Upper and Lower Lerbergs

The Lower Lerberg Farm

I went to Norway with modest expectations—cautious optimism. For instance, I did not go hoping to find any living relatives. My entire family from Valdres—my great-great grandparents and their ten children—left for the New World in 1849. My tiny family from Hallingdal—the other set of great-great grandparents and their two surviving children—made the journey in 1852. It is true that some of my great-greats had left siblings behind who might have produced peripheral cousins, but since I had no solid information on the existence of anyone who would qualify as being a cousin of mine, any pressure of searching for such a person was removed.

Another hope I did not harbor was that of finding the gravestones of my ancestors. I knew they wouldn't be there. There is limited space in the church yards, and if there are no living descendents to pay for the upkeep of the graves, those graves are given over to more recently deceased church members and the gravestones are yanked. Sometimes they are leaned against a wall of the church or against the graveyard fence for a while, so that some lucky searchers are able to find them before those expired markers are finally, inevitably, permanently disposed of. What's left of the contents of the grave are dug up to make room for a new occupant. And so I carried no illusions that, on lichen-covered gravestones, I might read the names that had become so familiar to me through my research. There was no one left to be buried or to tend to the buried.

I have to say, it did occur to me to wonder if, when I arrived in the town of Aal, I would look around at the faces in the streets or in the shops—and see people who looked like me. I had heard of that happening. In fact, one of the women in the Valdres group who was back for a second visit, told of just such an occurrence: She had gone to the farm where her ancestors had lived to meet a relative who was currently living there. When this relative opened the door and they saw each other face to face, Kristin thought she was looking in a mirror. I did not have such an experience, but it was no great loss or disappointment to me.

So, in the absence of gravestones or living relatives or spitting images, what was I hoping for? Well, it was this: To find the farms where my ancestors had lived and tilled the soil. That wish was in fact granted. In Hallingdal, I had the great fortune to find the Lerberg farm where Knud Halvorsen Lerberg, his wife Ragnild, his daughter Bergit (my great grandmother) and his son Peder, lived until 1852. And the way this came about, I never could have anticipated.

Shortly before I left for Norway, I had unexpectedly received an invitation from a Lars Stavehaug to attend his family reunion near the town of Aal, where the Lerberg farm was. Lars was a fellow Halling who had also made use of my genealogist's services, and she had put us in touch with each other. The reunion just happened to be scheduled during the time I would be in Hallingdal, so I happily accepted. I wasn't quite sure why I was being invited to a Stavehaug family reunion, but I thought, “Why not? Even though it isn't my family reunion, it's bound to be interesting. I won't be meeting relatives, but I might meet people whose ancestors were neighbors of my ancestors.” Well, to make a long story short, it turns out it was not a Stavehaug family reunion. The sign in the hotel lobby pointed the way to the location of ....drum roll, please....the Lerberg family reunion.

Now before you get too amazed, I have to remind you that the Lerberg name is the farm name and therefore does not necessarily indicate kinship. (See my Bergit Who? post.) And so the Lerbergs I met at this reunion did not share my DNA, but their ancestors lived where my Lerbergs lived. Well, actually, they lived near my Lerbergs. Because it was the Lower Lerberg farm that was home to Knud, Ragnild, Bergit and Peder—my Lerbergs. These present-day Lerbergs I was meeting were descended from the Upper Lerberg farm folk. I know, I know—it is increasingly convoluted, and I'm sorry.  

 

But the good news is that the following day, three cars full of Upper Lerbergs were planning to visit the family farm and they were willing to take this eager Lower Lerberg with them. From the Upper farm I was told I would be able to look down to see the fields of the Lower. Because of time constraints, it would not be possible to actually drive to it—it was not connected by road to the Upper. Even so, I was elated—I was to see the homestead.

The next morning arrived—gray , rainy, foggy. When, after several wrong turns, our caravan finally arrived at the Upper, we could barely see from the farm house to the barn, let alone to the field downhill from the farm. I contented myself with standing where I could look in the direction of the Lower Lerberg farm and imagine what it might look like. But then miraculously the clouds lifted and I could see! The field, the trees, a ramshackle building, the roof of another whose walls were hidden by encroaching woods. I could see them. Of course, it was still quite misty, so my photos of the Lerberg farm are a little Monet-like. But still...there it is, the Lower Lerberg farm!

How I Ended Up in Norway

 Here is something I wrote way back last March, when the idea of going to Norway first presented itself.

 

A year ago I had just gotten back from Argentina and was already planning my next trip down there when I would stay for a whole month. But when November rolled around and it was time to start looking for flights and finding a cat sitter, I realized that I didn't want to go any more. I gave up my plan of a month of tango in Buenos Aires so that instead I could go to...wait for it....Illinois, Iowa and Wisconsin! Whoopee! 

