An Oasis of Care

The Last Evening at Snartemo‍

It was the final evening. A heavy blanket of snow lay over the farmyard, and darkness had settled over the village like a woolen blanket. The houses stood silent, and only a faint glow from the stove cast shadows along the kitchen walls.

Lena sat at the table, bent over a small sewing book she had borrowed from her sister. Her fingers followed the thread, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The stairs creaked. Mother Asgjerd came downstairs from the chamber with a ball of yarn under her arm. She had packed clothes for the youngest ones and placed them on top of the trunk. By the wood box, a few sacks with wool blankets stood ready, along with two red wooden crates filled with the bare essentials.

Father Ole flung open the door, and a blast of cold air filled the room. Snowflakes clung to his jacket. He shook them off and looked at Asgjerd, nodding quietly. The children were gathered around the table. The twins, Johanna and Siri, the oldest, held each other's hands. Lars had the same serious eyes as his father. Josefina rocked little Agnes in her lap, and Marie, the youngest, clung to her mother’s skirt.

“May 23rd,” the father said softly but clearly. “It’s all set now.”

No one answered. There was no need. Lena looked down at the sewing book, but she could no longer thread the needle. It felt like something was ripping apart inside her chest. She had known it—she’d known for a long time. But hearing the words aloud was like letting go of the towline to something safe and familiar. Everything they had been, everything they had owned—was about to be packed away like old clothes. Lena didn’t say a word. She just nodded, as if accepting it. But inside, she carried a restlessness that no prayer could soothe.

In the darkness behind the kitchen, the cat began to purr softly. As if it knew as well that they were leaving. Lena looked at her mother, who draped a wool blanket over her shoulders. She felt the warmth—but also the weight. Responsibility doesn’t come with age, she thought. It comes with departure.

Childhood and love for home‍

She remembers it like a dream—soft and bright—where the scent of hay and freshly baked lefse mingled with the sounds of the barn and laughter from the kitchen. The farm at Snartemo lay nestled on a hillside, and it was there she grew up—as the ninth of fifteen children. Three of her brothers were named Lars, but none of them lived to grow up. Illness came, as it often did, and took what it wanted. Lena doesn’t remember all the tears, but she remembers the silence that followed.

Grandmother sat by the hearth, with her woolen scarf and calm movements. She peeled potatoes and roasted them in the embers, while Grandfather teased her until they both laughed. It was a life filled with labor—but also one with rhythm, safety, and warmth. Every Christmas Eve, they got to go into the storehouse and breathe in the scent of salted meat and freshly hung hams, and in the morning the tree would stand tall and decorated, with oranges, nuts, and small gifts. Lena would peek through the keyhole every Christmas—because she had to know what was coming.

Her father, Ole, was strict and steadfast. He read from the Bible every Sunday for two hours, and on Christmas Eve, he did the same before dinner was served. Mother Asgjerd worked like a woman of steel, and even the youngest children earned small coins if they helped in the barn or the fields. Lena saved hers in a cinnamon tin she kept hidden under her mattress.

She didn’t stand out school—that’s what they said. But it was mostly because she would rather be home helping her mother. Still, she attended all eight years in the little schoolhouse far from home. One of her brothers had wanted to become a teacher but died before he could finish. Maria, her best friend, had light hair and a quick mind. They shared everything—from the long walk to school to their dreams for the future.

And Lena had her own dream. She wanted to learn to sew—properly. Take a course, maybe become a midwife, or something even bigger. There was something in her that longed for more than just milking cows and storing hay. She loved the farm, yes—but something inside her pushed forward, like a river she couldn’t hold back.

That’s how she grew up—between love and duty, laughter and loss. In a timber house, with fire in the hearth and cold on the doorstep. And in her heart lived both the warmth of childhood and the shadow of what was to come.

The Boat Journey – Storm and Sickness‍

Kristiansand lay quiet that morning. But the stillness was just a cover—beneath it, unrest simmered. They stood at the dock with the last sacks and crates to be loaded. Lena felt a pull in her chest as she took one final look at the land, at what she had called home. It was like tearing up roots with bare hands.

They boarded the ship—the whole group of siblings, Mother Asgjerd with her gaze fixed far off. Father Ole had traveled ahead of them. Lena held little Marie close. The wind was sharp, and the sea stretched out, dark blue and cold. She looked back at the dock, but it was already too far away. A mist rose from the water and swallowed the land bit by bit, until only the horizon remained.

