Travel Fever

Childhood‍

Time was measured by the sun and shadows, not by the clock. In Valdalen, between steep hillsides and soggy marshes, lay Muriås—the farm where Elise grew up. The house was large with a sod roof and long benches along the wall, where the sisters sat with their hands in their laps, watching their mother work. There were seven sisters and two brothers, and Elise was the youngest. She was always the one sent with messages, often kept home when the others were allowed to go.

From the window of the small room, she could see the mountain lying like an old man with his forehead against the sky. Deep shadows hid the path to the summer pasture, and every summer they would go there. Then it was haying time at the seter,  milking, and mountain farm life. She ran barefoot through the grass with the milk strainer in hand, the sun warm on her neck. And when evening came, and her mother sang by the cowshed door, she felt that the world was larger than what she could see around her at the farm.

Work began before sunrise. Elise learned early how to shovel manure, carry water, and throw hay for cows and sheep. The goats stood at one end of the barn, and she knew which ones were wild and which ones liked to be scratched behind the ear. Christmas was a highlight: pigs and calves were slaughtered, head cheese was cooked, and calf heads soaked in brine. In the food pantry, meat was hung to dry and boxes of cookies were placed in wooden chests. She remembered the smell of juniper and freshly baked flatbread.

The walk to school followed the river, through snow and rain, and in winter with ice crust on the road and rags wrapped around her shoes. She attended school for seven years, and the lessons stuck. She read aloud from the hymnbook and could calculate how many pails of milk one cow would give. But it was the cowshed that shaped her more than the schoolbook.

She always had a feeling there was something more to do, something she hadn’t gotten to yet. At night, when she lay in bed under a heavy quilt with coarse linen sheets, she would often look out the window. Over the hills, the northern lights swept by like a fairytale from a world she didn’t yet know.

The Dream Awakens

‍It was a day in May. The sunlight lay warm over the yard, and the gravel crunched under unfamiliar shoes. Elise stood in the shadow of the barn when they came—Lina first, then Karoline. Both carried suitcases with straps and metal clasps, and coats made of a shiny fabric. On their heads were hats with ribbons, and they carried themselves differently—straighter, as if they had grown bigger than the village they came from.

They laughed when they saw Elise standing there. She ran to them, a bit shy, and got a hug so strong she couldn’t help but laugh too. From the suitcases they pulled out small gifts—a brooch with a flower design, a comb made of hard plastic, something like silk ribbon that smelled foreign. America, they said—and just the sound of the word made her ears ring.

In the evenings, they sat in the living room and told stories. They had been in Portland, they said, where Norwegians sang in choirs and worked in big houses with staircases and glass windows. Karoline had cleaned for a family with bedrooms bigger than their entire kitchen back home. Lina had learned to make American food—pie, they called it—and they spoke of their wages in hushed voices, as if the numbers were too large to say aloud. But Elise heard them. And she knew—this was something for her.

Some nights she lay awake. She imagined all they had described—the smell of American coffee, the sound of songs in a foreign language, the size of everything—houses, roads, dreams. She tried to picture what it would be like to stand on the deck of a ship, wind in her hair, ocean below. And she felt it start to rise in her chest, like a warmth that wouldn’t let go.

She never said it out loud. But she knew.
There was a life out there she couldn’t ignore. She felt it in her body, in her thoughts, in every breath.
It wasn’t just a dream. It was a need.

Later, she would put words to it:
“I caught the fever to travel.”
And that fever never truly let go of her.

Departure and Crossing (1914)

‍They said it was crazy, that she was too young, that her mother wouldn’t be able to bear it. But it was too late. The dream had already taken root in her, and there was nothing that could hold her back. Her sisters were going back to America after a short stay in Norway, and Elise was allowed to go with them. Not many believed she would dare. But she had made the decision quietly. No one needed to know how fiercely it burned inside her.

She packed the little she had into a trunk with iron fittings—a short coat, a wool dress, a scarf she had inherited from an aunt. Her sisters helped her borrow money for the ticket. That morning, as they left, the farmyard lay bathed in soft November light. She didn’t look at the house as she walked away. She knew that if she turned back, she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

Her mother stood in the doorway with a white cloth over her head. Her hands were trembling. She said nothing—just a small nod, as if blessing the journey but not wanting to acknowledge it. As the wagon pulled away from the farm, Elise didn’t look back. But she heard the sob, just barely, carried on the wind.