 

If I were telling you this out loud I could use that weighing hand gesture that people employ when they're comparing something delightful with something dubious or downright undesirable. Like attending a concert by your favorite performing group...heft, heft...or going to the dentist for a root canal...heft, heft. An eye brow is usually lifted as part of the hefting, weighing, considering process. Like, “Really?” So yes, I passed up Argentina because I'd rather go poke around in libraries, county courthouses and cemeteries in the Midwest.

At least that was my plan until recently when I made a slight alteration based on some information I received from a Norwegian-American genealogy group about some upcoming events. They're called stevnes—don't really know how the word is pronounced or translated, but basically it seems to mean a convention of Norwegian-Americans. This information came in the form of real hold-in-your-hands newsletters. It seems the Norwegian-American associations are just beginning to venture into the world-wide-web world and still conduct most of their communications with letters and envelopes and stamps and trips to the post office.

 

The first stevne described caught my interest because it was being held in Austin. “Oh,” I thought, “I could visit my cousin in Austin—I haven't seen him since I was about 10 years old. And Austin sounds like a cool place—my friend Lani liked Austin.” Then I noticed it was Austin, Minnesota. Oh...Well that could still be good—let's see what the plan is. I read an account of a previous stevne to get an idea of the agenda. It got a little scary. One of the major attractions of that particular stevne was a visit to the site where the largest lefse had been made—it made the Guinness book. A lefse evidently is a large round unleavened pancake-like bread, and there was a grainy photo showing the stevne-goers gathered around what looked like a large circular concrete pad. Was it a monument to the mighty lefse? Or was it the very griddle (a concrete griddle?) that the record-breaking lefse had been baked on? So.... if that was the highlight of that particular stevne, what other activities went on during the week-end? Well, it looked like there were a fair number of religious activities: Norwegian Table Prayer recited before the festive final banquet, Norwegian hymn singing, a memorial service for those members of the group who died during the previous year. In addition to being religious, these people seem to be quite patriotic too. At the beginning of many of the events both the Norwegian and the American national anthems are sung.

Could I do this? Could I spend several days with people for whom being Norwegian, Christian and patriotic seems to be the bedrock of their lives? And why, you may ask, would I even consider it? Well, because a main feature of this gathering is to share genealogical information. The group has its resident genealogist who owns every copy of every relevant book of church records from Hallingdal, the region where our ancestors lived. And she brings them all—cratefuls of them—along with her considerable knowledge and expertise to the stevne. So that would be the big draw for me. Even being a little worried about the praying and the singing, I could probably manage most of what's on the agenda for this year's stevne in Austin. But I can tell you right now, I would definitely take a pass on the visit to the Spam Museum. Austin Minnesota, of course, is home to the Hormel meat-packing company. And yes, a field trip is on the schedule.

 

As it turns out, though, my plans have taken another detour since I learned of a stevne that another Norwegian American group has scheduled—IN Norway! This group has ancestors from the Valdres region which abuts the Hallingdal region--kind of like Iowa and Illinois except without the Mississippi River running between them. Some of my ancestors were born in Valdres and married others born in Hallingdal, so I sort of have dual-citizenship and can chose between stevnes. There might still be the hymn singing and the grace saying. There would definitely be a Sunday church service, but I would willingly go to that because it will be held in one of the stave churches that Norway is known for. This particular one, the Hedalen stave church, is one that my ancestors actually prayed in and were baptized in. It dates back to the 1100's, I believe, and I would happily spend an hour or so there. Another great attraction is that the annual Jorn Hilme Music Festival takes place in Fagernes, the headquarters of the stevne, and we would have access to the performances. I love Hardanger fiddle music, and the photos of Fagernes show it to be a beautiful town with its backdrop of mountains.

 

So ...Austin, Minnesota? Or Valdres, Norway? Hmmm. Heft, heft.

 

View of the town of Fagernes

 

The Village of Ål, Norway

 

Usually when my research uncovers some new bit of information I feel a thrill, sometimes an elation. Sometimes simply a pleasant surprise. Recently I made a discovery and the resulting feeling was none of the above.  It was just, well...disappointing. I mean, how would you feel if you learned that your ancestral village—the village you were planning to visit this summer on your pilgrimage to Norway—if you learned that that village's name (Ål) meant “ditch”? 

 

Well, to be totally accurate, the site offering this information says, "The name is identical with the word áll which means 'ditch' or 'gully'." While 'gully' is marginally better--it doesn't carry quite the whiff of unpleasantness--it's the word 'ditch' that jumps off the screen and stays with me.

 

Oh well, the  pictures of Ål look lovely. After all, the town lies in the Hallingdal Valley—which I suppose could itself be considered a really, really BIG ditch.

The local town centre 1895, © Ål Bygdearkiv