“Christmas in an outpost”

For better insight into how life was on Lånan before people moved away, here is a christmas story from 1950, written by Erna Øvergård, Lånan.

Christmas in an outpost, 1950

It was just before Christmas.The days were a pale blue, the sun cast long, golden shadows on the horizon – out there by the sea. Frost, sleet, mild weather and sea spray lashed the beams of the house. In between the wind blew from inland and the sea was calm. Such were the days prior to Christmas Eve.

“Mother, we haven’t got our Christmas tree yet and now there is only one mail boat left to come!” “Oh, it will come.” Her mother looked pensive. “We have ordered it, so it has to come.” Her daughter was none too hopeful. She helped her mother cake making, but it was slow and the day seemed long to the one who was waiting.

All the children were standing on the quay when the mail boat arrived. They were to fetch the latest post and the Christmas trees. We counted: one, two, three, four, five, six … the seventh tree had not come. We stood there in such low spirits as the steamer left on her last voyage before Christmas. She disappeared in the blue of the night which came creeping down on us. The walk home went quickly – we were choked and gasping for breath when we arrived home. “Mummy, there wasn’t a Christmas tree for us; we shan’t have a Christmas tree this year! There won’t be any Christmas here. The others have one, but not us!”

The day before Christmas Eve there was great activity in house and barn – everyone wanted everything to be ready for Christmas. The Christmas halibut was in the shed, the dried cod prepared in a lye of potash was ready, the joint smelt good in the oven, the cakes were baked, but there was no Christmas tree for the children in “Gammelstua”. This was the worst thing which could happen in this outpost where there was not a single green bush of any kind. There were only the old redcurrant bushes in the garden. Old, dry and twisted they had weathered both rain and storm and in no way reminded one of the green glory which ought to have come from the mainland and brought Christmas to the children by the sea.

The joy of living had gone. Without a Christmas tree: no Christmas; that’s how it was. We stood and watched the neighbours as they went to the shed with their Christmas tree foot. The snow stung as it hit our cheeks and we were on the verge of tears. They shook the trees to free them from the snow and salt-water which they had collected on the long voyage here, then the tree was carried like a costly jewel into their finest room. To be without a Christmas tree was the worst punishment imaginable. That green delight, the smell of Christmas, glitter, the light of the stars in the sky would not be shining in “Gammelstua” and on the children there.

It was then a miracle came to pass. Uncle Johan, long and lanky with overalls at half-mast and old boots, came out of the house on “Bakken” and went down to the sea. He took Father with him in similar garb, with his sheath knife, his golden hair dishevelled as always. Down to the shore they went, then out to sea. They were gone a long time. The wind from inland blew stronger, but before they became enveloped in the early darkness of Advent, they were back. The boat was full of green twigs with berries.

“It won’t be the same,” we screamed – and burst into tears again. Not much was said. The broom-handle was fetched as well as the drill and a knife, then the miracle happened. There in the middle of the living-room from floor to ceiling stood a tree with branches so green – not the spruce we had wished for with all our heart, but a juniper bush, a green delight in a cold winter. It was a tree which smelt of Christmas. All of a sudden the fairy tale tree from the mainland was no longer so important.

“Oh, how lovely!”, said Grandma. “See, it has evergreen branches, and it smells of Christmas.” On the morning of Christmas Eve we went up to the attic to fetch the Christmas tree decorations out of the trunk. There were fragile balls from Aunt Johanne in America and also wartime decorations bought cheaply from a meagre income, and the baskets we had made at school. In came the Christmas tree candles which Grandma made each Christmas – and the large candles for breakfast on Christmas Day.

It was Father who decorated the tree on the morning of Christmas Eve – and we were allowed to watch. To think we had a Christmas tree after all! It was green and it felt as though the baby Jesus and the angels had come into our old living-room. The stove was crackling and the warmth spread through the freshly decorated Christmas home. An everlasting joy brought Christmas to the children just when things had looked so black.

It was Christmas Eve and all the island children came to walk round the tree singing. “Silent Night, Holy Night” resounded round an evergreen juniper bush. Then there was breakfast on Christmas Day, the candles shone while the Christmas verse “A little child to us on earth is born” was sung. It was Christmastide in “Gammelstua”.

“Gammelstua” in Lånan

Christmas on Havøya was not an excess of glitter, but only of a tree with green branches made out of a broom-handle by those who were close to us and understood. The green branches were more important than anything.

They were a symbol of Love, Peace and Joy.

Written by Erna Øvergård, Lånan.