Jenny Lindefjeld

Full name: Jenny Severine Lindefjeld
Lifespan: 17.04.1905 – 28.06.2015
Age: 110 years, 72 days
Birthplace: Hægebostad, Hægebostad Municipality, Agder fylke, Norway
Last residence: Kvinesdal, Kvinesdal Municipality, Agder fylke, Norway
Application date: 10.08.2015
Validation date: 12.06.2018
Validation source: Waclaw Jan Kroczek/Rune Øidne Reinertsen

Biography

Jenny Severine Lindefjeld was born in Hægebostad Municipality, Agder, Norway on 17 April 1905. She married Anders Lindefjeld in 1923. The couple had seven children. Lindefjeld was widowed in 1969. At the age of 100, she wrote an autobiography of her life.

Lindefjeld died in Fjotland Care Center in Kvinesdal, Norway, on 28 June 2015 at the age of 110 years, 72 days. She was survived by four children, 18 grandchildren, 48 great-grandchildren and 31 great-great-grandchildren.

At the time of her passing, Lindefjeld was the second-oldest living person in Norway behind Elisabet Ekenæs.

Curriculum Vitae

Mamma has four surviving children, 18 grandchildren, 48 great-grandchildren, and 31 great-great-grandchildren. It’s going to be a proper 110th birthday celebration at Utsikten in Kvinesdal on Saturday, and those who can make it will come. The mayor as well, says Martine Ljosland.

She is the daughter of Jenny Lindefjeld and number five in a sibling group that originally counted seven. She lives in Åseral, and her siblings Agnes and Arthur in Kvinesdal. They all frequently visit their mother at Fjotlandheimen. Maria, who lives in the USA, recently visited home and said hello.

It is challenging to communicate with Jenny Lindefjeld now. She seems to have retreated into her own world. But sometimes, she lights up.

— Recently, the kindergarten next door had a party with hotdog grilling in the garden here. We wheeled Jenny out, and it was clear that she enjoyed it, says department head Vivian Frigstad Kvinlaug at Fjotlandheimen, clearly proud to have Norway’s second-oldest resident among the residents.

— We’ve had many centenarians here, and will have two more in 2016. But we’ve never had anyone at 110. By the way, Jenny is now going to be the test subject for a new type of mattress costing 20,000 kroner, with lots of advanced features. Not bad at her age! Vivian says.

— Mom had a lung infection this winter and spent a couple of days in the hospital in Flekkefjord. We were afraid we might lose her then, but she pulled through, says Martine.

— Do you think she will become Norway’s oldest?

— That would be something, even though it would be sad that the one who is even older passes away, says Arthur.

— I don’t think she’ll become Norway’s oldest. And when I recently asked her if she wanted Jesus to come and take her, she said, “Oh, yes!” Martine recounts.

When Jenny Lindefjeld turned 100 in 2005, journalist Rune Øidne Reinertsen wrote down her life story. This happened on behalf of Dinamo Forlag, which was preparing a book with interviews of centenarians. With the publisher’s permission, the text was also published in Fædrelandsvennen, as a reflection on the centennial anniversary of the dissolution of the union with Sweden.

When Jenny Lindefjeld now turns 110 on Friday, April 17, we are sharing her story again. This is done with the family’s consent.

Incidentally, she is Norway’s second-oldest resident. Only Elisabeth Julie Ekenæs in Oslo, born on December 26, 1904, is older — by almost four months.

Jenny Lindefjeld’s Story My name is Jenny Severine Lindefjeld, and I was born on April 17, 1905, at the Nøkland farm in Eiken, in today’s Hægebostad municipality. My maiden name was Nøkland, and Severine is after my grandfather. In 1923, I married Anders Lindefjeld and moved to his farm at Lindefjell in Kvinesdal. We also lived in the USA for a while and had seven children together. Anders died in 1969. This is my story.

Through the Ice One of the things I remember best happened when I was ten and a half years old. My oldest brother, Olaf Johan, was 18. He had been out trapping ptarmigans up in the mountains, got wet, and left his shoes to dry in a nearby cabin. He planned to stay there overnight. But during the night, the cabin caught fire, and the shoes were damaged. The next morning, he went down to a farm called Vatne to have them repaired.

