There is, right in the heart of Texas, a small Norwegian community known as the Gap. Year ‘round population: 339. It is the birthplace of my life. No, not geographically where I was born, that was a few miles down the road, but rather where my family settled bringing their culture and customs, their love and loyalty to this new country. Where my great-grandparents settled in hills that reminded of Norway, where my grandparents continued to live in the family homestead on top of that hill overlooking the town until their deaths, and where my aunts, uncles and cousins continue to gather as often as time and age permit. And where Lutefisk is still being celebrated every year on the first Saturday in December. Remaining Lutheran was an important part of the Knudson heritage and I was a loyal Lutheran, raising my children as Lutheran, until my marriage in 1988. My husband felt it a tad too close to Catholicism so we met midway and settled in the Presbyterian Church…but I digress. The Old Rock church my elders founded, built in 1886, sits proudly on the hill outside of town. Polished floors, beautiful and historic stained glass windows, and an impressive Historic Registry placque by the entrance. The St. Olaf Congregation was organized in 1902 as part of the Norse Parish. St. Olaf and the Old Rock Church

My aunts and uncles always begin the family story something like this:
In 1803 Thomas Jefferson was leading America into the 19th century. In that same year in Norway, on September 18, Signe Swen, wife of Knud Saundersen, was giving birth to Salve, their only son. Norwegian custom dictated that a child’s surname be prefaced by the father’s first name and followed by either ‘datter’ for girls or ‘sen’ for boys. So Salve would be known as Knudsen. He grew and married and soon caught *America fever*. In 1843, after his father’s death, Salve sold the family farm in preparation for immigration to America. Unfortunately, Salve’s wife died about that time leaving him with four children to raise. Salve soon remarried (to Signe) and the group continued on to France to await departure. It was during this time that Salve’s 7-year old daughter died. The family persevered and after a six week voyage aboard the Flying Fish, having survived storms, fires, sandbars and even a brush with pirates, they landed on November 3, 1846, in New Orleans. It had been four months since they had left home. It was to be another two months of wandering and moving before settling in the small town of Brownsboro, initially named Normandy. Now in America, the family’s surname would no longer change with each generation but would forever be Knudson. (they changed the sen to son in the new country and in Norwegian it was spelled Canuteson) Within their first several years here, Signe died of Malaria fever and Salve married her sister or cousin (I can't remember which) as was the custom. The story of hardship, sheer determination, love of family and lots of Norwegian stubbornness rambles on and is told in striking detail by the elder members of my family, sometimes in Norwegian, depending on their mood.

The best description I can provide of my wonderful family is to ask you to imagine a mix of Golden Girls’ Rose Nyland (played by Betty White) and Fargo’s Marge Gunderson (played by Frances McDormand) and…well…pretty much all the decent characters in the movie Fargo.

Garrison Keillor often refers to Norwegians as independent folk, many of whom inhabit his beloved Lake Wobegon:
“Norwegians of course have always been independent people, going back to the time when they discovered America —Leif Erikson — long before Christopher Columbus and his publicity machine set sail from Genoa with no idea of where they were going and stumbled onto some islands in the Caribbean — long before that Leif Erikson sailed along the shore of Canada and New England in which he said that the New World was okay, not that bad, could have been worse, which discouraged emigration for eight-hundred years. How did the Norwegians come under Swedish control? Well, they had been under Danish control, and compared to that, Swedish control didn't seem so bad. The Danes were cruel and arrogant, because they were under the illusion that they were really French. They were unbearable when they were drunk, which was most of the time. The Swedes were a large and slow-moving people who liked to count things and organize their closets and organize committees and so they didn't have time to be oppressive. And so the Norwegians continued doing what they wanted to do, catching herring and playing the fiddle and dancing and herding goats and skiing until they woke up one day and said, Who are these foreigners with the lingonberries? Who invited them in?

So the Norwegians spoke to God, who of course understands Norwegian and speaks it beautifully, and God sent down plagues upon the Swedes — he sent frogs and flies and then he gave them Strindberg and when that wasn't enough he gave them Ingmar Bergman — black and white movies in which people sit and do not communicate and finally, the Swedes let the Norwegians free — and the Norwegians hired an unemployed Danish prince to come up and be King because no Norwegian would ever want to be in that position — this is a decent and modest people, a good people, and we salute them. Even as we thank the Swedes for oppressing them, which motivated so many Norwegians to come to America. They are in our midst, one of the very few ethnic groups in the country that enjoys jokes about itself. And so they are a treasure. Three cheers for Norway!"

Sadly, my remaining aunts, uncles and cousins, have gathered at more funerals than weddings in the last few years. Those children of my grandparents, my remaining aunts and uncles, are dying now. We’ll be driving to the Gap this Saturday for the funeral of one of my oldest aunts who was also my Godmother. I will melt in the hugs of all my family and remember where my roots are…..where I came from….there in the Hill Country in the little settlement known as the Gap.