All of my life I’ve eaten Swedish meatballs at Christmas, learned the art of making Swedish pancakes from my grandpa, and heard stories about my ancestors on boats to America from Sweden because “we are Swedish.”
This has always been a bit funny to me because, while perhaps physically I could pass for a Swede with my bluish eyes, blondish hair, and hearty eaters arms, I’d never even set foot in Sweden and the only Swedish word I know is Valkommen. Growing up, being of Swedish descent hasn’t really affected my life in anyway—although I always found it bizarre that in the ethnic hodgepodge that is the United States, my ancestors were able to preserve their pure Swedish blood all the way down to my mother’s generation, who was born more than 80 years after our first ancestors immigrated to the U.S. Of course, she went ahead and married my father—a mutt of German, Scottish, and English heritage—making me only 50% Swedish. But in this day and age, that is still quite a lot.
So when we were planning on being in Europe, I decided I wanted to take the opportunity to see this distant “homeland” of mine and see if it indeed felt anything like home. Fortunately, my mother (along with Josh’s mother, who isn’t Swedish, but has married into the heritage) was able to join us. I say “fortunately” mostly because it was a special experience to share with family, but also because Sweden is crazy expensive, so it was nice to get a little support from “the moms.”
After spending a few days in Stockholm, we rented a car and began our journey into the past. We had lots of chicken scratch notes of where our ancestors had lived, but no real map, so it was basically like setting out on a wild goose chase sometimes. As we drove south into the Smaland region, we began to look for the small village of Asebo, where my grandmother’s father’s father lived before he came to the U.S. at the age of 12. As we drove through the countryside, it wasn’t hard to see why the Swedes would prefer Minnesota. The land looked very similar to our state, dotted with lakes, surrounded by trees and rocky cliffs, like the north shore. At one point, when we got lost, we stopped to ask a friendly bus driver for directions. She hadn’t heard of the town, but was aware of the area, and with her directions we fell right into the grips of this hillside village.
The word “village” even seemed a bit of an overstatement for little Asebo, as it stood in front of us with all of its 5 or 6 buildings. It was peaceful and in the middle of nowhere, and I wondered what life must have been like to make them leave the serenity and venture such a great distance to Harris, MN.
The rest of the week we meandered through Villesjo, the town outside Malmo where Josh’s great grandfather came from; the seaside town of Frillesas where my great, great grandmother Sophia left for America, and Bengtsfors, where my great, great grandmother Melvina boarded a boat right from her dock in her teens to find her love, Ben, who had left for America ahead of her.
The places were beautiful—picturesque towns near rolling open fields or tucked back in the forest near a lake. And there was always a lovely church involved in the visit, with at least some of my ancestors having been baptized, confirmed, buried, or having participated in the construction of the church.
This is what struck me the most—the line of faith that has transcended so many generations, all the way to me and to be passed to my own children. It was my grandparents who brought my mother to church, and it was my mother who insisted making church a priority for our family as I grew up. And it strikes me that no matter what really drove my ancestors to their knees or in the doors of the church, their faith remains alive in me to this day. That, and of course their love for pancakes. And for this, I am grateful.
~Jessie, May 25th, 2007
