My Ancestral Home
by Louis Jenkins
by Louis Jenkins
We came to a beautiful little farm. From photos I'd seen
I knew this was the place. The house and barn were
painted in the traditional Falu red, trimmed with white.
It was nearly midsummer, the trees and grass, lush green.
When we arrived the family was gathered at a table on the
lawn for coffee and fresh strawberries. Introductions were
made all around, Grandpa Sven, Lars-Olaf and Marie, Eric
and Gudren, Cousin Inge and her two children ... It made
me think of a Carl Larsen painting. But, of course, it was
all modern, the Swedes are very up-to-date, Lars-Olaf was
an engineer for Volvo, and they all spoke perfect English,
except for Grandpa, and there was a great deal of laughter
over my attempts at Swedish. We stayed for a long time
laughing and talking, it was late in the day but the sun was
still high. I felt a wonderful kinship. It seemed to me that
I had known these people all my life, they even looked
like family back in the States. But as it turned out we had
come to the wrong farm. Lars-Olaf said, "I think I know
your people, they live about three miles from here. If you
like I could give them a call." I said that no, that it wasn't
necessary, this was close enough.
I knew this was the place. The house and barn were
painted in the traditional Falu red, trimmed with white.
It was nearly midsummer, the trees and grass, lush green.
When we arrived the family was gathered at a table on the
lawn for coffee and fresh strawberries. Introductions were
made all around, Grandpa Sven, Lars-Olaf and Marie, Eric
and Gudren, Cousin Inge and her two children ... It made
me think of a Carl Larsen painting. But, of course, it was
all modern, the Swedes are very up-to-date, Lars-Olaf was
an engineer for Volvo, and they all spoke perfect English,
except for Grandpa, and there was a great deal of laughter
over my attempts at Swedish. We stayed for a long time
laughing and talking, it was late in the day but the sun was
still high. I felt a wonderful kinship. It seemed to me that
I had known these people all my life, they even looked
like family back in the States. But as it turned out we had
come to the wrong farm. Lars-Olaf said, "I think I know
your people, they live about three miles from here. If you
like I could give them a call." I said that no, that it wasn't
necessary, this was close enough.
Joanne and I made five trips to Norway, I think she made eight total. In Oppdal, her cousin Ola Erik, showed us where her grandfather's house had stood. On the island of Averoy, we stayed with my cousin, Varda, next to the now abandoned house where my grandfather was born. Significant roots...with all of our ancestors leaving Norway for America. The hospitality we experienced was similar to that in the humorous poem above.
The sunset tonight was spectacular and it lasted exceptionally long...not just a brief moment. Driving to The Little House gave me the full view. Three or four inches on snow lay on my sidewalk seeming to have fallen without wind, which hardly ever happens here on the prairie.
Takk for alt,
Al
PS Last night's Mary Oliver poem touched many...thanks for emails/texts and posts.
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