This is my legacy. My Norwegian legacy beehive. My mom (a sweetheart and a good sport who has let me be a knuckle-head my whole life) has been wearing her hair like this for as long as anyone can remember. I decided that maybe now, on my most recent visit to her childhood home in Norway, would be a good time to have her pass down the comb and show me how to put my hair up the way she does.
I set up the camera in what is now a hallway but was my mom’s bedroom, where she started making her hair so high all those years ago and my sister Chris managed the filming. (Thank you Chris and nice job.) You will see a painting of my mom at 17, that my dad had a portrait studio in Cherry Hill NJ paint of her, his sweetheart, that hangs in her home that she left 46 years ago. Oh, and that good-looking guy at the end is my cousin Anita’s husband Chriss. (Thank you Chriss.) And, of course thank you Lisa for your wonderful editing!
Let me tell you how I came to be, how my mom ended up leaving Norway to live in NJ. My dad at 26, while eating a can of Norwegian sardines, decided to ship his Cadillac to Norway and ride around the countryside. This was 1964, before Norway was rich with oil and according to him, his was the first Cadillac to touch pavement there. His Pan Am ticket’s flight and seat information was filled in with pencil. He met my mom on a tourist boat, the Skibladner, that traveled up the fjord lake Mjøsa. She was selling candy and was 17. He came to visit her once more and then came back a third time and they were married where the painting now hangs. I am the product of my father eating sardines on his lunch break, daydreaming and staring at the picture on the can of sardines and how dreams and motivations can come out of anything and anywhere. I like that.
If you live in the Philadelphia area and like to film and edit and enjoy MQA, please contact me. I’m eternally trying to assemble a crew for this project that resembles the kids from Goonies. And I have a zillion more three-minute films, more than a cat lady’s coin purse of pennies, that are waiting in my mind to be made. All are welcome.
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