At the harbor lay the Bergensfjord, a large ship with black smokestacks and the smell of coal and saltwater. People were singing on the dock, and she felt her chest tighten—the song was in Norwegian, but the ship was headed into the unknown.

The crossing was long and rough. The wind sliced through the hull, and the waves tossed the ship like a toy. Many were seasick. Elise sat with a scarf wrapped around her head, staring at the horizon, singing quietly to herself. For several nights she barely slept. She lay there listening to the engines, to her heartbeat, to the thoughts she couldn’t settle.

But then, one morning, she woke to calmer seas and a new light. They stood on deck as the land rose from the mist. America. It was there like a promise—and a test. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t quite believe it until she smelled the harbor and heard voices in a language she didn’t understand. Then she knew—there was no way back.

Culture Shock
Everything was bigger—the smells, the buildings, the sounds of streetcars and cars. When Elise arrived in Portland, she felt like a child dropped into the middle of a dream she couldn’t fully understand. American flags waved from windows. Shops with glass storefronts reflected people she couldn’t make sense of. A man shouted something in the street, and Elise froze—it could just as well have been French or Latin. She stood there with her suitcase in hand, unsure where to rest her gaze.

Her sister Karoline had arranged a job for her—with a wealthy family, in a house larger than the school back home. The staircase curved upwards like a picture in a book, and the kitchen had multiple stoves. From the first day, Elise knew she didn’t own anything here—not the language, not the routines, not even herself.

She was given a small room on the second floor. There she lay, hands under her head, listening to voices downstairs, quick footsteps on floors that didn’t creak, the scent of soap and unfamiliar spices. One evening, the lady of the house knocked on her door, smiled kindly, and pointed toward the kitchen. Elise understood nothing.

That’s when Karoline started interpreting. The lady would call her sister to explain what Elise needed to do, and Karoline would call Elise, who stood with the phone pressed to her ear and a notebook in hand. “You’re going to make pie,” Karoline said slowly. “With apples. And cream. And then you’ll set the table.” That’s how it began.

She peeled apples, measured sugar, rolled out the crust. All in gestures she had seen but never done herself. She looked at recipes she didn’t understand, learned words like crust, filling, and oven. She had never seen so much food before. And the people she worked for were kind. They taught her the names of things, showed her how everything worked, laughed when she made mistakes—but never in a mean way.

Eventually, she began to answer. First with nods and smiles, then with one word at a time. She said please and thank you and good morning. And the day she said, “I made the pie,” and the lady nodded in approval, she felt it in her chest: a small bridge had been built—across the ocean, across the language.
And she had built it herself.

Freedom and Love‍

It took some time before Elise found her way to the others. But one Thursday, on her day off, Karoline took her to church. It was a youth group, she said, and that’s where they gathered—those who shared what had been left behind and were looking for something solid to hold onto.

It was in the basement of a Lutheran church, not unlike the one back home. But here, there were electric lights in the ceiling and padded American chairs. On the wall hung a flag with a cross—not only the Norwegian one. They had blended their ribbons here, recolored them.

They sang old hymns, and Elise knew the words. At first, she sang softly, but her voice found strength. There were coffee pots and cakes, and laughter flowed easily. It was here she heard about the “Sons and Daughters of Norway,” where they raised money, danced, sang, and gave speeches in Norwegian. It felt like being in two countries at once.

One evening, they played a game. They called it the sitting game, an old Norwegian tradition, now mixed with American freedom and movement. Elise wasn’t quite sure how it worked, but she was drawn in. They sat in a circle, and one person would bow to another.
“You stand up when you feel it,” a girl beside her whispered. And Elise stood.

She looked across at the seated group, stepped forward, and bowed. And there sat Oskar.

He smiled—but not widely. He looked at her as if he already knew something she didn’t know herself. After that, they met again and again. At church, at coffee evenings, in the park. He spoke Norwegian, but with a different rhythm. He had been in the country a long time, had traveled to Alaska and back, and had hands marked by labor.

She didn’t believe in love at first sight. But she believed in taking her time. And that was what Oskar gave her. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with gravity. He didn’t ask if she would be his sweetheart. He just said:
“I’ll wait for you—if you want.”

And she knew she did.

The Great War and a Shattered Dream

‍It was as if the world came to a halt. One day they were talking about news from Europe, and the next everything had changed. The war had come—not to Portland, but everything around it was affected. Prices rose. Flour and sugar became more expensive. Men disappeared from the streets. Stores posted signs with soldiers on them. Mailboxes filled with letters from the government.

