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I took the day off and spent it with m'boy today as a swap with Aspiring Ex for my date with Temptress on Saturday. The Wendling expressed a desire to go to the Nordic Heritage Museum, in Ballard, where we'd tried to go several weeks ago only to arrive right at closing time.
Given that m'boy & I are about as Nordic as tofu, some explanation is in order. The house where AX lived in when I met her, and the neighboring one we lived in when we were first married and when our son was born, are about two blocks from the museum. We kept meaning to go but never got around to it. Before long we were living in Kirkland, so Ballard wasn't exactly convenient. Going there the first time was my idea; the second time was my son's.
I reminded m'boy that the experience of the bulk of Nordic immigrants would have had a lot in common with the latest and largest wave of Jewish immigration, which brought his great-great-grandparents at about the same time. Where the Jews and the Scandinavians part ways, though, is that the latter did their best to pick up where they left off, living, working, and worshiping just as they did in the old countries. I've heard many stories, some from AX's family, of the Jews' determination to do and be something new.
The building that houses the museum used to be a school. It was fun to imagine kids climbing the stairs between the three floors - kids with Nordic names, who might still live in the surrounding neighborhood.
Two words: Lego Valhalla.
Sure, we learned some things at the museum, but I couldn't help noticing how... low-budget and not quite professional it seemed to be. The signs were in several different fonts, and what was written on them had copy errors or was worded clumsily. There was a lone man playing the accordion on the top floor. I think we were the only visitors in the place when we showed up. We lost track of time and left almost half an hour after closing, but nobody bothered to tell us to go. I'd hate to see that museum die, but I wouldn't bet on its being around in another twenty years.
As we were leaving, we participated in a metaphor: to our right, the museum; in the car, the two of us; to our left, an African-looking girl in a headscarf, maybe ten years old, riding a bicycle into a driveway across the street from the museum. Past, present, future.
Given that m'boy & I are about as Nordic as tofu, some explanation is in order. The house where AX lived in when I met her, and the neighboring one we lived in when we were first married and when our son was born, are about two blocks from the museum. We kept meaning to go but never got around to it. Before long we were living in Kirkland, so Ballard wasn't exactly convenient. Going there the first time was my idea; the second time was my son's.
I reminded m'boy that the experience of the bulk of Nordic immigrants would have had a lot in common with the latest and largest wave of Jewish immigration, which brought his great-great-grandparents at about the same time. Where the Jews and the Scandinavians part ways, though, is that the latter did their best to pick up where they left off, living, working, and worshiping just as they did in the old countries. I've heard many stories, some from AX's family, of the Jews' determination to do and be something new.
The building that houses the museum used to be a school. It was fun to imagine kids climbing the stairs between the three floors - kids with Nordic names, who might still live in the surrounding neighborhood.
Two words: Lego Valhalla.
Sure, we learned some things at the museum, but I couldn't help noticing how... low-budget and not quite professional it seemed to be. The signs were in several different fonts, and what was written on them had copy errors or was worded clumsily. There was a lone man playing the accordion on the top floor. I think we were the only visitors in the place when we showed up. We lost track of time and left almost half an hour after closing, but nobody bothered to tell us to go. I'd hate to see that museum die, but I wouldn't bet on its being around in another twenty years.
As we were leaving, we participated in a metaphor: to our right, the museum; in the car, the two of us; to our left, an African-looking girl in a headscarf, maybe ten years old, riding a bicycle into a driveway across the street from the museum. Past, present, future.
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Date: 2014-08-01 03:48 am (UTC)From: