generations
The house your Dad built
We're building out at Hollingen
She said and
I was impressed
Not yet used to the semantic broadening
Oh, I thought your husband was in sales
Did he grow up on a farm?
I was transferring my culture
From the Manitoba prairies to our new context
Here in the west coast of Norway
All the farm kids back home were handy.
No … um… we’re not building it ourselves?!
Oh, I said, the truth slowly dawning.
No, no, we're paying a company. No, we’re not actually
Building it ourselves, of course.
She laughed. I didn't.
Guess I was still fighting with my own insecurities
City kid from a farm town,
Living as we were
In the house your Dad built.
Norway is the most beautiful country
In the world
Your Dad stopped his digging
Wiping the sweat from his brow.
I was thinking …
Well … the world’ s a pretty big place but
I managed to hold my tongue for once.
And Molde is Norway’s most beautiful town, he continued.
He stopped and looked over the fjord
And the beautiful panoramic view
I was fighting the foreigner’s impulse
To provincialize the parochial pater
And this … he stamped his spade
into the moist earth …
Is Molde’s most beautiful yard.
It was a grand slam a
Hat trick, the full Monty and I
Held my tongue, for once,
A stranger and pilgrim in this paradise.
They called her Dagmar, 2011 –
I’d never encountered such a storm
That night the whole house shook
And the roof and windows rattled.
I lay awake and felt the power of nature
Measure itself against your Father’s craft.
I was nearly certain then, that this time
She would prevail.
All night the west wind raged
Til I drifted off at last into a restless sleep.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of the lark and the robin
And the sun shining on the clear blue fjord
Thankful for this life here with you
In the house that your Dad built.
