My Family Migration
I am born of the coiled strands of DNA that ran through my ancestors. My grandmother’s constantly moving hands, my grandfather’s quiet personality, stoic practicality, maybe a naughty streak, a little toughness, blue eyes, all that and more passed down to me through a little genetic code. As I watch my children, I wonder if a certain trait of theirs can be traced back to someone who lived and died long before they or I were even a thought in the universe; something from someone who lived on a shore on the other side of the earth; someone whose home was a log cabin, or an adobe, a farm, or a fjord; someone who worked the land and dreamed of the city, or sewed by candlelight, or fought in a war, or traveled across seas to reach a new land.
Both sides of my family immigrated to America from Germany and Norway several generations ago; removing themselves from their original places of origin for various reasons. One of my German great grandfathers came here as a small boy with his Uncle who was running from the law for counterfeiting and needed a young child as part of his ploy to elude the authorities. Another of my German great great grandfathers came here to America and fought in the Civil War, stationed to protect settlers in the northern territories from the uprising Native Americans. I wonder what he thought of his position, or what he would say about it now. One set of Norwegian great great grandparents came here to raise their illegitimate grandson, my grandfather, as their own son, away from the disapproving eyes of a conservative nation, a family secret well hidden to even his children until his death. Still, another set of great great grandparents moved here from Norway to find land for farming, as their own country became squeezed for soil. Their children, including my great grandmother, never learned English, as there was no reason to in rural Minnesota. Her daughter, my Grandmother, had the benefit of learning the ancestral language because of it. Unfortunately it stopped with her.
I was fortunate to visit Norway and Germany, several years ago, traveling a trail of ancestral roots; a graveyard of names, churches where baptisms took place; land that was toiled over, generations ago, and grass roofed houses that still stood preserved after 400 years. Norway loves its history; records are kept, names are never removed, and farms are revered historic places. Germany, and it’s storied past, seems to move on from history more readily, as land is a precious commodity, and development has to move forward.
Minnesota is where all of my ancestors eventually landed here in America, and the city of Minneapolis is where I visited my German maternal grandmother and grandfather as a child. I remember the house and everything in it like it was my own. I inherited my grandmother’s little Maple bedroom set and her pots and pans, but I often wonder what happened to some of the other items etched in my memory. Except for the occasional sauerkraut and the recipes of my grandmother’s sweet treats we got when we visited, cultural heritage from that side of the family is a bit limited. It’s mainly relegated to a few boxed up and preserved personal items, and memories; although the trunk my great great grandfather brought here from Germany is proudly displayed among my mother’s possessions, now filled with old photos.
My father’s family eventually settled in rural North West Minnesota, in amongst the farming townships. Agriculture is what they knew in Norway, and it is what they carried with them to America. Ties to their homeland remained faithful; letters to relatives were abundant; cultural heritage remained strong, and their new community was filled with citizens of the same background who were mindful of the same traditions.
My summers growing up were always filled with adventurous road trips from our home in the big city to visit my father’s hometown, where my brother and I played among the crops, teased the sheep, dared each other to go in the ghost filled basement, happily got lost in the forest, and rode the tractor with our grandfather. My paternal grandmother never stopped moving and doing, unless she had an unexpected guest, in which case, out came the tin of cookies in the freezer, and the coffee, and good conversation around the kitchen table ensued. She was always cooking or cleaning or helping others, as there was, of course, always something to be done living on a farm.
My mother and father reluctantly moved to Los Angeles, for career opportunities, before I was born, but they have always maintained ties to Minnesota. My father, in particular, has always been interested in keeping family traditions, preserving the stories of his childhood, and caring for meaningful personal and cultural items that have been left behind.
Over the years, I have come to appreciate all of the little histories, cultural details, and traditions that have been knowingly and unknowingly passed down to me through my parents. The love of land and space to think and roam, quiet Sunday’s spent socializing and connecting with friends and family, hospitality to those less fortunate, a never give up attitude, the spirit of adventure, and creative hands are all deeply seeped in my soul from all of my ancestral corners.