The nausea came that first night. The ship lunged forward through the waves, and the planks moaned in protest. Lena lay on a bench with a cloth across her forehead. She had never felt such helplessness—her body wouldn’t obey, and it seemed like the sea itself was trying to crush them. Her mother sat hunched over Agnes, holding her tightly, while someone whispered prayers into the darkness.

But it was on the second day that Lena discovered a strength she didn’t know she had. A woman from Bergen sat nearby, a crying child in her lap. She was alone—her husband had gone ahead. The child hadn’t slept since they left port. Seasick and unsteady, Lena went over and asked if she could help. She took the child in her arms, gently rocked it, and sang a lullaby from Snartemo. And right away, the crying stopped. The child’s eyes closed. The mother looked at her with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I can’t do this alone anymore.”

And Lena didn’t know it then, but something awakened in her—a different kind of strength than she’d ever known before. In the rocking rhythm of the waves and the sleepless nights, something began to grow: a sense that she mattered. That her steady hands, her song, could bring comfort in the midst of the unknown.

When, after eleven days, they saw the outline of America, it wasn’t the seasickness she remembered. It was the face of the sleeping child in her arms—and the feeling that she had meant something, right there in the vast, cold world.

New York – Red Velvet and Lice‍

America! That word had long been like a dream—a distant idea shaped by letters and longing. But when they stepped ashore, it wasn’t a dream—it was noise, smells, and a language she didn’t understand. Ellis Island—a name she’d heard before—was now real: walls, lines, men in white coats, and questions none of them could answer.

Lena held Marie close. She looked at her mother, who didn’t say a word. Not even when a guard pointed and shouted. Mother just nodded, as if sleepwalking. Lena felt sweat running down her back. People were shouting, children crying, some laughing. It was a different world altogether.

Then came the train. It had red velvet seats, and to Lena, they were the most luxurious thing she had ever seen. But soon she noticed something else—lice. Crawling in the seams. Agnes started scratching. No one said a word—what could they say? They ate from a basket they had brought along—dark bread, cheese, cured meat. Lena tried to stay calm, but the seasickness had found a new companion: shame.

When they finally arrived, Father Ole was waiting. He had gotten help from a man from the church and looked both relieved and uneasy. He hugged the children, gently smoothed Marie’s hair, but Asgjerd stood frozen. She looked around—and Lena saw what she saw: a flimsy shanty, windows that wouldn’t close properly, a smoky stove, and mattresses made from old sacks.

This was the place they would call home.

Three months later, their mother had a nervous breakdown. She wept, spoke in riddles, didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. Lena watched her father wander from room to room, unable to find peace. And she saw her siblings—afraid, silent, waiting for something. Waiting for someone to take charge.

Lena didn’t know it until she said it. But one morning, as she came down the stairs and saw her brothers sitting with their caps in their laps, she said it outloud:

“I’ll take care of you. All of you.”

She didn’t know how. But she knew it had to be done. Something inside her—maybe the thing that had awakened on the ship—had taken root. She was no longer just a daughter. She was something more.

A Maid in a New Land‍

Lena had just turned seventeen when she started her first job. A white house with a porch, flower boxes, and a refined lady who looked at her with a mixed expression—curious, yet cautious. Lena had gotten the job because her sister, Josefina, had vouched for her. She didn’t speak much English, but she could work—and that was what mattered most.

Every morning, she rose before the sun. She carried in firewood, ironed linens, polished silver. She looked after the children, singing them to sleep in Norwegian. She was supposed to be just a nanny, but it didn’t take long before she was given charge of the kitchen too. Mrs. Gunderson had seen how gentle Lena was with the little ones, how tidy she kept everything, and how quietly she moved through the house—like a shadow with warm hands.

The language came slowly. A word here, a phrase there. She wrote them in the margins of a little notebook she kept hidden under her pillow. At night, she lay awake, going over the words in her mind.

Christmas came, and she was allowed to set the table the way they did back home at Snartemo. She baked lefse and rice porridge, put out little bowls with sugar, cinnamon, and butter. The American children tasted cautiously, then laughed as the sugar crunched in their mouths. It became something new—something Norwegian—and Lena felt a sharp mix of pride and longing. She could bring something with her from the old country. She could exist between two worlds.

One evening, she stood alone in the kitchen while the house slept. Her hands smelled of soap and flour, and she looked at them as if they belonged to someone else. She thought of her mother, the farm, her singing voice. And then—very quietly—she realized something: she had a gift. She wasn’t just a maid. She was a woman with skills, with strength.

