THE SUMMER OF '59

That summer of 1959 … I listened to “Dream Lover” by Bobby Darin on my pink transistor radio. Our family rarely missed watching “Bonanza” on the black and white Motorola television in the living room. I had a brand new driver’s license and quickly discovered that 25 cents for a gallon of gasoline tapped a lot of my precious babysitting money.

But my 17th summer truly is memorable for another reason. On a sunny morning in late June, I boarded the S.S. Groote Beer for a seven-day trans-Atlantic passage from New York City to Rotterdam with 600 other American Field Service exchange students. My ultimate destination: Olden, a sleepy Norwegian village midway between Bergen and Trondheim, 65 miles from the open sea, and perched on the edge of the Windex-blue Nordfjord. 

My host family was named Sunde and included six sisters, only one of whom spoke understandable English. Despite taking daily lessons in Norwegian during the ocean crossing, my vocabulary was limited to “tussen takk” and “god dag.” Eli, my 17-year-old “summer sister,” never stopped encouraging and teaching me her language.

Some memories are hazy, others etched. I recall jumping with Eli into the toe-numbing frigid fjord right in front of the Sunde’s house. We took hikes to the Briksdal Glacier. I grew to love luscious orange cloudberries and a coarse bread called grovbrod for breakfast, and slowly developed a taste for gjetost, a brownish orange cheese. 

Most Norwegian families eat four times daily and I can still picture us gathered around the Sunde’s simple kitchen table for frokost, luns, midday and kveldsmat. (BTW, I never missed a meal and plumped up a hefty 20 pounds by summer’s end.) 

After returning to the United States, Eli and I wrote frequently. She sent me a hand-knit classic Norwegian sweater which I’ve kept for years in a box on my closet shelf. (To be honest, it’s a tad snug.) One long-ago December I received a package from Eli that remains one of my favorite Christmas decorations — a linen tablecloth with “god jul” embroidered in crimson thread. 

But after a few years, our correspondence dwindled, then died. Countless times I thought about that gracious and generous Sunde family, especially Eli who smiled and laughed with abandon. I hoped to return to Olden one day, but life intervened: marriage, children, a later-in-life journalism career. And would they even remember me?

Two weeks ago I received a surprise email: “Hi Valerie Lucille Burkhardt, I wonder if you remember me? I think you are the girl who stayed with me and my family at Olden, Norway, summer 1959. I tried to find out on FaceBook but none of the Valerie Burkhardts were you.” (So much for thinking I’m unique!)

Eli wrote more. “I found a lot of letters from you and one had the name of your sister and brothers. I found your name on your brother Ross’ Facebook page. Then I found your sister Robin. Then I was sure I found the right Valerie!”

We’ve emailed numerous times since. She told me I’d sent (and she had saved) 22 letters I wrote after that summer of 1959. “I can understand why you became a journalist!” she wrote. “You also wanted to learn Norwegian and you wrote in a mixture of English and Norwegian.”

Many of my friends have no use for or interest in Facebook. They ask, “Who has the time?” and “Isn’t it intrusive?” I feel differently, especially now during these long days of self-quarantine against the corona virus. Facebook is my path to the world outside. 

And because of Facebook, I’m enjoying a virtual reunion with an unforgettable friend. Two young girls, now both 77 and greying grandmothers, have rekindled a friendship that started six decades ago. For that, TUSSEN TAKK!.

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“Tussen takk” means “thank you” in Norwegian. “God dag” is “good morning.” And “god jul” is “Merry Christmas.”  I can also sing a few lines from a Norwegian folk song, but only on request.