A number of years ago, when our oldest son, Stan Adam, moved from Seattle to Denmark to find his way with Microsoft, that created an opportunity for us to travel long distances to visit him.
We alternately flew and drove to Washington State when our son lived there. But soon, after relocating in Copenhagen, he met a woman who’s now the mother of his two daughters, ages 5 and 3. The Danes take baptisms seriously, and accordingly it was difficult for us to turn down an invitation to Ellen’s baptism. So we flew there — some time in the late fall — only three months from our earlier trip that year.
Our visits there amazed me at how well Danes speak English. Often, Bonnie and I stopped strangers on the street to get directions. Without hesitation, the people pulled out their best English and made it clear how we should proceed. But the rest of the time? They seem to speak Danish among themselves. Ask me how many Danish words I know. Danish originated from Old Norse and Icelandic, and that’s quite a distance from the Romance and Anglo-Saxon tongues I’m somewhat familiar with.
At the baptism, a group ceremony that included the dampening of a half dozen babies’ crowns, we Americans heard 10 minutes’ worth of Danish, which we surmised was like what we hear in American baptisms. We assume the priest admonished all to follow the commandments and resist evil.
And we beamed as we heard our son speaking fluent Danish. (Of course, it was only one word, “Ja,” the same as the English “yes.”
Danish congregations like to sing. One of the few things I’ve learned about the language is that what you see is seldom how it’s pronounced. For the most part, Danish characters resemble the English alphabet, but there the similarities end. The word “slot,” which is the Danish “castle,” doesn’t sound at all the way we think it should be pronounced.
I scored a bit of a coup when it came to singing the closing hymn. I joined right in, belting out the Danish song. So impressed was the priest that she asked my son after the ceremony, “Does your dad know Danish? I saw him singing our closing hymn.” Touché! I simply had recognized the tune to “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation.”
The words flowed easily as I belted out the hymn, singing it in English. But to others, I might have passed for “one of them.” Of course, I observed proper ecclesiastical protocol — no showboating or silliness. And besides, if a person’s sincere, does it matter what language one sings in?
• • •
In about a week, we’ll be welcoming our Danish coalition. For several years, Ellen Vestergaard, the older and more vocal granddaughter, chatted in Danish, probably assuming we were able to follow her right along. I found myself agreeing with Ellen (others might call it “patronizing”). If she spoke to me (in Danish), I’d answer with “That’s right!” or “How nice!” But now that she’s becoming fluent in both languages, it’s a pleasure to converse with her.
But only in my language.
That makes me regret that so many Americans have lost the language of their grandparents. I wish they’d realize that bilingualism opens so many doors.
• • •
What’s happened to Raton, our northern neighbor? A vibrant downtown now features a procession of vacant, boarded-up stores. “For sale” signs dot neighborhoods. Lacking a racetrack and an active mine, residents have moved to find employment elsewhere.
Even the erstwhile Raton Daily Range, which went from a penta-weekly years ago to a bi-weekly more recently, has shut down. Some people still think of Raton as part of the boonies.
But when we checked Saturday, we noticed that at some gas stations, a gallon of fuel is about 20 cents cheaper than in Las Vegas.