She missed home. She always did. But she started to think less about the girl she had been, as she wondered about the person she was becoming. Here—in the unfamiliar—something had begun to grow. She didn’t have the words for it yet, but she felt it in every movement: She was becoming something new.

Alaska – Escape or Freedom?‍

It was Sigrid who said it outloud first:

“We’re going to Dawson.”

Lena sat with her hands in her lap, looking at her. Sigrid had heard there was work up north—good pay, meals included. It was cold, yes. Harsh. But there was money to be made, and a new life to be lived. Lena thought about the dream she once had—becoming a nurse—but that felt too far away now. Dawson, on the other hand, was just a boat ride away. And she needed money. She needed direction.

The journey was long and cold. She had never felt anything like it—the chill pushed through her scarf and coat, settling like a white rim around her eyelashes. But she endured it. She had endured worse before.

At first, she worked in a laundry. Heavy buckets, hot steam baths, and weary faces of women. Her hands turned rough, and she couldn’t feel her fingertips by the time she got home. Still, there was something in the rhythm that gave her comfort: water, soap, rinse. The days passed, and people kept saying she was fast, reliable. One of the women was heading to Seattle to get a divorce, and Lena was offered her job. She earned five dollars a day—more than she’d ever seen.

Eventually, she was hired at a bakery. Twelve-hour days, flour dust in her hair, heat from the ovens. It was no longer just a job—it was a life. She began to feel at home in the steady rhythm, the smell of cinnamon and coffee, the customers’ laughter. And even though she missed something—a closeness, maybe love—she no longer missed her old self. Because here, in this white land of cold and constant labor, something inside her was growing.

One evening, she looked at herself in the mirror above the sink in the apartment she shared with Sigrid. Her hair was pinned up, her face lean. Her eyes—her own—met her gaze with a quiet seriousness. She no longer looked like the girl from Snartemo. She saw a woman. A woman who had weathered storms, ocean crossings, housework—and now stood on her own two feet.

“I am strong,” she whispered. “I’ve made it.”

Then she placed her hand on the mirror and sighed. “But I miss home.”

Love and Uncertainty‍

It started with a mistake. Or maybe with a smile—it depends on how you choose to remember it.

Lena was working in a restaurant that summer. A new job, just for a short while, but with a view of the river and bright nights over Dawson. One evening, two men walked in. One wore a wide-brimmed hat, the other had an accordion slung over his shoulder. They sat in the corner, laughing softly as they looked toward the counter.

Lena thought it was Jens who would be her date that evening. He was a friend of Sigrid’s, and they had talked about taking a boat trip together—a kind of double date, the young ones said. But it wasn’t Jens who handed her caramels, and it wasn’t Jens who played the accordion as the boat cut through the water. It was Conrad.

He was from Sweden, but his mother was Norwegian. He had a calm about him—and a crooked smile that made Lena look down. She wasn’t sure what she felt. It wasn’t quite a dream, not quite safety either. Maybe a restlessness, like a warm wind before a thunderstorm.

They met several times after that. Conrad was easy to talk to, often played music, sang a little, made people laugh. Lena laughed too. She needed that. But at the same time, she sensed something else. That he carried something inside himself she couldn’t quite see. A shadow around the edges. A kind of restlessness.

Still, when he proposed, she said yes. She didn’t fully know why—maybe because she needed to belong. Maybe because everyone else had taken a mate, and she didn’t want to be left behind. Or because she saw something in him that reminded her of something she used to believe in.

They were married aboard a barge, in American waters. Lena wore a handmade dress with beading at the waist, and the captain had prepared a small meal for them when they returned to the ship at midnight.

“We’re in the same boat now,” Conrad said with a laugh.

Lena smiled. But deep inside, she knew—she was without a pair of oars.

The Price of Marriage‍

They settled in Tacoma, in a house no bigger than they needed—but it had a tree in the yard and windows facing south. Conrad got a job at an advertising agency, and Lena’s belly grew with new life. It may have started as a dream—a vision of building something together, a home.

But money ran through Conrad’s fingers like water. He was the kind of man who always found work, yes—but never a paycheck that lasted. He borrowed before he earned, spent before he got paid, and by the time the money arrived, it was already gone. Lena didn’t say much, at first. She carried, nursed, sang the baby to sleep as she watched the light fade behind the curtains.

