Seljestad skysstasjon

Severine Seljestad 1878-1967
By Inger-Kirstine Riber and Reidun Horvei, based on the story told by her grandson, Bjørn Seljestad

Severine Seljestad was born on a bitterly cold February day in 1878. The youngest of six girls, she grew up in a small cottage where the walls creaked in rhythm with the wind howling over the mountains. Her father, Gjermund, ran a coach station, and he was not a man who sat idle. Every single day, he picked up tourists from the large ships that docked in Odda—men with tall hats and women with parasols, all dreaming of roaring waterfalls, towering peaks, and the eternal ice they had heard about from the continent.

And the waterfalls delivered. Oddadalen was a dream for travelers. Like pearls on a string, they lay there, thundering and foaming, and no one could visit this part of the world without seeing Låtefoss. The twin falls cascaded down the mountainside like a white veil, and for the wealthiest tourists, the journey continued. Further up to Seljestad, where they could enjoy a good meal at the coach station before being wrapped in blankets and transported up Seljestadjuvet, where the horses struggled up the steep inclines. Then over the Røldal mountains before arriving at the old stave church in Røldal—a sight that left even the most talkative gentlemen speechless for a moment.

But for Severine, these tourists were no adventure. She grew up in tight quarters at Seljestad, where the house was always full, and space had to be shared fairly—or unfairly, depending on whom you asked. The children had to help out; there was no question about that. They didn’t just run and play between the hills and rocks—they carried, they worked, they got scolded, and they laughed. Because even though life was hard, it was also filled with companionship and love.

The hay harvest came later up here than down by the fjord. Every little patch of grass had to be cut, and the hay had to be brought in before the autumn storms arrived. It was exhausting, sweaty work, but it was also summer, sunshine, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the sound of Saturday laughter echoing from the mountainsides.

Gjermund was a man who always looked ahead. He had a dream. He wanted to build a hotel at Seljestad, one that could welcome wealthy travelers, provide them with shelter and food, and perhaps even a few stories to take home with them. But he also knew that his daughters needed to go out into the world to learn languages. So they left. First Oline in 1887, then Torbjørg in 1888. The beginning of Torbjørg’s journey was captured by the tourist photographer Axel Lindahl—a snapshot from another time. In the picture, ten-year-old Severine sits on the ground, watching as her sister climbs into the carriage. Perhaps she wondered when her turn would come.

When Severine turned fourteen, she entered service with the priest in Odda. Long winter days, demanding journeys by horse and carriage over icy roads, but she never complained. She was made of strong fabric. And back home in Seljestad, plans for Hotel Folgefonn were taking shape. Gjermund had great faith in the future. And Severine—she looked ahead. She always did.

The year 1894 came like a storm over Seljestad. Not the kind that danced lightly over the mountaintops and made the snow sparkle in the sunlight. No, this was a storm that tore at the soul, creating voids that could never truly be filled.

Ann Gunna was only eighteen years old when she died. She had always been fragile, always had a heart that didn’t quite beat as it should. Yet she had smiled, laughed, sung with the others. Now she was gone, and in the cottage, there was an empty space where she used to sit—a loss that Brita felt deep in her bones. Severine too. Her sister was gone, and no words could make it better.

Then came the next blow. Just six months later, Gjermund traveled to Lofthus, as he often did. He had business to take care of—perhaps an agreement to make, perhaps some new ideas for the hotel. But this time, he never came home. Pneumonia, they said. He was only 54 years old.

Brita and Severine were left with a half-finished hotel and a dream that wasn’t entirely theirs. What were they supposed to do now? Severine, only sixteen years old, had imagined many things in life, but not this. She knew how much the hotel had meant to her father, how he had envisioned travelers from all over the world resting there after the grueling journey through the mountains. And now? Now, there was only silence. Empty rooms. Unfinished walls. A sorrow that seeped into the very wood.

But a family that had survived harsh mountain winters and worked through scorching summer days did not give up easily. Torbjørg had to come home from America. Severine pictured the great ship docking, her sister stepping onto land with a suitcase and experiences from a completely different world. She returned to a Seljestad that was no longer the same. Brita needed her. Severine needed her.

And then there was Nils, Gjermund’s brother. He took the responsibility seriously. The hotel would not stand as a monument to lost dreams—it would be completed. With work, sweat, and perhaps a few curses among the stones, it rose. But for Severine, it was no longer just a hotel. It was something more. A memory. A promise that dreams can live on, even if the one who dreamt them is no longer there.

