The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 11, we were given:
Trembling
Bobbing
Rescue
Green
Redhead
Potato
In Lars' office he first told me that we had to decide on a story for me to tell about why I was staying here. A mystery journey in a chest was not done, and I was happy to oblige.
Lars suggested that I was to pose as a distant cousin of Anna's, as she had family in Elsinoer. I had allegedlly fallen off the hayloft when visiting and now was staying to get well again and learn about farming first hand. I readily agreed. It was not too far off the mark, and would explain any oddities with big town mannerisms.
I found my work cut out for me. I was, or at least had been, good at maths. But the monetary system was not the logical units I was used to where 1 Krone equalled 100 øre. In 1802 we had 1 Daler equalling 6 Mark, and 1 Mark equalling 16 Skilling. I had always found hexadecimal and company fun and challenging, and some of us boys had competed in doing maths in our heads testing one another with pocket calculators and 'phones - what would I not give for one of those solar powered calculators now. I had not been the slowest, so quite soon I was skilled in these conversions. The lettering was worse. I could by now read books and even the newspaper printed in Fraktur with no more errors than what the convoluted language of printed matter led me into, but the handwriting often confounded me. And when I tried writing in Latin script, Lars scolded me for 'playing the vicar'. In the end I made up the ledger using my own lettering on old scraps of paper and on a slate, once I got hold of one. Then when I was sure I was right, I carefully and slowly copied the text of Lars' former entries adding my new sums.
I was fast and efficient and Lars suggested that he should offer my help to the other farmers in the vicinity.
"Gladly," I replied, "but I'll have to learn to read and write normal handwriting better first, My parents were quite progressive in only teaching us Latin cursive."
"You must have lived far off to avoid school?" Lars mused.
"I think we did" I replied, "I just had a glimpses of my mother teaching me, using just such a slate." What I did not tell was that yes, she had indeed done so, but as a part of some re-enactment scedule of hers. I now wished I had paid better attention to her lovely, flowing German cursive back then.
"Tomorrow is Sunday, We go to church," Lars stated. "But Monday's school, and you will go there with Christen and Johanne. You do need to learn."
I sure needed to learn. But church, I had forgotten that I was supposed to attend church tomorrow. Everybody from this village, and from the five or six other, bigger villages belonging to the parish would be present. And every single person would want to know about me, would look at me, scrutinize me, assess me, and ask me questions. Furthermore I was not used to going to church, I feared to bungle up something and make everybody stare even more. Could I claim exemption by telling that I belonged to another religion? Jew? No they were always persecuted and accused of any misfortune. Muslim maybe. No that was only something far away I had understood from the newspapers which I was avidly reading. Catholic? Maybe, but I did not know much about their faith either.And thinking again. Freedom of religion had not even been a thing in 1802, had it? I rememberer something about a new constitution to be made years in the future, 1840-ish maybe, and wished, not for the first, nor for the last time, that I had been more attentive during my history lessons. Better to just tag along and do as the others did.
Church went better than what I feared. Lars' timing was perfect. After a relatively short, but cold sleigh ride we arrived at church. We were almost the last to arrive, and we had time for nothing more than entering the church, grab a hymnal and sit down in our pew. We sat in the upper half of the church, so I was unable to see most of the staring people. Turning around was not done! After a little time my nervous trembling stopped, and I began taking notice of my surroundings again.
I was still very conscious of people looking at me. I tried not to squirm, scratch or pick at anything, but sit straight with my hands folded in my lap, like Lars to my right and Hans and Christer to my left. Anna sat with Johanne and Elizabeth on the other side of the aisle, I could not help looking at Elizabeth, she was a pleasure to look at with her hair newly washed and all shiny and her new, green Sunday dress. She noticed my looking, and I averted my eyes, feeling red and hot.
The service was long and boring, the sermon even longer, but I remembered many of the hymns from my confirmation class with its forced church attendance a few years ago. It was not Andreas Peter Madsen officiating, but the vicar himself, Pastor Fangel, an elderly but sturdy man.
During the long sermon I studied the church, the parts in front of me at least. The pulpit with the carved letters, that slowly turned into words for me, the Altar where I could discern the dates 1723 and smaller 1731, it was already old. I also saw the initials of the kings FIV and CVI for Frederik 4 and Christian 6. This shocked me. Who was king now? I had no idea, only none of these could still be king, if their names were on an altar from 1723.