Once the task was done, he defied warnings and skated on the ice across Lygnavatnet to get to church in Eiken. The ice was thin and broke, leaving Olaf Johan in the cold water, calling for help. A young girl who was also on her way to church heard the cries and promised to fetch people immediately. However, she was so shy that she didn’t dare to shout for help in the church but took her time to find where our aunt was sitting. The girl knew who our aunt was and dared to speak to her.

Jenny Lindefjeld’s Parents, Anna and Ommund Nøkland. By the time people finally fetched a rope and rushed to the rescue, my brother disappeared under the ice the moment the rope was thrown out. A bystander was so hysterical that he also fell into the water, but he was pulled out again. Olaf Johan drowned. It was November 25, 1915. A dramatic and sad day. When my parents had another son, they gave him the same name.

Living with Grandmother Olaf Johan had been living with our grandmother, a bit away from our farm. After he died, I took his place so that grandmother wouldn’t be alone. I was only ten and a half years old, but I kept her company and helped with milking the goats and other chores.

I myself drank a lot of goat milk, which is why I have lived so long, ha-ha.

I continued living with my grandmother in the years that followed, but sometimes I was home with my parents. If I said “thank you for the meal” there, it would make my mom sad. It was as if I was a stranger in the house because those who lived there didn’t usually say that to each other.

— Two things I would like to say to those who come after me: Hard work breaks no one, and honesty will get you the furthest. Jenny Lindefjeld

A few years later, while I was still living with my grandmother, I was to attend a Saturday party at a nearby farm. Grandmother had made lefse for the weekend and seemed strong, but during the party, my father came and fetched me. Grandmother had died, and it was painful that I hadn’t been there. But luckily, she didn’t die alone; a sister was present. And I moved back to our own farm.

Even though the party I mentioned was at another place, young people often gathered at grandmother’s. “They have to be somewhere,” she said, and let us dance on Saturday evenings. My father didn’t like that. It wasn’t so much the dancing itself he was against, but what often came with it. Many drank.

I was number three in a sibling group of seven. Today, only two of us are left, but I had seven children myself and have 18 grandchildren, 43 great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren.

My own childhood was good; it would be wrong to say otherwise. In winter, we slid down the hills on our large wooden shoes, which we called “juda.” We didn’t have skis or sleds.

Schooling I liked going to school, even though it was just a seven-year elementary school. But we went every day. When the teacher left the classroom at Nøkland, we youngsters often stayed behind and played around inside. We apparently got a bit of a bad reputation because of that. Some children from the Haddeland farm used to roast “pinnesteik” in the oven; they would attach salted and dried mutton to a stick and put it in the heat. It smelled bad but tasted good.

Life on the Farm At home on Nøkland, we had some cultivated land, some forest, four or five cows, and a horse. It was a modest life, but there was never a shortage of food. The haymaking was the most important part of the farm rhythm; it was crucial to ensure enough food for the animals during the winter. Everyone had to help, both big and small. During the haymaking, we could sleep up to 13 people on the dirt floor in a shed up in the mountains. We had to secure as much grass as possible from the outfields. The grass was piled into stacks and then brought to the farm in winter. March was the best month for this work, I remember.

In the fall, a woman would come to the farm to bake. She would spend eight days making potato lefse and flatbread. Everything was stacked in the attic and was meant to last through the winter. The lefse was of the hard kind that we soaked before eating. During the baking, the oven in the cellar was fired up. We children used to gather down there in the warmth. The potatoes were boiled with their skins on, and our job was to peel them afterward.

A New Coat

I remember once when my father came home with some coat fabric. He had walked all the way to Byremo in Audnedal to buy it. A seamstress in Eiken made a lovely coat for me from it. By the way, my father walked a lot. Every autumn, he would drive cattle down to Kristiansand for sale. It was a long two-day journey each way, and he usually stayed overnight with an acquaintance who lived about halfway.

Once, on his way home, he was attacked in Hægeland. A couple of men must have figured out that he was carrying money after selling in the city. But he had the chains he used to lead the cattle, and he swung them so hard at the thieves that they were injured and gave up. Even though it was he who had been attacked and had only defended himself, my father went to the sheriff to report the incident. And the sheriff couldn’t say anything against what he had done, no.