Severine was twenty years old, and she had restless energy in her blood. The world called to her—she couldn’t just sit in Seljestad and wait for something to happen. She wanted to go out, move forward, leave. So one day, she packed her things, said goodbye to the mountains and waterfalls, to the hotel that was finally finished, and set her course for America.

First, a boat from Bergen to Newcastle, where the smoke from steamships mixed with the gray English sky. Then a train to Southampton, a long journey through a country she did not know but had seen in books. Then aboard the great American ship, a massive steel and steam colossus that carried her across the Atlantic in seven days. Seven days of waves, seven days among excited emigrants, seven days of salty air and longing for what lay ahead.

New York was chaos. The harbor buzzed with life, people rushed in all directions, voices in languages she had never heard, people shouting and waving. But she had no time to stop. The train to Chicago awaited, and in that great city lived her sister, Oline.

The plan was simple: Severine would take care of Oline’s children. A safe, Norwegian home, a gentle transition to American life. But after a few weeks, she realized this would not work. In Oline’s house, they spoke only Norwegian, and Severine wanted to learn English. She had to get out.

She found a job in a bakery. A small room in Chicago became her new home—a narrow bed, a chair, and a small washbasin. But this was where she truly learned English. She listened to the customers, smiled, answered as best she could, searched for words in her head, and slowly, the language began to fall into place.

Then, after nearly two years behind the counter, surrounded by the scent of fresh pastries and coffee, a woman walked in. A woman who looked like she was used to getting what she wanted. She bought a few baked goods, but that wasn’t what mattered. She heard that Severine wasn’t American, recognized the Scandinavian accent.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Norway,” Severine replied.

The woman nodded, as if she had been expecting exactly that answer.

"You seem like an honest and proper young woman. Scandinavian girls are trustworthy. Would you come to my home for a job interview? I need a companion."

And just like that, without planning it, Severine was drawn into a new life, one she had never imagined. She was about to work for one of the most distinguished women in Chicago. The future stood wide open.

Severine barely had time to understand what a lady’s companion was before she found herself in the middle of it. And not just for anyone. She had landed in the household of none other than the McWilliams family—people who weren’t just rich but among the wealthiest in all of America.

John Galt McWilliams had built an empire. He was a senior partner at Marshall Field’s, the famous department store chain that everyone talked about—a palace of luxury where the elite could buy everything they needed—and much they didn’t. But now, at 57, he was done with that life. He had retired. Now, he and his wife, Caroline, wanted to enjoy life. And they did.

Severine was with them.

For eight years, she worked for Caroline, and nine times she traveled to Europe. She might as well have changed her address. They didn’t stay at just any hotel—no, only the Waldorf Astoria was good enough, whether they were in Florence, Milan, Rome, Paris, or London. Hotels where marble gleamed, chandeliers cast light over grand halls, dinners lasted for hours, and the champagne never stopped flowing.

It was a fairytale life. Spring and autumn in Chicago, winter in Florida, summer in Europe. Balls and dinners, gatherings with people who owned half the city—perhaps half the country. McWilliams was a social man, someone who loved to bring people together, a host who made sure no one drank too little or laughed too rarely.

Severine was there, in the midst of this chaos of wealth and elegance, but she never truly belonged. She was not one of them, yet she was no longer the girl from Seljestad with hay in her hair. She drifted between the world she came from and the world she now lived in, and that was just fine.

She even had a suitor for a while. A fine man, someone she could have imagined a future with. He gave her a watch, a green enameled piece with a gold clover on the back, the case in red gold—so beautiful she had never seen anything like it. She wore it around her neck, a little treasure from another, warmer place.

But he couldn’t wait. Severine was always traveling, always moving somewhere between Chicago, Paris, and Rome. One day, he was gone. The watch remained, but the man? He became just a footnote in her journey.

After years of travel, luxury, and a life that seemed like something out of a novel, the day came when Severine felt it in her bones: It was time to go home.

It was 1908, and she was in Scotland, where Caroline had decided to rest after a long European tour. For the first time, Severine was given a vacation. She was free. So she packed her things and took the long road back to Seljestad. To the mountains. To the waterfalls. To the grass, which was softer beneath her feet than any carpet in the Waldorf Astoria.

But Seljestad was no longer the same. Her mother, Brita, was old. Her sister, Torbjørg, struggled with the hotel, working early and late to keep it running. And then there was Oddmund. She met him one day, and after that, everything was different. He looked at her as if she was something more than a lady’s companion from Chicago. As if she belonged here, among her own.