My traditions and cultural heritage are different from my ancestors, and no matter how hard I might try to preserve an exact history, time and place has changed who I am, just as it did for them. I have made new traditions, an amalgamation of past and present, California, Minnesota, farm and city, Norway and Germany. I won’t and can’t forget though, that I come from that dusty old trunk carried across land and sea, the musty treasure filled barn built among acres of Minnesota crops, the basement stacked with homemade preserves, the Norwegian and German memories passed through pictures and stories told across a kitchen table, the handmade quilts and crocheted blankets made by quiet candlelight, and thankfully the coiled strands of DNA imprinted with everything that I am and those that were before me.
Both sides of my family immigrated to America from Germany and Norway several generations ago; removing themselves from their original places of origin for various reasons. One of my German great grandfathers came here as a small boy with his Uncle who was running from the law for counterfeiting and needed a young child as part of his ploy to elude the authorities. Another of my German great great grandfathers came here to America and fought in the Civil War, stationed to protect settlers in the northern territories from the uprising Native Americans. I wonder what he thought of his position, or what he would say about it now. One set of Norwegian great great grandparents came here to raise their illegitimate grandson, my grandfather, as their own son, away from the disapproving eyes of a conservative nation, a family secret well hidden to even his children until his death. Still, another set of great great grandparents moved here from Norway to find land for farming, as their own country became squeezed for soil. Their children, including my great grandmother, never learned English, as there was no reason to in rural Minnesota. Her daughter, my Grandmother, had the benefit of learning the ancestral language because of it. Unfortunately it stopped with her.
I was fortunate to visit Norway and Germany, several years ago, traveling a trail of ancestral roots; a graveyard of names, churches where baptisms took place; land that was toiled over, generations ago, and grass roofed houses that still stood preserved after 400 years. Norway loves its history; records are kept, names are never removed, and farms are revered historic places. Germany, and it’s storied past, seems to move on from history more readily, as land is a precious commodity, and development has to move forward.
Minnesota is where all of my ancestors eventually landed here in America, and the city of Minneapolis is where I visited my German maternal grandmother and grandfather as a child. I remember the house and everything in it like it was my own. I inherited my grandmother’s little Maple bedroom set and her pots and pans, but I often wonder what happened to some of the other items etched in my memory. Except for the occasional sauerkraut and the recipes of my grandmother’s sweet treats we got when we visited, cultural heritage from that side of the family is a bit limited. It’s mainly relegated to a few boxed up and preserved personal items, and memories; although the trunk my great great grandfather brought here from Germany is proudly displayed among my mother’s possessions, now filled with old photos.
My father’s family eventually settled in rural North West Minnesota, in amongst the farming townships. Agriculture is what they knew in Norway, and it is what they carried with them to America. Ties to their homeland remained faithful; letters to relatives were abundant; cultural heritage remained strong, and their new community was filled with citizens of the same background who were mindful of the same traditions.
My summers growing up were always filled with adventurous road trips from our home in the big city to visit my father’s hometown, where my brother and I played among the crops, teased the sheep, dared each other to go in the ghost filled basement, happily got lost in the forest, and rode the tractor with our grandfather. My paternal grandmother never stopped moving and doing, unless she had an unexpected guest, in which case, out came the tin of cookies in the freezer, and the coffee, and good conversation around the kitchen table ensued. She was always cooking or cleaning or helping others, as there was, of course, always something to be done living on a farm.
My mother and father reluctantly moved to Los Angeles, for career opportunities, before I was born, but they have always maintained ties to Minnesota. My father, in particular, has always been interested in keeping family traditions, preserving the stories of his childhood, and caring for meaningful personal and cultural items that have been left behind.
Over the years, I have come to appreciate all of the little histories, cultural details, and traditions that have been knowingly and unknowingly passed down to me through my parents. The love of land and space to think and roam, quiet Sunday’s spent socializing and connecting with friends and family, hospitality to those less fortunate, a never give up attitude, the spirit of adventure, and creative hands are all deeply seeped in my soul from all of my ancestral corners.
My traditions and cultural heritage are different from my ancestors, and no matter how hard I might try to preserve an exact history, time and place has changed who I am, just as it did for them. I have made new traditions, an amalgamation of past and present, California, Minnesota, farm and city, Norway and Germany. I won’t and can’t forget though, that I come from that dusty old trunk carried across land and sea, the musty treasure filled barn built among acres of Minnesota crops, the basement stacked with homemade preserves, the Norwegian and German memories passed through pictures and stories told across a kitchen table, the handmade quilts and crocheted blankets made by quiet candlelight, and thankfully the coiled strands of DNA imprinted with everything that I am and those that were before me.