Double Up

When I was 16-17 years old, it was time for me to leave home and go into service. I thought that was perfectly fine. My father drove me towards Kvinesdal with a horse and cart. About halfway there, we were met by Guttorm Lindefjeld. He and his brother Anders owned the farm where I was to work, in exchange for room and board and a few kroner a month.

When I left home, I was determined not to get involved in any romantic relationships, so during haymaking, I would sit far away from the brothers during breaks. But somehow, Anders and I just grew together. It ended up with us getting married, and my sister Anna married Guttorm.

After Anders and I got engaged, we went to Flekkefjord to buy rings. We had to walk over the mountain to Øksendal in Sirdal, where we stayed overnight with a cousin of Anders. The next day, we took a boat across Sirdalsvatnet to Osen in Sira and then took the train to Flekkefjord. We found the rings at the jeweler Persen. Anders and Guttorm were fine men, even though my husband was 20 years older than me and his brother 30 years older than my sister. Anders, by the way, had worked as a floor layer in America.

A Young Bride

I was the first of us two sisters to get married. I was 18. The farm was divided between the brothers, but the families continued to live close to each other, and the children in the two houses grew up as double cousins. It was almost like one big sibling group.

But somehow, Anders and I just grew together.

Jenny and Anders Lindefjeld’s wedding photo from 1923. Jenny was 18 years old, Anders was 38. Photo: Private After we had been married for a while, my husband went back to America to earn money as a floor layer. The idea was that I would follow him later. It took some time to get all the necessary permits, and Anders wrote that I might as well stay at Lindefjell. But after a long wait, the permit finally came, and I was determined to go. So I did.

To America

We lived in Washington Heights in New York, and I worked as a cook for some laborers, making all kinds of food. Once, a man from Åsdal ate seven “komper” (Norwegian potato dumplings). “If you can eat seven komper, you’re not easy to feed,” a man from Kvinesdal said to me. Hungry people were expensive to feed.

My eldest son, Otto, was a bit of a wild child even before we went to America. “Don’t lose Otto,” my father said to me before we left. He was afraid the boy would get lost over there. And it was a close call too.

One time—he was probably not more than four years old—he was out with his tricycle in Washington Heights when a woman tried to lure him away. She said he would get a bell for his bike if he came with her. But there were many Norwegians where we lived, and they usually helped each other when needed. One of them saw what was happening and stepped in.

Another time, little Otto walked a long way to a guesthouse where many Norwegians stayed. “I want to stay here because Mom has gone to Brooklyn,” he told the landlady. Then my brother-in-law Ivar stepped in and sorted things out. But I was home in the apartment!

The picture is from Amsterdam Park in Washington Heights in New York and was taken in 1928. From left: Torkel and Mari Haddeland, Jenny and Anders Lindefjeld with Otto (4) and Oskar in the pram. Mari Haddeland was Jenny Lindefjeld’s sister. Photo: Private

From the kitchen there, I once overheard Otto playing with some children. “Come this way, unger!” he said to them, proud as a peacock because he spoke English so well. But the language wasn’t always easy.

One time, he sneaked away to the subway to travel to Brooklyn alone, and a woman asked him, “Where are you going?” “Home to Mom,” he replied. No, I should have put a leash on that boy!

Home Birth

The language could be difficult for anyone, not just the little ones. When I was about to give birth to Oskar in Washington Heights in 1928, I spoke so little English that I didn’t want to stay in the hospital. So the doctor came to my home, and he brought his brother, who was also a doctor. My own sister was supposed to help too, but she fainted and had to have cold water splashed on her face, so she wasn’t much help.

Otherwise, working as a maid was a good way for many to learn English. It was just a matter of making sure the children you looked after were not too young to talk and not too old to refuse to talk!

Return to Kvinesdal

After we had been in America for a few years, the Depression hit, and work became scarce. So we returned home to Lindefjell. My husband’s brother had looked after the farm while we were away. But our second son was born in America, and our youngest daughter still lives there.

