In Memoriam

I'm a little hazy on the details. I just didn't pay close attention to all those discussions of my relatives at family gatherings. I think it was my great great grandfather who came here from Sweden. Or was it my great grandfather. The family name was Johannson then. But I can hear my uncle's voice explaining how the immigration official thought we had too many Johannsons in this country already so he summarily gave this particular newcomer the surname of Lengquist. Welcome to America. Have a nice day. 

He was a craftsman, this great grandfather (or maybe great great grandfather) of mine. Worked with a specialized set of tools to carve furniture. I saw them once all neatly arrayed, the fascinating variety of curved blades, chisels, and gougers capturing my attention. Even at that young age I had an eye for exceptional shapes and intriguing design. How interesting to contemplate, too, that a love of wood could be in my blood.

My grandfather didn't go into the furniture making trade as his forbears had. He was a gregarious man with an ability to make friends easily. And not surprisingly he ended up a salesman for a different industry. A very successful one at that. In a working class midwestern town, he created an upper middle class existence for his family. And not surprisingly in that Illinois city brimming with immigrants from Sjömarken, Borås, and Vikingstad, he took another Swedish-American for his wife. 

These two, Joel and Ebba, raised a family in a proud house on a prominent street in their hometown. First, a son. Then a daughter. And what family is without its friction? Again, memory fails. Something about the boy, my uncle, not wanting to follow in his father's footsteps. (And believe me, standing well over six foot, my grandfather could be an imposing patriarch. Well, at least I know where I get my height from.) And off to the American south the boy went for college. Putting a little distance between himself and the old man, I imagine. And for good measure, found himself a Southern belle to marry, a lady of great gentility and infinite patience. 

The daughter, on the other hand, had suitors. But whether she played her cards poorly or merely suffered from the hand she was dealt, her youth was fast fleeting by the time she met my father. There was time spent at Drake University. But then I lose the thread explaining why she finished her bachelor's degree living at home and attending Rockford College. Apparently life did not go as planned. But then, when does it? Economics degree in hand, this young woman pursued a career of her own. Was that the choice that kept her from marrying the boy that caught her eye? I remember her describing him with a wistful sound in her voice. He chose another woman to settle down and raise a family with. Fortunately, my mother caught the eye of a young ex-Navy man who was pursuing a career of his own. 

The man was good Scots-Irish stock from the coal mining country of West Virginia. But never mind his heritage. My father's family were American through and through. Not exactly DAR material, but there are ancestors who can be traced to revolutionary times.

My mother's family, on the hand, wore their connection to country proudly. Memories of Nordic flavored Christmases abound. I can recall many a holiday both brightened (in my childhood estimation) by the appearance of traditional Spritz cookies and confounded by the materialization of more questionable buffet table treats such as knackebrod, pickled herring, and lutefisk. What alien land was this? My parents raised me in the temperate latitudes of Texas, Alabama, and Oklahoma. Imagine being bundled north when the days were at their shortest and the winter weather at its fiercest to wear my most uncomfortable clothes for the dubious pleasure of being poked at and admired by relatives six times my age. (And as an only child with no cousins to speak of, I was often the only one under 20 present. Hell, I was often the only one under 40!) It was as foreign to me surely as a trip to Sweden itself would have been. And yet these were my people. Pictures of my father standing on the outside looking in. And my Southern aunt. I have to say, I felt I had more in common with them.

And yet, here I am reveling on the internet about my fascination with a Swedish shoe style. I never heard of anyone in my mother's family wearing wooden shoes. (And why would they? Isn't that the shoe of the common laborers? Perhaps they assimilated to American ways to adequately distance themselves from those "unsavory" roots. Yet we never completely leave our past behind. Could that be what clogs symbolize in my own life? More reflection is required.

But today I find myself at the contemporary end of this far reaching heritage. The child of the child of the child of Swedish immigrants. Through my mother I gain a glimpse of where I came from, the cultural DNA that makes me the complicated creature that I am. And though she and I did not see eye to eye in her later years (on politics, on religion, on what I should be doing for a career, on how to raise children, on...well, you get the idea), I have to acknowledge the times of warmth and connection she brought to my childhood. Memories here of my father being away, and she and I playing cards late into the night in the summer. We had a book of Hoyle and enjoyed trying new and unfamiliar games on a regular basis. Memories of her boundless love of music. Sunday morning with my mother in her choir robe belting out a hymn alongside the other ladies with their teased hair. Memories of her driving me to junior high and picking me up most afternoons. (By now she had abandoned her career to be a homemaker. What else would she need to spend her time on?) Memories of us dyeing Easter eggs together. Or baking Christmas cookies together. Or simply enjoying our favorite fast food tacos and burritos together. Clearly, I got some of my love of life from her.