Oskar was drafted.

He came home with the letter in his hand. Elise looked at him but said nothing. He laid it on the table and didn’t say much that day. It was as if something had gone quiet in him. She saw it in his shoulders, in the way he walked across the floor. At last, he said:
“I don’t want to go. But I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to stay.”

Days passed without answers. Then it came—exemption. They had applied, his family had written letters, the pastor had vouched for him. He would be spared. It was a relief, but not joy. Because everything around them kept unraveling.

Work became harder to find. Wages stood still, but everything else rose. Rent went up, and they had to move. The furniture they had gathered was sold. There were fewer song nights, fewer gatherings. People talked of going home—of family who needed help, of elderly parents, and land that waited.

Elise was carrying a child when they made the decision.

It was not with light hearts. They had found a place for themselves, a bridge connecting two lives. But now it felt like that bridge was cracking. Their friends were disappearing, and with them the dream of staying. Oskar didn’t want to become a father in a country he no longer understood.

“We’re going,” he said. “But we won’t forget.”

Elise looked back from the boat. She knew she would remember it all. But she also knew it was no longer their place.

Behind her lay America. Ahead, Norway.
And in between—a sea that forgot nothing.

Return to Norway

The country they returned to seemed quiet. It was as if everything had settled a little deeper into the earth, as if the air itself was thicker. Norway was no longer the place they had left. The war had touched the mountains too—not with bombs and soldiers, but with stillness, high prices, and constant worry. Times were hard. People bartered more than they bought. What had once been plenty was now barely enough.

Elise and Oskar stayed with relatives at first. Everything they had owned in America had been left behind. They had savings, but the money disappeared quickly. The farm at Myklebust was vacant—Oskar’s parents could no longer manage it, and someone was needed to take over. No questions were asked. They stepped in, carrying their belongings through wet grass paths and into a living room with gray painted walls.

It became a different life.

Oskar chopped wood and built fences. Elise milked cows, raked hay, sewed, and carried children on her hip. Åsmund was born in the winter, followed by two girls. She hadn’t imagined her life would continue here—in the old world—but it did. New life grew around what had once been.

But America never quite let go.

She baked pie on the weekends. Oskar liked the apple one best, and the children asked for lemon on special occasions. She brought out the folk costume from America—the one that had once made American children gape—and wore it on May 17th. In her handbag were old photos, silk ribbons, and a comb Lina had given her. Letters came less frequently now, but they still came—and every time she saw a new envelope with an American stamp, her heart paused for a second.

She never fully knew what she had left behind. And she never fully knew what she had found. But in the everyday—in the chores, the children’s laughter, and the scent of American coffee—she learned to believe it had all belonged together. That it didn’t have to be either-or.

That a home can be in two places—and in neither.

_Biography:

_{Elise Myklebust (born May 18, 1893, in Muriås, Valldalen, Norway) was the youngest of nine siblings, the daughter of Ole Muriås and Nikoline Dalstad. After seven years of schooling, she began working as a seamstress, dreaming of more than the everyday life the farm could offer.}

_{In 1914, she traveled to America with her sister Karoline and settled in Portland, Oregon. There, Elise found work with a wealthy family in Portland Heights and began learning American cooking. Eventually, she moved on to a new position with the employer’s sister, where she continued to expand her knowledge and experience as a cook and housekeeper.}

_{In her free time, Elise became active in the Norwegian youth community, especially with the organization Sons and Daughters of Norway. In 1917, she met Oskar Antonson Myklebust at a youth gathering in a Norwegian Lutheran church. He was from Myklebust in Sunnmøre and had emigrated at the age of sixteen. They were married on September 18, 1918.}

_{After just one year of marriage in the U.S., they returned to Norway to help Oskar’s family with the home farm. Elise and Oskar took over the Myklebust farm and had three children: Aasmund, Nellie, and Adlid.}

_{Elise carried her memories of America throughout her life—she continued to bake pies, and the bunad she had worn abroad was brought out on holidays. She dreamed of returning one day, but never had the chance. Still, the dream lived on in her memories, in songs, and in the scent of apples and cinnamon in the kitchen.}

_Source:

_{Rasmussen, J. (1984, June 15). Interview with Elise Myklebust [Audio recording]. Pacific Lutheran University Archives, Tacoma, WA.}

_{Cover Image: Unknown. Norwegian American Historical Association, Archives.}