Once, when I was alone on the farm while my husband was in America, I hired a farmhand to help with the haymaking. While we were working, a heavy rain shower suddenly came. There was a small sauna hut nearby, and the farmhand wanted to go in there to seek shelter. But before he went in, he said to me, “You should go home.” He didn’t want any bad rumors to start in the village.

Another time, another farmhand was helping. The work involved lifting large, bundled loads of hay onto your back to carry them away, but they were so heavy that hardly anyone could lift them alone. So I helped with the lifting, but once I guess it was a bit too much, because the man tipped forward and fell flat on his face and got really angry!

The Germans

The war went fairly well at Lindefjell. But I remember one time when I got quite a fright; suddenly, two German soldiers were standing at the cellar door while I was separating milk. They were apparently looking for someone. Another time, an entire troop on bicycles set up camp right near the farm. They talked with the children and gave them sweets.

In general, the Germans were kind to our children. Often, they would give them a ride to school, which was four to five kilometers away. Usually, they had to walk back and forth, and it was a long way for the little ones.

For a while, my husband drove for the Germans with a horse and cart up by the mines in Knaben, further north in Kvinesdal. He wasn’t pro-German, but he was conscripted and had no choice. And the money came in handy.

The Russian Prisoners at Knaben

By the way, it’s wrong to be angry at all Germans today. They were soldiers sent to war, many of them were good people. The problem was Hitler. But we felt sorry for the Russian prisoners who were at Knaben. They didn’t have it good, although we never saw them being directly mistreated, and even though they were allowed to move fairly freely around the village. I remember that they wore green prisoner uniforms and green caps. Sometimes they would come to the farms to sell wood carvings. The Russians were skilled with their hands. They usually offered different bird figures, and in exchange, they got food. In general, people were kind to the Russians.

In 1943, Knaben was bombed by the Allies; the molybdenum metal from the mines up there was apparently used for war purposes. Some of the bombs ended up on the ground without exploding, and then the Germans used Russian prisoners of war to disarm them. Many lives were lost during that time.

Once, a German column was on its way up to Knaben. There was an accident with one of the first cars, and the rear part of the column was left unguarded. Our children discovered that a truck was stacked full of rye bread that was hard and sour. It looked just like a load of firewood. So they fetched the cart and filled a whole box with bread. I got scared when they came home with it; we hid everything deep inside some cabinets. By the way, the bread wasn’t any good.

Otherwise, the years passed in the usual rhythm on the farm, whether there was a war or not. The grass had to be cut with a scythe or with a horse and mower. Anders was meticulous that everything was collected, both because it was needed for the animals in the winter and because it didn’t look good if grass stalks were sticking up from the fields after mowing. So he used to walk behind the mower with a scythe and take everything that was left standing.

A Good Cloudberry Spot

In the fall, the children picked redcurrants and blueberries, which they sold at Knaben. The youngest one picked so many blueberries one year that he earned enough money for a bicycle. I’ve always loved picking and eating cloudberries. I found a particularly good cloudberry bog early on at home in Nøklandsheia, at the summer pasture called Kisvatn, where I used to wander as a child. The last time I was there was with my sister, Maren, in 1983. I was 77, and she was 74, and I picked ten kilos. There is a large stone there called Sugga, and there are many cloudberries around it. Fjeddebolega is another good cloudberry spot I know of.

To a Wedding with Horse and Sleigh

Although there was much hard work in being a farm wife at Lindefjell and raising seven children, we took time to enjoy ourselves occasionally. I remember the winter of 1942 when one of my brothers was getting married at Bryggeså in Eiken. My husband made a box that he placed on the back of the sleigh. All the children were to sit in it. Over Haddelandsheia, there was so much snow that the horse could hardly get through. Anders walked beside it on snowshoes and struggled a lot too. One of my nieces was wearing nylon stockings. It was so cold that they froze to her legs. But we were going to the wedding, so we struggled on. Later, I thought it was pretty brave of my husband to set out on that trip.

