One of the very few survivors who can quote Henrik Wergeland's first verse in the "Sognefjord" with his
hand on his heart:
It has been the guest of death,
it has sailed on a thunderstorm,
it is baptized in horror,
which has plowed the Sognefjord
Fortun from, to Sygnefest, is Jørgen Larsen, Sørhaug, who on 25 February 1972 was 80 years.
Jørgen on Sørhaug rounds 80 years: I was trampled blue-green The main reason for this interview is very simple. Jørgen and Svein are best friends. We are at the wavelength of the soul. Understand each other without lots of words.
On page 17 in Allers from January 11th, there was a picture I was feeling sorry for. A brass barrel. The text says: Great gift from the old days. Of Scandinavian origin ...... etc. But this magnificent needlework is not of "Scandinavian origin". It is simply from Jupaskar. Hammered out on the steed (light anvil) to Jørgen.He has made a few thousand. And a few thousand candlesticks. And a few thousand lights. And a few thousand other things, which are spread across the country. Yes, the whole world, by the way. (Kirsten Flagstad never covered the table without shining candles with big lights in. Jørgens.)
You have never seen a tighter and nicer eighty-year-old. Neither do I, by the way, and I have seen many more than you. But now Jørgen says: I was born on a barn limb at Kyrkjebø in Sogn, but I tore my children's shoes in Vik, a village further in. Shoes are a bit misleading. I ran barefoot two thirds of the year. My parents were both Romani-Tatar, of which the word tater. Oddly enough, there was a very small tater colony in Vik in the old days.
Happy, tiring years, a beautiful built in a beautiful fjord. The parish cultural center, with Hopperstad stave church on the surface below, and Hove Main church a little further up. We had a sorcerer, a Tingstad, a prostitute, and lots of other "nice" people, including thousands of tourists, all of which made their mark on the village and the population.
Just across the fjord lies Balholm, Emperor William's holiday paradise, with the English Church,
the statue of King Bale who jealously jokes against his rival at Vangsnes, Fridtjof "the Miss", both
of which are gifts from the Emperor, but most beautiful of all is the Kvikne Turisthotel. Anyone who has seen it at night in full light has a peek into Heaven. Gloria Soria Moria. And ocean steamers at twenty-thirty thousand tonnes in full party garb, with the world's various tourists aboard.
For a time! What a wonderful era! Unfortunately, it never comes back. Fortunately, I was allowed to experience it while it was long ago, my ancestors were mercenaries. Karl the 12th had four regiments in the last battle. After the loss, they were scattered for all the winds. But born on a hike and educated in the "saber profession", they continued life in their own cultural pattern. From arms forging, they branched out into other similar occupations.
From the end of October to the beginning of April we stayed in Vik. Then we hammered knives, thighs, buckets, milkshakes, coffee pots, jars and a hundred other things a gross. As soon as spring appeared, all the items were loaded into the big boat and then it carried inwards towards Lærdal and Luster. We rowed and sailed. South side in and north side out. I know every branch in the whole fjord.
The big boat roamed the world. Dad was a master of sales. Besides, he was among the fjords something He cited the Bible well as a priest, and he did not turn away to give the sheriff's advice. Only if necessary, of course. Which was not rare. At that time, the sheriff, priest, and teacher was "pot and pan" in every village across the country, and don't doubt that they used their power Because my father's name was Børe, a page name for Birger, which in turn means "the one who helps", we were called Børe's guide.
We were not always welcome. Often, both cabin and threat fell. But He who controls everything
helped us. We were made big. And strong to a thousand. Once, it was in Sundfjord, I remember
the whole alley coming towards us with a cane and a pole. About. forty-fifty pieces Now the tatters should get! Mother looked after the boat. Dad stood in shore and commanded Oliver (my brother) and I were on the beach ready for defense. The accompanying brigade should be operated at sea and exterminated. This was by people who called themselves Christians.
Let's divide them into two, said Oliver, and there will only be twenty in each. Yes, I replied, folding up the sleeves on the bus roll. Whoever clean throws the first stone, said the father of the shoreline, knowing that we had struck the whole hamlet flat had the stone been thrown. Which it was not. Luckily!
