A Journey to America. Almost!

It all began, as most bad ideas with a dream and fabulous tales. A peddler had been talking about America. Godskalk heard him, and that was that. “We’re going,” he told Lisbet. “We’ll pack our things and head out into the world.”

Lisbet, who’d had a headache since Easter of 1831 and hadn’t even found the time to finish knitting her sock, said, “What world, Godskalk? We’ve barely made it past Mauranger.” But she already knew. When Godskalk got something into his head, he was like a goat running loose—no point in calling after it, it was already long gone.

It was 1836. Or maybe 1838—who's counting. They went to Stavanger, because that’s where the boat left from. They’d heard stories about America, about land and gold—and they pictured themselves living in a house with windows on every wall and cake every Saturday. They didn’t have windows back home. Just drafts. The only cake Lisbet had ever tasted was made from rowenberries.  Still, she thought this could be something really fine!

The ship had looked better from a distance. Lisbet got seasick before they even left the dock, and Godskalk stood there holding his cap in his hands, wondering who on earth had decided the ocean needed to move so much. They barely made it into the North Sea when the wind htokk over the ship’s course, and after two days of nausea, swearing, and a Swedish woman singing lullabies to herself, they ended up in Gothenburg. That’s where they went ashore. America would have to wait. A wave had taken their dream and the paper from the sheriff, and Lisbet suspected that it wasn’t just water in the glass Godskalk had emptied the night before. The money was spent on salted herring, a tavern with liquor, and what turned out to be a rather difficult conversation with a Swedish customs officer.

After a couple of weeks in Gothenburg, they hitched a ride on a boat to Bergen. It wasn’t luxurious, but they got to lie between barrels and made coffee from a nail. In Bergen, they wandered through the rain, looking for something that resembled a future. Going home was out of the question—they’d said their goodbyes loud and proud, with solemn voices and grand farewells, waving to more people than they could count. Turning back now would be like lying down in the middle of the village and saying: “We made a mistake.” And that just wouldn’t do. You can’t have both butter on your bread and your pride intact, as they used to say. No, it would have to be something else—anything but home.

One day, after much searching along Bryggen in Bergen, they came across a sloop from Eidfjord. The skipper said: “It’s not a land of milk and honey you’re going to , let me tell you.” Eidfjord was full of tenant farmers, and every patch of soil that could support a person and a potato was already taken. But there was a little place at Hotle, he said—on the far side of the river. It wasn’t much, but it was far away. And for Godskalk, that was the most important thing: getting as far as possible from Mauranger. Lisbet said nothing. She just started gathering up their belongings.

They built a shelter. Lisbet held the nails, hauled turf, patched shoes, cooked porridge, and sang children to sleep. She split the room in two: one for food, one for cows. She split the day into four parts and her body into five.

Eleven children came. They slept under the roof in a box Godskalk had strapped up to the ceiling with willow ties. It swayed in the wind. But it held. Just barely.

There were lots of potatoes and little sleep. The children went off to work—some to America, a place their parents never quite reached. Others stayed. They grew up with sandy soil in their knuckles. Godskalk died one spring day, sitting outside with his nose pointed toward the fjord. In his lap lay an old letter from one of the sons in America, folded so many times the letters had started to fade. It spoke of cornmeal and warm winters. Godskalk had read it many, many times, and every time, he felt a soft ringing in his ears. “You didn’t quite make it there,” Lisbet said as she tucked the blanket around his knees. “But you made it here.”

She grew old. Her body was stiff, but her memories were supple. She remembered what they had dreamed of, what they carried with them—and that they never went back to Mauranger. They never got to America. They got to Hotle. And that was, at least, better than slinking back to Mauranger with their tails between their legs.

The moral?

It’s better to plant yourself in sandy soil than to eat your own words.

_{Biographical Note:
Godskalk Kroka (1798–1851) from Mauranger and Lisbet Olsdotter (1803–1888) from Ølve had, eleven children together according to MyHeritage. The family left their home in Mauranger, likely due to poverty and the hope for a better life. They attempted to emigrate to America but were forced to disembark in Gothenburg after their ship blown off course. There, they spent the last of their money and eventually made their way to Bergen. After a period as tenant farmers at Bu, farm number 3, they received a lease for the homestead “Under Brotet” from Gunnar Larsson. In 1841, they moved to Hotle, farm number 1, in Eidfjord, where they cleared land and built a small home.}

_{Sources:
Lægreid, N. (1939). A Failed “Trip to America” in the 1830s. Hardanger, 76–77. Utne: Hardanger Historical Society.
Lægreid, T., & Lægreid, A. (1992). Farm and Family History for Eidfjord. Eidfjord: Municipality of Eidfjord.
MyHeritage. (n.d.). Godskalk Torbjørnsen Kroka.}

_{Cover image: Bergen Knut Knudsen  collection at UiB}