Summer of Independence?

Inspiration: I'm feelin' it. Independence: Sunniva is getting there, and so is Johannes; America earned it, 240 years ago. The sky above the Drammen hills is a pale pastel of yellow, faint orange and light blue, enveloped by snakish grey-black clouds at a quarter to one in the morning. Scandinavia's blue hour, that long summer twilight that turns your biorhythms into overdrive as you convert sunlight into energy and go, go, go on projects mundane as resurfacing old wooden decks, or as ambitious as continuing The Great Expat Memoir when you really should be sleeping because you have a toddler and a newborn.

My grandfather, Juan Santiago aka John James Kuhn would have been 98 today. It struck me tonight, after three episodes of Game of Thrones, an inspired jam on a new G6 chord and a brilliant Junot Diaz short story, that 'Papa' was the second-most important male role model I have ever had, after my father. Several uncles and cousins have exerted influence over the years, but I wonder how my life might be different if Papa hadn't passed away when I was 12, or if my father's father had lived long enough for me to get to know who he was. What if I weren't discovering bits of Papa's past through my mom's conscientious efforts to document her ancestors for our family tree? What if he had told me those stories himself, in Spanish, in French, in the Sierra Madres or the Alps?

We leave for Switzerland - birthplace of his family name, Kuhn - on Thursday. Our dear friend Julia, cancer survivor at 29, is to be married to a German farmer, the father of their three-month old daughter. I cannot imagine a greater miracle, a greater joy to their extended families than the birth of little Sofia.

What, or Whom, determines our life's share of sorrow and joy, tragedy and celebration? The world is more connected and less religious than ever before; people are generally richer and healthier, but we are perhaps no closer to a just, humane society than we were 100 years ago. The poverty-luxury gap widens by the day and Great Britain just opted out of a Europe it no longer cares to understand. Muslims around the world celebrate Eid this week to mark the end of Ramadan while ISIS murders scores of Muslims weekly and Western media portrays the conflict as Islam vs. The West. Migrants are still dying by the dozens in their death-trap boats, but that's old news.

In 1852 Frederick Douglass inveighed against America's Independence Day, famously asking "What, to the Slave, is the Fourth of July?" The question is still relevant today. Slavery still exists in too many forms, in too many societies, and yet, with a click or swipe, we can choose to engage, or disengage, in the questions and the struggles of the 21st century. Instagram and Snapchat allow us to filter our experience in whichever way we want, and so racists and bigots stoke the flames of their hatred in self-created echo chambers while activists create hashtags to save the world, or at least #bringbackourgirls. As with every tool mankind has ever invented - cue the monolith scene in Stanley Kubrick's 2001 - the internet and social media can either be used to further wisdom, understanding and tolerance, or spread destruction, debauchery and discrimination.

So here I am at 36, trying to understand where I fit into it all and wondering how to maintain my sense of self and pursuit of my personal projects, all of which have been forever eclipsed by the two new lives we chose to bring into this world. What questions will they ask of themselves, their friends, their family, the world? Rather than pretend to have answers, I'll do well enough to just continue the conversation. 

The Snapchat Summer Solstice

This post will be a bit of a jumble and a ramble, I'm sure, but I will try to be loyal to my thoughts and observations of the past few weeks.

Baby Joe is now three months old, and more in tune with himself and the world than we could possibly have imagined. He has a beautiful, innocent smile, and Sunniva made him laugh for the first time about ten days ago, they already genuinely enjoy each other's company. Sunniva will be finished with her second year of barnehage tomorrow, and she's grown so much this year - physically and emotionally - that we sometimes have to remind ourselves she's not 5 or 6.

The past few weeks have been particularly hectic for me, as my team of teachers and I had to ensure our students' safe passage through written and oral exams, as well as graduation. Two of my 10th grade girls moved me to tears with their presentations about the meaning and power of literature. At our graduation, I gave my final speech to students and parents in English, off the cuff and from the heart, and played Sunny Side on my EVF banjo as a final celebration and word of (indirect) advice.

Following a class for three years - something I may never do again - has been an extraordinary privilege, but it has also been more taxing than is healthy (not just for me). More than anything, I've learned that the battles we fight on a daily basis to teach (the same) students how to speak and behave properly, how to show each other respect, are always Sisiphyian battles because these lessons are not imparted strongly enough in the home. I'm not blaming all parents for students who act up once in a while, but our most difficult cases are the ones that are irreparably broken by the time they get to us. Accepting how little we can do (there is progress) while still allowing these students space in the classroom - when they make others' space so unsafe, seems grossly unfair, but the alternative is to send them off to kill lions like young Masai men...