“Lookers”

It was common to have “lookers” when there was a wedding or other party in the village. “Lookers” was the name we used for young people who had heard about the party and showed up without being invited. That was just the way it was at that time if a party was to be worth attending. We had lookers at the wedding at Bryggeså too. But one time, when our daughter Agnes had her wedding party at home at Lindefjell, it was too much. Many of the lookers were drunk; they forced their way into the house and stole food before the guests had even sat down to eat. They were a nuisance. One of them even laid down to sleep in one of the rooms, and he was so drunk that he soiled the entire bed. Fortunately, I’ve understood that there are no more lookers today.

Our children discovered that a truck was stacked full of rye bread that was hard and sour. It looked just like a load of firewood.

The six oldest of Jenny and Anders Lindefjeld’s seven children. From the right, there’s Otto, Oskar, Konstanse, Agnes, Martine, and Arthur. The picture was taken in the summer of 1937 at home at Lindefjell. Maria was born in 1940. Photo: Private

These are Our Children:

Otto was born in 1924. He went to secondary school and officer training and was a sergeant in the German Brigade after the war. Otto spent several years in America and married there before coming home again and taking over the farm at Lindefjell. He is dead now.

Oskar was born in America in 1928. He came home with us when he was little, but he also returned overseas later in life. He married there before coming back again. Oskar worked as a construction worker. He is also dead now.

Konstanse, who was born in 1931, first took a job at a wool factory near Stavanger before she moved to Flekkefjord and worked at Bondeheimen. Later, she started working at the wool factory at Sjølingstad, where she met her husband. Konstanse settled in Mandal, although she is in Brazil right now.

Agnes was born in 1932. She worked for a while as a maid at Knaben and got married in Kvinesdal, where she lives now.

Martine, who was born in 1934, has worked as a maid and in a restaurant in the USA, where she lived for a long time. She married over there too, with a man from Åsdal. They returned together in 1961 with three children. Martine has lost her husband but continues to live in Åseral.

In 1936, it was Arthur’s turn to arrive. He became a construction worker in Norway and a floor layer in America. He married a girl from Kvinesdal over there, and they came home to Kvinesdal after a few years.

The youngest daughter, Maria, was born in 1940. She worked in a shop at Knaben for a while before she also went to America. She still lives there and is a widow of an American.

Would Trade a Sewing Machine for a Baby

When the youngest girl was born the year the war began, we were visited by a man from Stavanger who sold Singer sewing machines. He and his wife had never had children themselves, and he was sorry about that. So he offered me a Singer for the baby and promised that she would have a good life if she went with him. But I said, truthfully, that we had no one to part with.

With seven children, there were, of course, some episodes over the years. One of the worst I remember happened to Oskar when he was nine years old. He and some other children were trying to roll a large, heavy wheel pair on the barn bridge at home at Lindefjell. They probably thought they would get it into the barn.

Big and Small Accidents

Then it happened that one of the other boys closed the barn door so that the wheel slammed into the door and was knocked back. Oskar was hit and pulled over the edge of the barn bridge. When I arrived, he was lying on the ground with a leg almost severed. It was hanging by just a few tendons.

We rushed him to the hospital, and they managed to save the leg, but unfortunately, it healed incorrectly. It had to be broken again and then stretched hard and often to prevent it from stiffening. My sister, Anna, was like the doctor in the family and used to help with the stretching. But it was so painful for poor little Oskar that he couldn’t bear to see her afterward. And I always went to the barn when Oskar’s leg was to be stretched. I couldn’t bear to be there.

— While she was busy with the bandaging, little Maria took the opportunity to take a good gulp from the iodine bottle!

Jenny Lindefjeld

One time, after I had churned butter and placed the churn on the steps to cool, my youngest son, Arthur, managed to fall onto the sharp lid and severely cut his arm. So, we rushed him over to Aunt Anne in the neighboring house again. She applied iodine to the wound, but while she was busy bandaging it, little Maria seized the opportunity to take a big gulp from the iodine bottle! Her face turned completely blue, but we managed to get some sour cream into her, which made her vomit. That turned out alright as well.

Afraid of the Fox

I also remember when Agnes was little, she was tricked by some other kids into stealing apples in the fall. She only took the ones on the ground, but that was forbidden too. I saw what was happening and yelled, “Agnes, do you see the fox?” The poor girl was terrified, dropped all the apples she had gathered, and ran away. She was afraid of the fox until she was 14 years old. I mostly felt guilty about it.

Another episode I recall was when Otto was preparing for his confirmation in Kvinesdal. He had worked hard with all kinds of farm and forestry work for a long time, and on top of that, he had been up early that Sunday for the church rehearsal. It didn’t go well, and he ended up fainting right in front of the altar during the rehearsal. He had to be carried out and over to the neighboring farm to rest a bit. My daughter Martine later told me that she thought the pastor had struck Otto!

With the Daughters

Now I live with Agnes in Kvinesdal. I stayed at Fedaheimen for a short while and had a good time there, but it turned out that I prefer to live with my daughters. Incidentally, I was a home helper for my own sister until I was 80 and she was 83. Before I came to Agnes this time, I stayed with Martine in Kyrkjebygd in Åseral for a while. It might be a somewhat rootless life, but I know how to adapt, and I am happy to be with my family. Konstanse actually lives in Mandal, but she has moved to Brazil to help her own daughter, who got a job there and has a little boy. From my own siblings, I only have one brother left alive, and he lives in Porsgrunn.

The atmosphere in this picture has made it a cherished heirloom in the family, and it has a prominent place in Jenny Lindefjeld’s room at Fjotlandheimen. She is sitting on the left in the picture with little Oskar on her lap, and her husband Anders is sitting on the right, wearing a hat. The bride is Jenny’s sister Mari, and the groom is Torkel Haddeland, and the picture was taken in America. When a bachelor from Kvinesdal saw it, he remarked that Jenny had “such breathtakingly beautiful hair.” Photo: Private
That I was born the same year the union with Sweden was dissolved is something I’ve never really thought much about. For us, what was more important about 1905 was that my husband left for America for the first time that year. He was, after all, 20 years older than me, as I mentioned. Otherwise, I believe it’s better in the countryside than in the cities. When I was young, most people lived in the countryside. Now it’s different.

When I live with Martine, we have devotions together every morning. I’ve always read the Bible, and the children were raised in the Christian faith. But those who wanted to dance were allowed to, just as I did in my youth.

There are two things I want to say to those who come after me: Hard work never broke anyone, and honesty will get you the furthest.

This was my story.

Longevity Recognition

2nd oldest living person in Norway (behind Elisabet Ekenæs)

Validation

The supercentenarian case of Jenny Lindefjeld was meticulously examined and verified by Waclaw Jan Kroczek, GRG Correspondent for Poland and Nordic Countries, Rune Øidne Reinertsen, and validated by the Gerontology Research Group (GRG) as of June 12, 2018.

Jenny Lindefjeld at age 100 when she told her life story to journalist Rune Øidne Reinertsen. Foto: Arkiv/Rune Øidne Reinertsen

Jenny Lindefjeld with her children: Arthur (78), Agnes (82) and Martine (80, sitting), Vivian Frigstad Kvinlaug and niece Solveig Lindefjeld at Fjotlandheimen.

Foto: Rune Øidne Reinertsen

Jenny Lindefjelds parents, Anna and Ommund Nøkland.

Jenny and Anders Lindefjelds wedding photo from 1923. Jenny was then 18. Anders 38 years old.

Picture from Amsterdam Park in Washington Heights in New York (1928). From left: Torkel and Mari Haddeland, Jenny and Anders Lindefjeld with Otto (4) and Oskar (infant). Mari Haddeland was Jenny Lindefjeld’s sister.

Six oldest of Jenny and Anders Lindefjeld seven children. From right: Otto, Oskar, Konstanse, Agnes, Martine and Arthur. (Summer of 1937 at home in Lindefjeld) Maria was born in 1940.

The atmosphere in this picture has made it a treasure in the family, and it has a prominent place in Jenny Lindefjeld’s room at Fjotlandheimen. She herself sits on the left in the picture with little Oskar on her lap, the man Anders sits on the right with a hat on. The bride is Jenny’s sister Mari, the groom is Torkel Haddeland, and the photo was taken in America. When a bachelor in Kvinesdal got to see it, he thought that Jenny had “such beautiful hair”.

Photo courtesy of Fædrelandsvennen and Rune Øidne Reinertsen.