There Were Whispers: Johan and Lisabet’S Story

By Susan Eng Price

It's hard to imagine what life must have been like for people in Norway in the 1800s that would motivate them to cross the Atlantic Ocean to begin a new life in America. There Were Whispers is a story loosely based on the author's great grandparent's life as transient farmers in central Norway. It tells of the struggles and hardships that led up to Johan and Lisabet seeking such a dramatic change in their circumstances. Much of the culture and many of the traditions of that time are incorporated in their story. Chapter after chapter, you'll find yourself experiencing the hardships and joys that the Engen family encountered on their epic journey to a new life and future for themselves and their children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546223481

Susan Eng Price

Susan Eng Price first realized an interest in her ancestors as a teenager when she discovered an old slide of her great grandfather, John Eng, standing in front of the barn and tobacco shed in Southwest Wisconsin. Intrigued by the memories her father shared with her of John, she painted a picture of him to give to her own grandfather that Christmas. Upon opening the painting of his father, her grandfather was moved to tears, and Susan felt a true appreciation of her artistic talents. Since then she has spent a lifetime drawing and painting, and loving every minute of it. Susans art soon expanded to include writing, and her talents again have been recognized by those around her. Over the years, many unanswered questions about her familys immigration and personal history eventually inspired her to research and write about her family genealogy. Susan writes in a way that makes you feel like you are right there with the characters in her story - feeling every emotion; their accomplishments, pain, and joy.

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© 2018 Susan Eng Price. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/30/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2349-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2348-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900097

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 Norway, 1875

Chapter 2 Returning Home

Chapter 3 Johan’s Family

Chapter 4 Wisconsin, 1879

Chapter 5 Father’s Blessing

Chapter 6 Wedding Ceremony

Chapter 7 The Waiting

Chapter 8 Journey to the Port at Kristiana

Chapter 9 Transatlantic

Chapter 10 Castle Garden

Chapter 11 The Erie Canal

Chapter 12 Navigating the Great Lakes

Chapter 13 Arriving by Train

Chapter 14 Olina

Chapter 15 The Farewell

Chapter 16 Moving On

Chapter 17 Reunion

Chapter 18 A New Beginning

Chapter 19 The County Fair

References

Definitions

With love to Matt, Laura, and Amanda,

my grandchildren,

and my great grandchildren.

May you always know who you are and be the

author of your own story.

Introduction

W hen I was young, my parents didn’t speak much about our family history, so I never gave much thought to my heritage. Dad, in particular, was always pretty busy doing any number of projects. When he wasn’t at work, he was piddling around the house doing everything from carpentry, mechanical, yard work, and repairs, to laundry and cooking. He was one of those people who could do anything he set his mind to. He’d rebuild an engine one weekend, and work on remodeling the house the next; a jack of all trades and master of none, is what he’d always say about himself. My brothers and I were dad’s helpers, and we learned a lot from him. He always took the time to show us what he was doing and taught us how to work with tools to accomplish whatever it was that we wanted to do; and he had a lot of tools. In later years, though, he kept even busier caring for my mother, who had multiple sclerosis and cancer, both of which were progressively impacting her life, as well as his.

As time passed, Mom was in and out of the hospital quite often for treatments. One Sunday afternoon as Dad and I were on our way home from visiting her at the hospital in Madison, an interesting conversation ensued. Shortly after crossing the bridge at Lone Rock and heading west toward Avoca, he said, When my grandfather first came to America he came across the Wisconsin River on that railroad bridge right over there. He pointed up ahead to a long, rustic looking bridge that was partially concealed by trees that had long been growing on what was once a sandbar, but had eventually grown into more of a small island in the middle of the river.

I hadn’t taken note of the railroad bridge before that, and as we talked, I realized that Dad was totally in awe of what it must have been like for his ancestors in those pioneering days. His grandfather was just a young man back then, in his early twenties; a Norwegian immigrant, all alone, and on his way to Wisconsin to work as a farm hand. What an awesome and yet frightening adventure that must have been.

I asked when it was that his grandfather came over from Norway. Dad said it was sometime in the 1880’s, but wasn’t sure of the exact year. I asked if his grandfather came alone, and Dad said, Yes, but his family came over a couple of years later, I think.