Perhaps not so dramatically as Daenarys Stormborn emerging from the fire to become Mother of Dragons, I feel that these last months have tested close to my limit, but I have managed - with support from colleagues, family and friends - to pass the test and come out the other side, hopefully wiser and stronger, into my reward: more responsibility and leadership in my new position as administrator.

And therefore, a whole weekend of celebrating with colleagues was a necessary catharsis (made possible by Mormor being here to help Anette, Supermom) and then a simultaneous hike on Monday with PNut in Colorado kept the weekend going in grand fashion.

At his suggestion, he woke up around 5am and drove 20 min to North Table State Park, which has a modest peak with a commanding view of Denver and the surrounding Rockies. I bounded out the door of work at 1pm my time to get into the Konnerud woods and start our adventure. I sent lupines, magpies, pine forest and me doing push-ups (Fab4!) and he sent me yucca in bloom, Indian Paintbrush, mule deer and jackrabbits. We even managed to video chat via Snap, and to keep the humor going with pix of wet sandals and dead birds. The sky opened up as I signed off, and I ran down the mountain in my sandals, recalling summers as a young teen at Kingswood, flying, and the freedom of all-night seances in Boston and poetry-inspiring walks in the rain; rejoicing in the newfound strength of my body, which at 36 is well on the way to softness but which I am trying to maintain (for fatherhood and family life) by swimming these past two years.

And so the summer begins. The Saums and Kloses are on a new simultaneous journey, also on Snap, this time long road trips with bison, coyote, caterpillars, wildflowers, and plenty of silliness. Good to recapture not just the physical wellbeing of 20 years ago, but also the carefree spirit of fun and adventure - Lord knows school and the responsibilities of adult life can crease the brow a bit too often at times.

Baby Joe's Rag

born just after midnight

third month of the year

nine days waitin' overtime

Johannes is finally here

cheeks is like a cherry

cherry like a rose 

how we love our little baby boy

oh mommy and daddy know

Oh Johannes, lille gutten vår 

Hvor hen du vil gå

Oh Johannes, Little Baby Joe

The world is yours to know!

got me a big sister

name of Sunniva

she likes to sing and dance with me

and even change my diapa

four's our little family

we live up on a hill
in a pretty little town called Drammen

where the woods are filled with thrills 

Oh Johannes, lille gutten vår 

Hvor hen du vil gå

Oh Johannes, Little Baby Joe

The world is yours to know!

once I had a granddad

left for the USA

drivin' boats on the big Great Lakes

never came back to Norway

strong like ol' John Henry 

peaceful like Balder

darling boy just know you can

hitch your wagon to a star 

Oh Johannes, lille gutten vår 

Hvor hen du vil gå

Oh Johannes, Little Baby Joe

The world is yours to know!

 (Adapted from 'Liza Up In a 'Simmon Tree' by Elizabeth LaPrelle)

Lillebror!

Lillebror arrived just after midnight (12:27am) on March 19, weighing in at 4085g (9 lbs) and 54 cm (21.25 inches), nine days over his due date but right on time in terms of waiting for our family to be ready for his arrival. On the day he was supposed to be born, March 10, I experienced a traumatic episode at work - undoubtedly the worst in my eleven years of teaching - that set in motion a week of long, intense, highly stressful days and nights.

Thank God for Mormor, who came to our rescue on March 14 and stayed with us all week long, caring for Sunniva, making food and providing immense moral and practical support to us all. As Anette half-joked to me the night before Johannes was finally born, "I'm not sure you would have been able to be emotionally present had he been born on time."

But like the prodigal son of the Paul Simon song Jake and I are so fond of singing, Johannes Kyvik-Klose was born at the right time. I finally wrapped up all the complex threads of the incident on Thursday, March 17, a week after it happened, and took Friday off to recover and refocus. Sure enough, when I returned with Sunniva from barnehage pick-up at 15:30, Anette said that it was time to go the hospital.

Uncle Andre and Aunt Elise, who had been waiting for over a month for that middle-of-the-night phone call, were already on their way to Drammen to spend the night and take over for Mormor, who had to leave in the morning. So the three of them ended up having dinner (fredagstaco) with Sunniva while Anette was going into labor, slowly this time. The intimacy of that process will forever remain between the two of us, as it should; the only thing I need to record here is my profound awe and respect for the strong, self-aware woman she is.

And so, at 12:27 am, Lillebror (for we were still debating names - Sebastian, Robin, Johannes??) entered the world, quiet and calm enough to make us wonder whether he shouldn't be making more noise! And the less-than-ideal luck of the past week immediately turned, for we were given a family room, and I was able to spend the first night with them, knowing that Sunniva was sleeping soundly in her own bed with Mormor, Uncle and Tante there to break the news when she awoke.

At 9:00am that morning, the four of them arrived at the hospital to greet the newest member of the family. I brought Sunniva into our room so that she could meet her little brother alone before proudly wheeling him out to the others who were waiting in the TV lounge. A very special hour of shared time, presents and picture-taking followed, and then Mormor had to be on her way back to Haugesund to get ready for her work week and upcoming trial. Little did we realize how living far away from family would affect us at times like these, which is why her presence was all the more meaningful.

Andre, Elise, Sunniva and I then went back home, where they played with her in the backyard sunshine while I got to take a shower. Shortly thereafter, they headed off in their new station wagon(!) for Bjorli, and Sunniva and I returned to the hospital. Sunday and Monday followed this pattern as well, with lots of Daddy-Daughter time and visits to Mommy and Lillebror (still unnamed) at the hospital. On Tuesday at noon we were finally able to bring them home, and a new chapter of our family life began.

It took a day or so for us to get into the new routine with two kids, and we wonder how we ever spent every moment of those first days with Sunniva just fawning over her and checking to see if she was breathing! During this time I was following up with the Norwegian American Genealogical Center in Wisconsin, which I had called the night before the birth to ask if they could help me trace one of Wenke's ancestors - Johannes Høviskeland, her father's uncle.

On Wednesday, our first full day at home, I got the response I was hoping for: Johannes had emigrated from the Høviskeland homestead in Tysnes and traveled to America in 1924, where he stayed for the rest of his days, becoming a citizen in 1931, and captaining a Standard Oil tanker on the Great Lakes until 1964, after which he retired and moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he passed away at the ripe old age of 95 in 1999. The photograph that we received along with this story looked exactly like Oldefar, who actually thought it was a picture of his own father. So this was the deciding factor, and Lillebror officially became Johannes, aka Baby Joe.

Bestowing the name, with all its history, helped us to feel more connected to Lillebror and to give him more of an identity. It was a catharsis, channeling all the emotions of the week before his arrival, the birth, the hospital stay and the homecoming, and it allowed me to move forward and fully embrace my role as father of two (fathers always have to play catch-up - Anette is already nine months ahead in her relationship with her son).

These past two days have been absolute bliss, as the portrait of Johannes and Sunniva asleep on Anette clearly shows. We have been so in love with Sunniva for two years and ten months that we weren't sure it would be possible to love another person - a different personality - as fully, but it seems that this is the true gift of parenthood: indescribable joy, unconditional love and total satisfaction at being able to spend the little moments of life together with your own little tribe - playing, talking, baking, swimming, hiding, dancing, singing, discovering, laughing, inside-joking.

And I'll close with an inside joke that Sunniva had us in stitches with today at dinner. She has developed a habit of trying to stand on her chair while eating, to which we always say no, despite her irresistibly mischievous smile. Today I told her that all good dolphins had to eat their pasta after swimming, and that dolphins didn't stand on their chairs. And then she looked at us both and fired back, instantaneously - 'dolphins don't have feet!' And in that moment of side-splitting laughter, born of mutual understanding and shared humor, each of knows that there is no better feeling on earth.

Welcome to your tribe, Johannes.

Waiting for Mbili

I recently learned that Lyman Jones, the father of the family that lived next door to us growing up, passed away unexpectedly, at 70. When I sent my condolences to my childhood friend, Jack, we reminisced fondly about collecting baseball cards and thousands of hours playing baseball and basketball at the playground across the street, late into the long twilights of summer. This conversation brought back a mental image of the 'upper playground,' which had not appeared in my mind's eye for almost two decades. I was startled by the realization that this memory had vanished so completely and then suddenly reappeared, for the picture was so clear: the sweep of long-needled, wispy pines along the back fence, their brownish carpet, the jungle gym with its darker-brown bark, the eight basketball hoops for full-court or half-court play, the enormous soccer field where I made out with my first girlfriend on summer nights, both of us having escaped our houses unnoticed.

What is forgotten, and what is remembered, of childhood? What experiences form the bedrock of who we are, our subconscious, our values? I sit now and retweet pictures of my favorite hockey players as if they were baseball cards, and realize that this virtual proximity to the players and the sport is in fact a return to the joys of card-collecting as a kid. Is that why I'm so thrilled by following the Washington Capitals online, or is it because I long for a tangible connection with my childhood home?

Five months have passed since I have written here. The pace of 'small-kid-life,' as the Norwegians say, is relentless. Even though Norway is the most privileged society in the world when it comes to gender equality and working hours, allowing us maximum family time and (theoretically) minimum stress, the challenges of raising children are such that parents must confront our own upbringing, burn off the nostalgiac haze of our memories, and forge a path and a style of parenting that is right for us, our kids and our time.