Oh why had I not been more attentive at school? I knew that after Christian 6, his son Frederik 5 would become king, and then Christian 7, Frederik 6, Christian 8 ... and so on to my time when Frederik 9 was succeeded by his daughter, Margrethe 2nd, and she in 2024 by Frederik 10, and then his son would some day become Christian 11, thus bringing order to the numbering, broken when Christian 1's son Hans was followed by 2, and only then by then Frederik 1. But this was neither here nor there. Some fast maths, 30 years to a generation, 89 years since 1723, and a bit less since 1731 when it seemed that Christian 6 was new king ... three kings onwards gave me Frederik 6. Hopefully this was right. No internet, no smartphones, and the only books in the house was a farmer's almanac, the Bible and a catechism. I decided to pay attention to what the vicar said, maybe I could find a clue there.
The church looked much as I remembered it from a Christmas service long ago with my grandparents. Strangely it looked more worn now. Probably it had been renovated some time in between, closer to my time.
When was my time really, I mused. Even though I was determined to listen, the long sermon got my mind drifting again. My eyes fell on the baptismal font. I remembered my grandfather's hand caressing the carved vines and telling everybody that he, and his parents, and their parents all the way back from time immemorial had been baptized in that font. When was my time?
I was born in the 21st century, but I would probably never return back there again. Could I find a place in the 19th century, among my ancestors?
What about my parents? What did they make of my disappearing? I stopped that train of thoughts. It would just make me cry.
I looked back at the baptismal font; it was comforting in all its solidity. It had stood here since the church, or maybe even its predecessor was built. It would still be here when everybody living here and now and in the future -- Pastor Fangel, Lars, Anna, Elizabeth, Christer, Hans, me, my grandparents, parents, my siblings and their children too -- had long turned to dust.
It was a thought that at the same time made me feel like yelling and screaming in ice cold panic, and yet somehow I felt safe, at home, looking at those vines cut in ancient stone.
After the service we stood in the back of the church and I had to tell my story several times. It got easier with each retelling and I began to relax a bit.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 11, we were given:
Bobbing
Redhead
Potato
In Lars' office he first told me that we had to decide on a story for me to tell about why I was staying here. A mystery journey in a chest was not done, and I was happy to oblige.
Lars suggested that I was to pose as a distant cousin of Anna's, as she had family in Elsinoer. I had allegedlly fallen off the hayloft when visiting and now was staying to get well again and learn about farming first hand. I readily agreed. It was not too far off the mark, and would explain any oddities with big town mannerisms.
I found my work cut out for me. I was, or at least had been, good at maths. But the monetary system was not the logical units I was used to where 1 Krone equalled 100 øre. In 1802 we had 1 Daler equalling 6 Mark, and 1 Mark equalling 16 Skilling. I had always found hexadecimal and company fun and challenging, and some of us boys had competed in doing maths in our heads testing one another with pocket calculators and 'phones - what would I not give for one of those solar powered calculators now. I had not been the slowest, so quite soon I was skilled in these conversions. The lettering was worse. I could by now read books and even the newspaper printed in Fraktur with no more errors than what the convoluted language of printed matter led me into, but the handwriting often confounded me. And when I tried writing in Latin script, Lars scolded me for 'playing the vicar'. In the end I made up the ledger using my own lettering on old scraps of paper and on a slate, once I got hold of one. Then when I was sure I was right, I carefully and slowly copied the text of Lars' former entries adding my new sums.
I was fast and efficient and Lars suggested that he should offer my help to the other farmers in the vicinity.
"Gladly," I replied, "but I'll have to learn to read and write normal handwriting better first, My parents were quite progressive in only teaching us Latin cursive."
"You must have lived far off to avoid school?" Lars mused.
"I think we did" I replied, "I just had a glimpses of my mother teaching me, using just such a slate." What I did not tell was that yes, she had indeed done so, but as a part of some re-enactment scedule of hers. I now wished I had paid better attention to her lovely, flowing German cursive back then.
"Tomorrow is Sunday, We go to church," Lars stated. "But Monday's school, and you will go there with Christen and Johanne. You do need to learn."