I asked more questions. Dad answered the best he could, but nobody had talked about how things came about when he was young so there really wasn’t very much that he could tell me.

I guess curiosity got the best of me because after that I decided I was going to start looking up family records and do the whole genealogy thing. I had already done a little genealogical research with my oldest daughter, Laura, when she was younger. She had been doing an assignment for school, and I helped her with some of the research, so I remembered a few basics on where to begin. I started in the Brewer Library’s History Room and soon realized that all that the genealogy records gave me was the structure of my family, but they didn’t tell the story of the people in my family. It didn’t tell how we got to Wisconsin, why we came here, or what it was like living in Norway that would make my great grandfather leave his homeland. Whenever people talked about immigrants coming to America they’d say, They suffered through so many hardships getting here. I always wondered what that actually meant; what were the hardships? That’s what I wanted to know.

It occurred to me that for the story of my family’s history, Dad was still probably my best starting point. He was the eldest child in his family, and he was in his seventies at this point. I needed to start those conversations with him, as well as with his siblings and cousins.

Dad and I talked a lot about his grandparents, great-grandparents, and other relatives quite often from then on. I started taking notes on the back of an envelope and other scraps of paper, but soon transferred them to a notebook to keep everything together. I planned to type up everything I learned at some point, thinking I could then pass on a record of our family history to my children.

Then one afternoon in the middle of a conversation about the farm where our family first settled in Wisconsin, Dad leaned over and, in a low voice, he said, You know, there were always whispers about who Aunt Minnie’s father was.

What was he saying? Why would anyone question that? It took a while to wrap my brain around the idea of a family history that was anything less than the perfect family image I had of my ancestors up to that point. This was an unexpected development, but even after that startling bit of information, Dad still wasn’t very forthcoming. It was a challenge to learn any more from him. None the less, he managed to gradually recall little pieces of information here and there. I would write them down and then I’d ask another question.

A week later, Dad and I drove up to the old church cemetery at Five Points. Five Points Lutheran Church is where Dad, his parents, his grandparents, and his great grandfather all went to church. I’d been there many times to attend services, followed by a visit to my grandparent’s graves. But this time was a little different.

Dad took me to a gravestone located further up the hill toward the center of the cemetery. It was a large stone, engraved with four names. As he read each name, he explained who they were; John Eng, your great-grandfather; Lisabet Eng, your great-grandmother; Andrew Eng, John’s father and your great-great grandfather; and Minnie Eng, your great Aunt Minnie. Then, pointing to the dates below each of them, Dad said, John was Minnie’s father, but he was only fourteen years old when she was born, and Lisabet, her mother, was twenty-five. There was an age difference of eleven years between John and Lisabet, and the age difference between Lisabet and Andrew, John’s father, was also eleven years. People always wondered about that.

Wondered what? I asked.

Well, John came over from Norway first, and he came alone. When Andrew came over, he came with Lisabet, John’s wife. Andrew’s wife never did come over. Dad slowly shook his head as he continued, I was the oldest kid in my family, and I heard people saying things, but I never understood it back then. They were whispering, so of course, I wanted to hear. He chuckled a little.

What did they say?

They wondered if Minnie was really Andrew’s daughter, rather than John’s.

Dad never had much more to say on that subject, mainly because he didn’t know any more… only that he’d heard the whispers. But now I needed to know. I decided I needed to keep digging into our family history after that. Fortunately, one of my cousins, Kay Anderson, had already completed a considerable amount of research on our family, so talking to her helped a lot. Her genealogy records showed me names and dates, but still didn’t answer all the questions I had.

Another relative, Paul Anderson, had researched and recorded the birthplace, burial location, emigration date, and many other details he had been able to uncover for many of our ancestors, going all the way back several generations in Norway.

Crystal Sutton Foley, a cousin twice removed, who was the historian at our local library, was especially helpful at that point. She showed me how to look up more information recorded in the history room at the library through news articles, obituaries, microfilm, and state records. She also showed me how to access immigration records and census data.

