I did not know a single word of Danish before our trip to Denmark in 1955. I suspect that my mother chose not to teach me the language in my early years because to have the two of us chatting in Danish would have made my father feel left out.
We stayed at Lars Buus’ farm, Paarup, on the island of Falster for about two and a half months, which afforded me with ample time to learn Danish. It is often said that it is easier for young children to pick up a foreign language than it is for adults. So I appreciate the opportunity I had. Since most of the people I was in contact with did not speak English, I had a strong motivation to learn Danish words and expressions.
During the first week or two of our stay I would say to my grandmother when I had to pay a visit to the outhouse, “I have to go to the bathroom,” and Mormor (mother’s mother) would accompany me to a nearby gate, the latch of which was too high for me to reach. (This was only necessary when my mother went into town to do some shopping. Why she did not bring me along, I do not know. Perhaps she thought that it would have been too much of a hike for a seven-year-old.) Before long, however, I had mastered the request in Danish: “Jeg skal til udhuset.” (“I have to go to the outhouse.”) And my grandmother would unlatch the gate and let me attend to my business.
Mormor taught me how to spell my name in Danish, and I was soon able to recite the entire alphabet. She kept many potted plants (blomster) about the house, and told me the Danish names for them. I could always ask, “Hvad hedder det på Dansk? (“What’s this called in Danish?”) The familiar geranium was en pelargonie. A hibiscus was en Havaii blomst. A carnation was en nellike––the particular plant in question, sitting on the windowsill in my grandparents’ bedroom, being a gift that Mormor had rooted and potted after the confirmation of my mother’s sister, Anna Lise, fifteen or so years earlier. My grandmother definitely had a green thumb. She explained to me how I would be able to take a cutting from her Havaii blomst and root it in water after I went home to America.
When I was squatting on the living-room floor playing with some blocks that had belonged to my mother’s brother, Knud, my grandfather would drill me in the Danish numerals. “Een, to, tre, fire, fem,” I would begin to chant, and Morfar (mother’s father) would encourage me to go on: “Seks, syv, otte, ni, ti.” By the time our visit to Denmark came to an end I could count up to one hundred.
During our morning walks through his fields (marker), my grandfather would point out to me the different crops he was raising. Hvede was wheat. Kål was cabbage. Gulr∅dder were carrots. Asparges was asparagus. Stooping over to dig in a raised row of the sandy soil with a small handheld spade, he would carefully expose some potatoes (kartofler), which he placed into a bucket to bring home for our lunch. Weeds (ukrudt) were an ongoing problem, and Morfar would occasionally pause long enough to decapitate the head of an opportunistic dandelion (mælkeb∅tte) with the tip of his cane.
If I was up early enough in the morning, my grandfather sometimes brought me along into town when he had a delivery of milk (mælk) to make.
“Vil du med ind i byen?” he would ask me as he was hitching his horse (hest) to the wagon (vogn). On the road (vej) into town, with several large aluminum containers filled with milk clinking together in the back of the wagon, we would pass by a couple of farms (gårde), whose owners Morfar could name for me. With the milk delivered, we usually stopped off at a bakery for a loaf of French bread ( franskbr∅d), which we would have for an afternoon snack, slathered with butter (sm∅r) and honey (honning).
Sitting down for a meal, I learned that I was eating with en kniv (knife) and en gaffel (fork). I would have a choice of a beverages between mælk, sodavand, or abblesin saft (orange juice). Soon, I could name every dish on the table (bord). Meatballs were frikadeller. Pumpernickel bread was rugbr∅d. Liverwurst was leverpostej. Cheese was ost. Rather than simply naming an item or pointing to it, I began asking for what I wanted using a complete sentence: “Ma jeg fa en p∅lse til?” (May I have another sausage?”)
I had heard my grandfather on several occasions address one of his pigs as “Du stor svin.” (“You big pig.”) So without me realizing it, this phrase became a part of my vocabulary. One day, a neighbor stopped by to visit my grandmother. She had no doubt learned that Ella and Lars Buus had visitors from abroad. I took one look at this large, fat woman and said the first thing that came to my mind: “Du er en stor svin.” (“You are a big pig.”) Rather than taking offense at my brash comment, she merely smiled at me. I think she was impressed that this seven-year-old from America was able to speak Danish, even if it was to deliver an insult.
Having mastered the basics of spoken Danish, it remained for me only to learn to read the language. During our stay in Denmark my mother bought Anders And (Donald Duck) comic books for me. The simple dialogue and the illustrations made it easy for me to follow the gist of the story, and I could usually guess at the meaning of an unfamiliar word. For several years after Mother and I returned to the States, Anna Lise would send new Anders And comic books to me. So I was able to continue improving my reading skills. By the time my mother and I returned to Denmark in 1961, I was able to enjoy sitting beside my grandfather in the living room to peruse a section of the morning paper. He would often quiz me on something that had been in the news, just to keep me on my toes. I remember him asking me,”Hvornår var den sidste Dansk halshugning?” (“When was the last Danish beheading?”) If I had paid more
attention to the list of factoids in the section of the paper I had just finished with, I would have
known the answer.
