Bearlodge Writers

Jytte Bowers

Get To Know Jytte

 

Quote

"Pass the chocolate."

Jytte Bowers Bio

Jytte Bowers was born in Copenhagen, Denmark and spent her childhood there under the Nazi occupation. She was trained as a Registered Nurse at Bispebjerg Hospital, and in 1959 married Jim Bowers and emigrated to the U.S. She raised three daughters and a son, Eric, who is a Down Syndrome and about whom she is writing a book. She has translated from Norwegian a genealogy of the Boe family (published) and a book by Thorbjørn Egner Houses in Rauland (unpublished) and written a memoir; Freedom’s Candles: From Tiananmen to Vilnius (unpublished), as well as some children’s stories.

Publication Credits

In the Shadow of the Bear Lodge, Many Kites Press, 2006
Laura Bower Van Nuys Writing Contest, Children’s Literature First Place, 2000
South Dakota Public Broadcasting Reading, “Freedom”, 1995
Boe Family Genealogy, Translation from Norwegian, 2002

Excerpt of Writing

THE LAST PARTY

“Can’t we leave?” I whispered. Tom looked at me, a little surprised.

“You do want to see Nellie, don’t you?”

“Yes, but. . . .”

“Well, I think we ought to wait a little longer.”

My eyes wandered around the room and stopped at a small group of people. I didn’t know any of them. I could hear the murmur of their voices.

“My God, Fred, I hardly recognized you. Florida does wonders, and Trudy, you’ve also got a beautiful tan.”

Someone opened a window. A chilly November wind lifted the golden drapes; they waved like a banner in Trudy’s direction.

“Oh, no, close that window. We are used to warmer weather,” she quipped. She wrapped her mink stole around her shoulders.

“Where is Nellie? What a day she must have had, poor dear. Isn’t she coming?”

I glanced at Tom. His eyebrows were slightly raised.

“Do you want to go into the next room?” His voice was barely audible. We entered an elaborate room, dim lights, golden brocade chairs. The high piled golden carpet muffled the sound of our footsteps. I placed myself at the edge of a sofa. I looked at Tom. Was he comfortable?

“By Jove, isn’t it Phil?” Tom greeted another man who had looked for seclusion. “Anna, let me introduce you. Phil was part of the language department a couple of years ago.” Too tired to get up from the sofa, I sent a friendly nod in the direction of Phil. The men lost themselves in memories of earlier days.

The scent of tulips and hyacinths permeated the air. There were flowers all over. I felt nauseated and got up to leave. Out in the hallway I leaned my head against the solid oak door. The feel of the grain in the wood was so real, maybe the only thing not artificial. I could easily slip out to the car and wait for Tom. No one would miss me; surely Nellie would understand.

No, I had better return to the room where Trudy was. I could say, “Hi, I am Anna Jones. I am a friend of Nellie. I understand you just came back from Florida.” I smiled as I realized I had learned a little at previous parties.

Dear Nellie, I thought. Won’t you come? I hate these gatherings of sophisticated people. I don’t know what to say. I haven’t even seen Florida.

It was almost two decades ago I had been invited to my first cocktail party. It was so freshly imprinted in my mind—it could have been yesterday. Nellie had invited us over for a small informal drink my second day in America. I was pretty nervous and had clutched Tom’s arm.

“Surprise!” Streamers, flags, the whole works. “Welcome back from Europe.” Tom from the army and I as his European bride. The noise was overwhelming. We greeted most of the people, and after a while I lost Tom but gained a drink, which after a few sips gave me enough courage to approach a group of people.

“Hello, I am Mrs. Jones—married to Tom Jones. Not the real Tom Jones. Oh, I mean of course he is the real one—for me, at least.” A tall, distinguished, silver haired gentleman laughed and clapped me on my shoulder. God bless the martinis, or whatever the drink was called. I took another glass. The group laughed at something the silver haired gentleman said. I had no idea what and lost myself in the drink. My glass was empty when the gentleman approached me.

“What do you think about arriving in this land of the free and the brave?”

“Marfelus, marfelus!” The drinks had given me a lift and a slight lisp. “However, I don’t think America is freer than many other countries. A myth. Yes, I think it is a myth.”

I tried to catch Tom’s eyes in the deep silence that followed.

“Now, now, don’t let us be too philosophical.” The distinguished gentleman, Dr. Harris, tried to save the situation. “However, you are the cutest little socialist I ever saw.”

I blushed and was relieved when Tom took my arm.

“Are you ready to go, dear? Please, excuse us.” He turned to Dr. Harris. “I think Anna is suffering from jet lag.”

And from martinis and noise. Most of all from people, I thought, as I shook hands with Nellie and her husband and thanked them for the evening.

“Do you do this often?” I asked on our way to the car.

“Do what?”

“Those kinds of big parties?”

“I think they did it to make you feel welcome.”

“I know,” I said, apologetically. “I’m sorry. I only feel so far away from home.”

A couple of weeks of more welcoming parties and sight seeing trips followed, before we were ready to move to the Midwest.

“I can’t understand what’s holding Nellie up.” Trudy’s voice brought me back. The crowd had thinned out a little. The air felt stuffy despite the open window. I looked around and saw a couple of familiar faces over in the corner.

Nellie was attractive in a very special way. A fierce red hair matched her temperament. Her Irish ancestors had not only set their mark on her look but also on the poetic way she spoke. It was the most beautiful English I had heard. Nellie tasted the words, like a twelve years old whiskey, before she let them free. When she talked about Joyce or Jane Austen it sounded as if she had just left a dinner where they had been the guests of honor.

She also gave wonderful parties which we never failed to attend when we came East. In a very skillful way she managed to mix her literary colleagues with her husband’s highly successful business associates. I remember her saying on one occasion, “It does them good to hear what Joyce would say,” then turning to Tom, “and it doesn’t hurt you either to know a little about Wall Street.” She laughed and threw her head back vigorously when I asked her what Wall Street was.

“Dear Nellie.” Tom had returned to the room. “I doubt she is coming. Why don’t we leave now? I think she will understand.”

We opened the door to the cold November night—and to Nellie.

“Nellie!” I kissed her cheeks, dampened by the rain and her tears.

“I am so late,” Nellie said. “The day has seemed so long—and I am still late.”

I waited at the door as Tom took Nellie’s hand and walked her across the room. Nellie, making the sign of the cross, knelt by her husband’s casket. For her, the day which had been so long was but the first, the very first, of all those to come.

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