Dad, Kay, Paul, and Crystal each contributed to the inspiration I needed to continue digging further. Kay and her mom, my Aunt Buena, had visited relatives in Norway a few years earlier. They told me stories about meeting distant relatives and what each of them remembered about family members who emigrated back in the 1880’s. When I mentioned to Kay that Dad thought Minnie might be Andrew’s daughter, the story began to unfold a little more, although it was nothing like Dad had imagined. First and foremost, Kay revealed that Andrew definitely wasn’t Minnie’s father. Aunt Buena confirmed what she said, as did the record of Minnie’s birth in Norway.

I’ll never know all the details, the conversations, nor the mind-set of my ancestors. However, I do know that the perfect ancestry I had pictured didn’t exist, and probably doesn’t exist in anyone’s family. I have a better understanding now that everyone, even my grandparents and great-grandparents, had challenges. I believe that they did their best to be good people, but they lived in different times, under different circumstances, in different cultures, and with different values.

I learned the structure of my family through genealogy, and somehow I found myself transported into the lives of my ancestors as I researched and recorded all the information collected along the way. The following accounts are based on a foundation of facts, actual dates and places, interjecting some speculation and imagination to create the story of my ancestors.

My story of John and Lisabet began in Norway in 1875. This is how I imagined their lives to be, but as you read, keep in mind that this is my narrative.

1

Norway, 1875

N ights in the hills of central Norway were lonely, and sometimes scary for the milking girls who spent the hot summer months watching over the herd. Moving cattle on the trek up the mountain path on that early spring day had been difficult at times. Keeping cattle moving forward took a lot of effort, especially when crossing open areas where new grass was so tempting for the animals to stop and graze.

Young calves tired quickly on the long climb. When a calf slowed down and started to fall behind, one of the girls would walk behind it, coaxing it to keep up with the rest of the herd. The mother cow always stayed close by to keep an eye on her calf.

In spite of a few difficulties along the way, the hike up the mountain was still less of a chore than their normal work days. The girls sang and laughed, getting to know each other as they made their way through the paths, across the fields, and over the rocky hillsides. They all looked forward to an enjoyable summertime high in the cool mountains once they reached the summer pastures.

Before starting out, there had been talk in the village of wild dogs roaming the foothills. Now, even after a long, tiring day, someone would need to stay awake to keep campfires lit throughout the night. In spite of how tired she was, Lisabet agreed to keep watch through that first night. Guri, a friend of Lisabet’s from the village, would help her.

The summer cabin had been vacant over the winter months, so the first chore undertaken by the girls would be a good cleaning. As the animals grazed in the lush new pastures, the girls worked together to ready their sleeping quarters. They brought in a bucket of fresh spring water for drinking, gathered some wood, and straightened the cooking area. Outside of the cabin, they cleared fallen branches and debris left over from the previous year.

All was quiet and restful as night fell over the mountain pastures high above the village of Norde Torpa. The soft glow of a full moon brought light into the valley, illuminating each bush and crevice, and shining across to the adjoining hillside. Lisabet took comfort that first night in knowing that Guri was looking over another part of the herd on the opposite hill.

Lisabet had never worked as a milking girl before. She’d been a servant in the landowner’s house for many years, but in recent months she had become wary of unwanted attention from the landowner’s son, Annar. He was a surly, bad smelling sort, known for his terrible temper and angry ways. Lisabet wanted nothing to do with him. Her decision to take a summer position as a milking girl was how she would put distance between herself and Annar.

The full moon often drew the dogs out, so Lisabet would need to be especially vigilant. However, as the night wore on she grew wearier, despite her desire to remain alert. It wasn’t long until she climbed atop a large rock to reposition herself and to have a better view of the valley. Her eyes became dry, and she rubbed them softly, pinching the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, and massaging gently to moisten them so she would stay awake and alert.

As she surveyed her surroundings, she noticed the landscape eerily changing as shadows on the ground shifted with the moon’s slow journey across the sky. Struggling to keep awake, it was little movements and sounds that caught her attention; a young calf stirring, a moth fluttering, a branch rubbing against another in the breeze, or a cricket chirping. A calf nuzzled close to its mother and Lisabet watched as they nestled together. All those familiar sounds of pastures and woodlands created a melody of the night that played in