I sure needed to learn. But church, I had forgotten that I was supposed to attend church tomorrow. Everybody from this village, and from the five or six other, bigger villages belonging to the parish would be present. And every single person would want to know about me, would look at me, scrutinize me, assess me, and ask me questions. Furthermore I was not used to going to church, I feared to bungle up something and make everybody stare even more. Could I claim exemption by telling that I belonged to another religion? Jew? No they were always persecuted and accused of any misfortune. Muslim maybe. No that was only something far away I had understood from the newspapers which I was avidly reading. Catholic? Maybe, but I did not know much about their faith either.And thinking again. Freedom of religion had not even been a thing in 1802, had it? I rememberer something about a new constitution to be made years in the future, 1840-ish maybe, and wished, not for the first, nor for the last time, that I had been more attentive during my history lessons. Better to just tag along and do as the others did.
Church went better than what I feared. Lars' timing was perfect. After a relatively short, but cold sleigh ride we arrived at church. We were almost the last to arrive, and we had time for nothing more than entering the church, grab a hymnal and sit down in our pew. We sat in the upper half of the church, so I was unable to see most of the staring people. Turning around was not done! After a little time my nervous trembling stopped, and I began taking notice of my surroundings again.
I was still very conscious of people looking at me. I tried not to squirm, scratch or pick at anything, but sit straight with my hands folded in my lap, like Lars to my right and Hans and Christer to my left. Anna sat with Johanne and Elizabeth on the other side of the aisle, I could not help looking at Elizabeth, she was a pleasure to look at with her hair newly washed and all shiny and her new, green Sunday dress. She noticed my looking, and I averted my eyes, feeling red and hot.
The service was long and boring, the sermon even longer, but I remembered many of the hymns from my confirmation class with its forced church attendance a few years ago. It was not Andreas Peter Madsen officiating, but the vicar himself, Pastor Fangel, an elderly but sturdy man.
During the long sermon I studied the church, the parts in front of me at least. The pulpit with the carved letters, that slowly turned into words for me, the Altar where I could discern the dates 1723 and smaller 1731, it was already old. I also saw the initials of the kings FIV and CVI for Frederik 4 and Christian 6. This shocked me. Who was king now? I had no idea, only none of these could still be king, if their names were on an altar from 1723.
Oh why had I not been more attentive at school? I knew that after Christian 6, his son Frederik 5 would become king, and then Christian 7, Frederik 6, Christian 8 ... and so on to my time when Frederik 9 was succeeded by his daughter, Margrethe 2nd, and she in 2024 by Frederik 10, and then his son would some day become Christian 11, thus bringing order to the numbering, broken when Christian 1's son Hans was followed by 2, and only then by then Frederik 1. But this was neither here nor there. Some fast maths, 30 years to a generation, 89 years since 1723, and a bit less since 1731 when it seemed that Christian 6 was new king ... three kings onwards gave me Frederik 6. Hopefully this was right. No internet, no smartphones, and the only books in the house was a farmer's almanac, the Bible and a catechism. I decided to pay attention to what the vicar said, maybe I could find a clue there.
The church looked much as I remembered it from a Christmas service long ago with my grandparents. Strangely it looked more worn now. Probably it had been renovated some time in between, closer to my time.
When was my time really, I mused. Even though I was determined to listen, the long sermon got my mind drifting again. My eyes fell on the baptismal font. I remembered my grandfather's hand caressing the carved vines and telling everybody that he, and his parents, and their parents all the way back from time immemorial had been baptized in that font. When was my time?
I was born in the 21st century, but I would probably never return back there again. Could I find a place in the 19th century, among my ancestors?
What about my parents? What did they make of my disappearing? I stopped that train of thoughts. It would just make me cry.
I looked back at the baptismal font; it was comforting in all its solidity. It had stood here since the church, or maybe even its predecessor was built. It would still be here when everybody living here and now and in the future -- Pastor Fangel, Lars, Anna, Elizabeth, Christer, Hans, me, my grandparents, parents, my siblings and their children too -- had long turned to dust.
It was a thought that at the same time made me feel like yelling and screaming in ice cold panic, and yet somehow I felt safe, at home, looking at those vines cut in ancient stone.
After the service we stood in the back of the church and I had to tell my story several times. It got easier with each retelling and I began to relax a bit.
... to be continued
