My good luck continues. It’s still gray and drizzly just outside my vine-covered, thought-gazing window. Fortunately, leaves cover it just enough so it takes a while for me to even notice that the blasted blasting sun is out when it emerges. Which will be soon today the weather goblin tells me.
But back to Sweden—but this will be short. I must move on.
Sweden is different. So little of my DNA, such a strong representation because of my mom. More about that in a minute. First just a quick bit about some early Swedes from a previous post.
Back in the ninth through eleventh centuries, the Swedes were raiding, slaving, exploring, and settling Eastern Europe. They ventured as far south as Constantinople and Baghdad and became the Rus of Saint Petersburg and Kyiv. The Swedish Vikings were said to be men of the rivers instead of the seas, following known trade routes and eventually adopting much from the already established European and Byzantine kingdoms. Vikings are often thought of as one big conglomeration of muscular blonds in love with lives of plunder and derring-do. The truth is, they were settlers as often as raiders, and while they had much in common, the Norwegians, Danes, and Swedes generally went their separate ways based on geographic realities.
As you already know, my mom, Ovidia Mathilda Floren, had a Norwegian dad from Trondheim Norway. Her mom, my grandmother, Magnhild Strom, is the Swede in my family; Per Strom, Magnhild’s dad, had origins going way back in the area around Funasdalen, Sweden. I cannot say very much about Magnhild’s mother, Maret Olofsson, except that ancestry records show a Norwegian heritage and my grandmother claimed she was half-Norwegian and half-Swede. What records there are show her as born in Nordland, Norway in the far north of the country.
With the help of the Swedish cousins and ancestry.com, I was able to establish this branch of the family tree back to Gullick Matsson who lived from 1670 to 1744. Long story short there was Gullik, who had a son Sven Gulliksson Strom (this is where the name Strom first appears) born in 1716, who had a son Gullik Svensson Strom born in 1753, who had a son, Sven Gulliksson Strom, born in 1778 who married Kirstin Steffansdotter and had several children, among them, Staffan Svensson Strom, born 1808—who was my great-great grandfather, the father of Per Strom, my great-grandfather, the father of Magnhild, my grandmother.
The photos above were taken out at the farm where Per, Maret, and their children, including the small girl, Magnhild, lived before they emigrated. At least that is the story passed down to me.
Staffan’s sister, Gertrude, married Olof Jonsson, her son was Jon Olofsson who married Sigrid Hansdotter, and they were grandparents to Manfred and Gustav and their cousins Jenny and Gunilla, all of whom I met on my visit to Sweden.
According to Swedish cousin research, Per and his ancestors, going back some generations, were miners. There was a huge mine in the area, owned by one man, who may have also owned adjoining farmland where the miners could grow some things for their personal use. Since Per went on to become a successful South Dakota farmer he probably had some experience farming before coming to America.
The get-together with the cousins was friendly and felt so family-familiar. Again, the following was written shortly after my visit.
I am so happy to have met Gustav, Manfred, Margareta, Steig, Gunilla, and Jenny. What warm and interesting people they are. Their work is varied including building, plumbing, and working with people with hearing disabilities and assisting young migrants and refugees to Sweden with the education and means to make new lives. One of them, Jenny, is an accomplished local researcher and writer, and one of a number of people I’ve met over the years that I would have wanted to know, but with whom language made easy communication impossible. I’m so pleased to be part of this agreeable new Swedish family.
Although some family members live nearer the urban regions like Stockholm, the people I’ve now met all choose to remain here in what surely must be one of the most rural parts of Sweden. These families’ histories go far back in this part of the country. Funasdalen is a small town but the only town around, every other habitation is far in the country or in tiny villages. It’s hilly and tree-covered there and reminds me of the countryside east of Duluth. In the summer the reindeer herds come through, hundreds maybe thousands. It seems they’re owned by Sami for the most part but I’m not sure how the grazing situation works.
What I want to say about this visit is this. While I’m pretty thoroughly Norwegian by blood and culture and connections, the fact that my mom’s mother was Swedish means there’s a stronger link with this place and these people than might otherwise seem likely. The Swedishness of Grandma Magnhild, who came to the U.S. as a child, but was brought up in a generally Swedish household, would have greatly influenced her daughter, my mom. The Sweden my grandparents left was deeply conservative, repressed to some degree by both the Lutheran church and the monarchy. I have no idea whether that had something to do with my mom’s deep conservatism, and initial devotion to the Lutheran church but one assumes it might. And was my dad right when he said her equally deep stubbornness was part of her Swedish heritage! But here’s the most important cultural hand-me-down…and this is very big to a lefse worshiper…my mom made Swedish lefse! Flour and cream and butter and sugar. No potatoes. Much better.
The last thing I wrote after the visit to Funasdalen. Here in Sweden some small things felt so familiar such as mom’s way of saying thank you—a thousand thousand thanks or tusen tusen tack. Also, the scrambled eggs at my hotel were sweetened and only mom did that. If only I could call her and share these moments.
Carelessly and sadly, I have lost track of the Swedish cousins. And even though I feel close and in touch with my wonderful Norwegian family, I will see very little, if anything, of them in the future. It feels almost tragic to me that old age severs love and affection and camaraderie so surely. That even in this age of instant and easy communication and rapid and accessible transportation, we separate, trying to hang on to something of that easy pleasure and shared interests with kids and grandkids and cousins and best friends and friend-friends, and it just dwindles away….
Sun’s out. Gentled by September. The grocery store beckons. Life still does go on….