Memories come back to me in bits and pieces. And fortunately so. They help displace the images of the onset of my mother's dementia, the woman hobbling along with her walker, the conversation in which it became clear she didn't remember my marriage, my kids, my father. And mercifully they wash away the thoughts of the woman who two months ago experienced such a profound change in her presence and well being that I can only think she suffered a stroke (though none of the doctors seemed comfortable using that term). The completely enfeebled woman is gone, and instead I am free to range through my mental photo album to revel in our good times in Virginia (buying our first family pet), in Arkansas (marveling at the beautiful retirement home she and my father built of themselves), in Kentucky (chuckling about the young married couple that lived above us—that pounding on the wall was simply the headboard rocking as they enjoyed a little afternoon delight). 

Memories must now suffice. My mother passed away Wednesday morning at the age of 89. Her long fade to white is over. But of course, she lives on in my heart and in my spirit and in the many ways that her heritage handed down to me the things that make me the person that I am. 

 

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[On my feet as I blog:  something tasteful and muted in black.]

 

Comments

[Debby]

You have my sympathy.

[Melissa Krebs]

A lovely tribute; you make me wish I could have known her. I am sorry for your loss, and hold you and your family in my thoughts.

[Johanna]

My condolences to you.
A touching tribute to your mother and family.

[Tea]

I am so sorry for your loss.

[Natealine]

Such a moving tribute. My prayers to you and your family.

[A.D.]

God bless u and your family.
A.D.

[Evan]

When my 16 year old Labrador moved on this year people would say "they were sorry for my loss." The thing is that I gained so much with the dog in my life that I was a better person knowing her. I do not mean to compare your mom with a dog but, with the fact that your mom created a person who is loved and appreciated by all the readers here on ECHID. I know that there are not any words that will change how you are feeling now. I will say that I look forward to your post everyday with the excitement of a dog seeing her owner come home. Thank you for sharing with us. It makes me feel like extended family.

I hope peace and comfort finds you soon.

Cheers mom.

[Matt Paul]

I'm Very Sorry to hear of your Loss!
i know how tough this is as I lost my Father when I was 11 and my Mother 15 years ago.
But she will live for forever in your memories.
May God Bless you and all of you family!

[Jan Deibert]

I am so sorry to hear this. We must hold the happy memories of our mothers in our hearts and let them soothe us as we grieve. This has helped me over the last seven years . . .

[London Lady]

My condolences.

[Warren -South Africa]

Lindsey, that was a very special piece of writing... and a fitting tribute to your beloved mother. Wishing you strength and condolences...

[George]

Lindsey, I'm so sorry. I missed reading your blog yesterday and look what I missed. A truly beautiful, moving tribute to a wonderful woman.

[Kate Scanlan]

What a lovely memoir Lindsey... I hope those lovely memories will wrap themselves around you and give you warmth whenever you're feeling the chill of your loss

[T Scott]

Thank you for sharing such a wonderful tribute. For those who have lost a parent(s), the end days are not always their best. It's the earlier memories that will help keep them with us. Sorry for your loss. Our thoughts are with your family.

[Kathy Ann]

My sincere condolences. The loss of a parent at any age is difficult. You are, however, blessed to have had her with you for so many years. My Mom died at age 56 from breast cancer over 20 years ago. You penned a fantastic tribute.

[Kathy Ann]

PS: I should add that I can relate to the ethnic background. My Mom was half Swedish and half German, second hubby is of Dutch and Italian descent. But we were Nordic "minorities"--all Roman Catholic. (I think the Catholics in Sweden can meet in a phone booth!) First hubby was Scots-Irish and forever picking a fight, always looking for trouble, not the qualities you look for in a police officer.

Again, my heart goes out to you. We just buried my widowed aunt (and godmother) back in October. She suffered from Alzheimer's since 2003 and I was her primary care giver, along with some hired help. A very hard thing to watch as she deteriorated. Death was a relief for her.