Suddenly, the thought of returning wasn’t so strong anymore. Yes, Caroline was waiting for her. But who was Caroline, really? A life of social events, ballgowns, and glittering salons—was that truly her life? Or was it here she was meant to be, with Oddmund, with Torbjørg, with the mother who needed her?

And so, she did something she never thought she would do. She sent a telegram to Caroline. She had to resign.

But even though she had made her decision, it wasn’t easy. There were days when she woke up feeling the pull of Chicago, the travels, everything she had known as her life for the past years. A part of her wanted to leave. She had even packed her suitcase once. But Oddmund? He looked at her, took her hand, didn’t say much—just enough to make her stay. Enough to make the suitcase stay, too.

Caroline did not take it well. Severine knew there would be a reaction, but she hadn’t expected this. A few years later, Caroline boarded a ship herself, crossed the Atlantic, and traveled all the way to Odda. She was determined to persuade Severine to return.

But Severine didn’t dare bring her to Seljestad. She booked a room in a hotel in Odda, let Caroline believe she lived there, and met her dressed in fine clothes, with a polite smile.

Caroline returned home without Severine.

And Severine? She stayed.

Severine didn’t just settle at Seljestad—she found her place in life, a rhythm she recognized from childhood, but now with a different sense of peace. From 1908 to 1912, she worked closely with Torbjørg, doing what she had always done: keeping everything running. But even though she was now part of daily life at the hotel, her routine wasn’t tied to Seljestad alone. For a period, she lived in Vinje and worked at the Grand Hotel in Haukeligrend, nestled between fjords and mountains, where travelers would stop for a cup of coffee and a short rest before continuing their journey.

Then she married, and life took another turn. She moved to Odda, where Oddmund had found work in the growing industrial sector around the fjord, where smoke rose from factory chimneys and people spoke of progress and the future. Severine worked at Sentral Caféen in Odda, run by Torbjørg—a place where people came for a cup of coffee and the latest news. She stood behind the counter, watching as Odda changed, as the factories grew, as people came and went.

But then, when Gulla was seven years old, they moved back to Seljestad. Back home.

Between 1912 and 1916, Severine had three children. First came Guri, whom she wanted to name Gyldenstjerne—because why not? But the priest in Odda was not the type to be charmed by such things. “No,” he said, “her name must be Guri.” So Guri it was. But no one ever called her that. All her life, she was known as Gulla. Severine’s treasure.

In 1915, the next child was born: Gjermund Odin Peder. Where did Odin come from? That question lingered for generations. Was there still a touch of Norse mythology in Seljestad? Someone trying to appease the old gods? But no, that wasn’t the case. He was never called Gjermund, not even once. He was Demma his entire life.

In 1916, the last son arrived: Oddmund Teodor. But that name didn’t last long either. From the very first day, he was called Omte, and that was that.

So in the house at Seljestad, Gulla, Demma, and Omte grew up—three children with names that told their own stories, three kids who found their place in the mountains. And they were not just anyone. They were exceptional skiers, especially Gulla, who dominated competitions, even though she mostly raced against boys. She won, they complained, she won again. There was no debate—Gulla was the best.

Severine lived her entire life at Seljestad, between snow-heavy winters and long summers with grass under her feet. The winter lay thick over the mountains, and the river where she washed clothes always felt a little too far away, especially on days when her body was tired. But she never complained. This was her home, her life, her choice.

The last years were different. Her body no longer obeyed her will. She suffered a stroke and had to move to Odda. To the nursing home. It wasn’t quite how she had imagined growing old, but she adjusted. Until one day, they did the unthinkable: they cut her hair. The long, beautiful hair she had carried all her life. Too much work, they said. Easier to manage, they said.

But they didn’t know Gulla.

Gulla stormed in, furious as a winter storm rolling down from the mountains. No one touched her mother’s hair. No one. So she packed up Severine’s things, took her home, and that’s where she stayed. For the last two years of her life, she lived with Gulla, surrounded by warmth and care, until, in late February 1967, she took her final breath at 89 years old.

People have wondered. They have looked at what she gave up, at the life she could have had, and asked themselves: Why? Why did she trade a first-class life in Chicago for a hard life in Seljestad?

But the answer is simple.

Greatest of all is love.

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_{Cover photo: Seljestad skysstasjon. Photo: Kraftmuseet. (Severine sitting on the ground)}