But they had only had a few good pressures, the farmers in Sundfjord, which were so low. My grandmother was called Børe -Marthe. Her brother's name is Per Glitre. He was named "Deie- Per" after his mother who was a pooch. In his time he was "Hallingdal's strongest man". For. At the turn of the century he went to America. Twelve sons, all over 6 feet tall, followed him. A bit of a sight. Erik Bye was on the screen with descendants of the 13th a couple of years ago. Also a giant. He was too young and weak to travel. The memories flow on.
Dad, who had been wandering all over Scandinavia before I was born, was good to tell from his flabby existence. In the cross-strait, Ytre Sogn, where old John was trading, stands a cross bauta. John had royal trade in spirits. Once he said that those who managed the rich cross should get a liter for free. Olav Storevik, a relative of mine on the mother's side, pulled the cross up with the root, carried it to the store, and siphoned the liter. But there was the cross. What now? Then he said another liter, to the one who can put it back in place. Which Olav Storevik did. And there it stands today. Over 400 kilos heavy.
In the old days there were lots of travelers. Often, several families joined forces and made great followings. One of the largest in the West, Elias. There were almost a hundred "members". Of which a good deal of ramp and latencies that didn't bother working. Dad was picky with our game, and never allowed anything but pure tatters to strike. He was highly "class conscious" in that regard. Luckily. Børe's guide was Sogn and Fjordane's wandering millennial craftsmen. We were respected, and admired in part, for good conduct and professional excellence. We were mainly blacksmiths. Knife, scythe, claw, lock, bracket, and wheelwright.Cans and copper butchers, horse cutters, saddle makers, —smakers, rose painters, golden leather artists, woodcutters, watchmakers, butchers and field builders. In a really big tater, the professions of the world were represented.
Life was effervescent freely and though summer day. A soul and a shirt. Once we were in Lærdal, Per Griffenfeldt followed. They were horse people, and still half-wild. Partly Swedish-Romani, with a layer of Finn and Polak. However, the insults became so severe that Svarte Fredrik, who was a stallion cutter, said shut up, now it is enough. They pulled him off the mare, tied him to a tree, and - castrated him. Back in the village, a veterinarian was called. After the investigation, he said the job was perfectly done, and considering the builder's language and behavior, it was nothing more than deserving. You're welcome. Such were the times. No dear mother.
Father had a patriarch's beard and resembled an Old Testament prophet. His words were law. Had Børe given the order, no one dared. Despite microscopic schooling, he could both read and write. Besides, he was really wise. Had healthy insights into many things that nobody cares about today.
Almanac and postill were regular reference books that were studied and thought through all winter. Astrology was no stranger to him either. But most people had better general knowledge about it all in the past. They had to think for themselves to survive. The Sognefjord was spring and autumn work. During the summer we took the coast from Stavanger to Ålesund. How many thousands of thighs, pianos, knives of all kinds, lamps, lamps, buckets and screens we sold over the years is difficult to say. But several are they!
Life itself was far different too. Every day was a New Gift. New effort. New expectations. Life had Color, with a big C.
Today, everything should be gray and flat. If you have really good old-fashioned color, you will
be seen as a delight. And the expectations are completely blurred. People soon do not know what
the word means. No, the old days were far more INTERESTING!
In my youth I met Nanna. She was really called Anne Christine Samuelsdatter Bykle, and was of the Jeremiah family in Sætesdal. Her mother was the illegitimate daughter of the Bykle priest, and not of Romani at all. She served in the parsonage, but was kicked out when she was a child. Then she married into Jeremiah's congregation, which was a large part Romani, and gave way to violence.
Along the whole of Sætesdal are permanent descendants of old Jeremiah. They are farm users, silversmiths, wood carvers, rimsmiths and many others. John Ljosdal (her mother's stew) was Nanna's woodcutter, also called the "Romani writer".One of his poems is about an old, sick wanderer, who is being cared for by a farmer's family. But as soon as health returns, he swings his hat and says goodbye. Such: I thank you many times here, but I have no peace. Can't you understand me, I'm from Tater Blood.