Then she started taking people in. “Patients,” she called them. Elderly, sick, lonely. She washed them, cooked for them, brought them water. She signed up with a registry, and soon the doctors started calling. Before she knew it, she was running her own small care home out of the living room. It wasn’t much—but it was hers. And it kept the family afloat while others around them lost everything.

Conrad was rarely home. He picked up jobs in Seattle, stayed there during the week, came back with empty pockets and a distracted look. Lena never asked for money. She knew the answer. She just kept working, raising the children, keeping the house warm.

She couldn’t say exactly when love had turned into duty—or if it ever had been anything else. But she knew this: her children needed her. And through them, she found the strength she didn’t find in the marriage.

At night, when the house was quiet, she would sit with her hands in her lap. Sometimes she thought about Conrad—not with anger, but as if he were someplace far away, something she had once believed in. Now, she believed only in what she could do with her own two hands.

And those hands were strong. Strong enough to carry a family.

Survival and Strength‍

There was no dramatic goodbye, no slamming door. Conrad just stopped coming home—first for days, then weeks, then years. He left for Seattle to work, but no money ever came. After a while, the letters stopped, too. And Lena, she stopped asking.

She had three children, a living room with a rattling stove, and a world on the brink of collapse. It was 1929, and people around her were losing their jobs, their homes. But Lena kept going. She stayed on the patient registry, and the phone kept ringing. Doctors sent her patients—elderly men with no family, women who needed help in body and in spirit.

She made up beds in the parlor and back room, hung blankets as dividers, emptied chamber pots, cooked on a wood stove, and sang soft lullabies at night when someone cried in pain. She wasn’t get paid much, but what she earned, she saved. She didn’t buy new—she mended the old. The clothes her children wore she had sewn herself, and when they needed money for schoolbooks, she went out and picked berries to sell.

People called it a care home. But it was her home—and her work. A quiet kingdom of care, discipline, and warmth. And her children grew up there, surrounded by the sounds of breathing, coughing, and whispered gratitude.

Lena never went to church to ask for help. She simply worked. With her body, her hands, her whole self. And even when she was so tired she had to rest her head against the wall for a second before carrying on, she told herself: “I’m holding onto the house. I’m holding onto the children. I’m holding onto life.”

That’s how she stood—steadfast in a world that shook. And while others fell, she kept standing.

Epilogue‍

Her chair was over by the window, with soft light falling across the floor. Lena sat with a wool blanket over her knees, hands resting in her lap. Her body had given up—she knew that. She had broken her hip long ago, and now she got around only with help. But her thoughts—those still moved freely.

She could close her eyes and see the farm at Snartemo. Snow on the fields, the sound of cows lowing, the scent of hay and freshly baked lefse. She saw the boat—the storm crashing against the hull, the child she sang to sleep. She saw the red velvet train seat crawling with lice, and that first night in the shanty in Tacoma. She saw the patients, the weary faces, the work she built with her own hands.

And she saw Conrad. The smile, the accordion songs, the shadows in his eyes. She saw him as he was in the beginning—and as he became, gone. But she didn’t carry bitterness. Only a quiet certainty that she had made it.

Her children visited. They brought the scent of Norwegian food, the words she had taught them, memories of traditions she had kept alive. They laughed in the hallway, sang old hymns at Christmas. She heard them, and she smiled.

“I never looked back,” she once told her grandchild. “Only forward.”

And it was true. She didn’t carry regret—only life.
A full life.

_Biography:

_{Lena Silver Lyngdal, born Anna Olena Snartemo, was born June 3, 1889, on the Snartemo farm in Hægebostad, Vest-Agder, Norway. She grew up as one of fifteen children in a large, hardworking family with deep roots in the village and strong ties to both tradition and faith.}

_{In 1905, she emigrated to the United States with her parents and several siblings. The family settled in Tacoma, Washington, where Lena quickly took on responsibility—first as a maid and nanny, later as a laborer in Alaska, and eventually as a caregiver to patients in her own home.}

_{Through financial hardship, a difficult marriage, and lack of support from her husband, she built her own small “home hospital” and provided for her three children on her own.}

_{Source:
Carr, I. N. (Interviewer), Gee, M. S., Peterson, J., & Husby, B. (Trans.). (1983, March 11). Oral history interview with Lena Silver. Scandinavian Immigrant Experience Collection, Pacific Lutheran University Archives. https://archives.plu.edu/index.php/silver-lena}

_{Cover image: Nurse and blind patient.}