped into that lady’s lap and spilled her coffee and I was so glad. Isn’t that terrible?
I was the tomboy. Mary was the lady. I ran out and played ball with the boys and went swimming in the river and I’d go fishing with my dad. Summer nights when he was home and the midnight sun was shining, we’d take the little boat and go way out and fill the bucket with little gjedde [pike]. We’d sit out on the water till the sun came to the sea and went up again.* And then we’d go home and cook up a pot of that fish. We worked hard, but there were times when we enjoyed our life, too.
I was confirmed at fifteen and then I quit school. I stayed home for a couple of years just to help. I left home when I was seventeen, though. I went to a neighboring farm where I stayed for about two years and then I came back to work for my schoolteacher. I liked her very, very much and then I decided to go to America and she said, “If you stay another year, I’ll give you a silver spoon for Christmas.” Well, I didn’t want to stay.
Why I wanted to go to America? Maybe it was born in me. Because my dad wanted to go to America when he was a young man. But one after another his brothers and sisters left and came to America, and he didn’t want to leave grandfather alone with the farm so he and his brother Martin stayed home. Of course, we thought America was lined with gold all over the place. My father and everybody else told stories about this. My Uncle George was over here, and Aunt Minnie, and Uncle Ed and Arnt, and Nick and Albert, and Aunt Ellen was here. They were all over here and they wrote home and they’d send packages. Blouses with beautiful lace on—oh it was so beautiful, all of it. High-button shoes.
But I think more than anything was that I couldn’t see. I wanted to see more of the world. There was a hill up above our house and where I really decided to go to America was on that hill. I had a Sunday off from this place where I was working and I came home and I walked up on that hill and I stood on tiptoe. I actually stood on tiptoe. I felt like I was choking, because I couldn’t see over the mountains. And I decided, I’m just not going to live like this. And I went home and I sat down that Sunday afternoon and I wrote to my uncle George Johnson in Tacoma if he would send me a ticket, please, so I could come to America. In short order, I had a ticket.
I was twenty. I left October 10, I think it was, 1923. I got the ticket, and like I say, I had hardly been off of the farm. I didn’t know what the world was all about. But I had to take the boat and go into the nearest city, I think it was Svolvær, to get my papers in order. That’s the first time I saw an electric light. No kidding. I didn’t know what I let myself in for, but I wanted to go to America, period; so I went to get these papers in order and I made it. I was here about three weeks before Christmas. I don’t know what drove me. I was possessed; I just wanted out.
What I remember more than anything was my little brother going with me down to where we took the boat to row across; and he stood there with his fists like this and he stuck them in his pocket and he wasn’t going to cry. My dad went with me; he rowed me across that sea there. Then there was a small place, maybe four or five blocks long, to walk from the boat and over to the ship that I was going on. My dad helped me with my suitcase and he walked half of the way with me. And I turned around and I kissed him before I left—the only time in my life I kissed my father. I never did kiss my mother. Because you didn’t have emotions; you weren’t supposed to. He turned around and walked home again. He was really glad that I could get out of there.
We lived out by the North Sea, right on the sea. The North Sea would come over the rocks and I’d stand there petrified looking at it. It was really fantastic. Our young friends, as well as families, died one after another out on the sea. I remember one