Tater blood was hotter than the usual thirty-seven Celsius. Bring it to a boil, smoke it up in a couple of three hundred, greatly exaggerated. And a proper tattoo fight was a bit of a sight! When two dozen wild bass collapsed, a full war ensued. Blades flickered and blood flowed. It happened that the losers were left on the ground .... Fortunately, deaths were among the rarities. They licked the sore, and let time heal them ....
Nanna and I hurried along. We teamed up with equine companions of Eastern and Swedish
Romani. Sleep in carts and tents. Worked, sold and LIVED. The hell out of a free and carefree life. Only one day at a time. Tomorrow was NY. No one knew what to bring. Exciting Expectation! And forty, alive, muscular, sweaty horses standing on their hind legs, splintered teeth, and writhing with their man straight out. Yes, I often yearn back! No exhaust poisoning. No unnatural sleep, no nerve discomfort, Everything was so pre-basket NATURAL. And NO REQUIREMENTS.
We were our own blacksmiths of happiness. Please, life is yours, make the most of it. No LO or NAF to run ten! Every time a fabric case made curl. Make up your fists right away and be done. That life can pulse. The natural law. Survival of the fittest. (Which is the Constitution, anyway). That's how we lived. That's how we died. Some confused us with gypsies as the only thing in common is walking. Our background is vastly different. The Gypsies are of Western Arab blood, like the Egyptians, with entertainment and clowns at the top of the stairs. We are of Balkan Asian origin. Tatars. Mercenaries, horsemen, craftsmen, traders. Sometime before the war, wise heads came together and made promises. Traveling became more difficult. You should suddenly have papers that you had the society's permission to sellwhat you yourself made. Things that used to be a natural thing now became illegal. All our old, long-standing traditions were overturned. So was LIFE itself,
From being a free-spirited people, with no more problems than the ones we ourselves made, we became permanent industrial workers, with the buzz of duties the politicians made.
Per Griffenfeldt was a bit of a giant, but pulled the horns when Oliver, my brother, offered to knock him. Our way of "hitting the table". The Griffenfields, who were also of Tartar origin, spoke Romani, but not quite our dialect. They pulled all of Scandinavia around with horses. Horses and again horses. They had many dozen, of all races. This was long before the time of the tractors, and every farmer with respect for himself had one or two gamp on the stable. Landlords like Rumor, Knagenhjelm, Heiberg and Hagelin had up to twenty. The Griffen fields sold, bought and exchanged. Besides, they cut the stallions. Truly a colorful guide. But when they wanted to join us along the fjord, Dad said no. He didn't dare. They were simply too wild.
Silk-followers were also Swedish Romanians, but more civilized. We had teams for several years, But when old Alexander Silk died a little over a hundred years ago, the leaflet was scattered and eventually dissolved. Since sterilization has suddenly become fashionable, I would like to mention an episode in Jølster, between Vadheim and Førde.Two distant relatives on my mother's side, Svarte Frederik and Elias Palm, were asked to disappear. The builder, who was new, and south to the guy, should show his authority! To further emphasize authority, he followed them for a while. A For the better or worse, should be unspoken, but I think it's a shame to forcefully regulate Nature.
The small tribe of Romani Tatars in Norway is now completely regulated. With the resident life we lost our identity. It is always dangerous to lose something you do not regain. The grades you can lose. It doesn't do you any harm. But if you lose the CHARACTER, you're a bad guy. It is the one our politicians lured from us.
Fit blending white and black git gray. Like life's journey today. Before we had pure colors. From blackest black to sparkling white with all shades in between. Scale full. And as a fairytale cloud over it all, Expectation lay. Has society gotten better with the Tatians wiped out? Read the newspapers and kill yourself. I was knocked flat, trampled teal, beaten square, and knocked flat again, once I stole a penny from my father's money point. Never again! Today, the dynamite bursts safe, a few thousand kroner disappears, and the thief gets "kisses, pats and sweets" from the authorities not to repeat the "game races".
It is when you see such crimes, and later hear the judgments, that you ask yourself: What kind of next generation will be? I don't know, but I'm longing for it. Often.
