Culture Through a Story

Through my son's daycare facility and through my daughter's elementary school, we've been buying loads of books from Scholastic. One of the many joys of having children is that you get to relive your childhood through their literature: The Lorax, Sammy the Seal, Puff the Magic Dragon, Green Eggs and Ham, Goldilicks and the Three Bears, and many, many others.

Lately the featured book for Quinn has been The Three Billy Goats Gruff, easily one of my favorite bedtime stories. I equate my Dad with the telling of The Three Pigs, another of my favorites, since he told the traditional story where the pigs scare the Big Bad Wolf with the butter churn. I had no idea what a butter churn was back then, but once explained, I found the situation hilarious. Stupid wolf.

But the story I equate with my Mom is those three goats and that bastardly troll, a jerk and a bully. My grandmother was a full-blooded Norwegian. She came over on a boat alone, knowing no English, with a tag around her wrist telling people where to send her: some town in Minnesota - perhaps a story for another post. So my Mom is quite familiar with trolls because of the stories she was told as a child. In fact, she told me that when she was a kid, her mother would occasionally scare her my telling her that if she didn't do this or that, trolls might visit the house. And no one wants that if you've read The Three Billy Goats Gruff. A troll would eat you. Not a good situation at all.

I've always enjoyed the story arc of the Three Billy Goats Gruff since it appeals to my hatred for bullies and loudmouths. And there's deception. The brothers knew the biggest goat would take care of the troll. While I don't like hoaxes in academia or government or politics, I like a good hoax in fiction.

But the whole story makes me sad a bit too since I never had a chance to meet that grandma (or most of my grandparents for that matter) since I was the last-born, born so out of place in the line of siblings that it was obvious that I was an unplanned pregnancy. As my Dad told me once over a beer after playing eighteen holes of golf, "The damn rubber broke." It's not as harsh at it sounds. We had a good laugh about it, and then he added something along the lines of "but you've been a blessing" or something like that.

So here I am, an example of the absurdity of existence, an effect of faulty birth control.

Regardless, since I'm a mutt and I never really had much of a connection to my other bloodlines (Danish, German, English, and French) other than how my Mom has a fierce loyalty to Norway, I am jealous of folks who have a deep connection to countries where their ancestors came from. I've always been fascinated by Norway because of my grandmother's connection to the country (she grew up there as a child), but I've often felt like a poseur if I talk a lot about it.

These thoughts have come up recently because I'm reading an excellent memoir that discusses living with a divided consciousness. White Field, Black Sheep is a book that, in part, delves into how being a hyphenated American can be a burden and a pleasure. The book takes me inside a mindset and circumstances I'm not familiar with, and learning about the author's background, that part of Chicago, and her experiences has been interesting and insightful. Click HERE if want to check out the book.

But back to goats. They're the real stars of Quinn's life right now, anyway. This Norwegian folk tale engages him, and I'm happy for that because, besides a few stories, that's about all I have to cling to about my Norwegian heritage besides some really tasty Christmas cookies: cringla and fudamumbuckles.