Where the Swedish Folk Live

We took a northern detour to Minneapolis, my home city to visit my relatives.
I am Swedish, come from a good-looking, tall and fair-skinned family. My grandfather, Roy, is truly eccentric. When I was a kid, he made homemade kites that were transparent and strong enough to send up lawn chairs with dummies sitting in them so it looked like people were floating in the clouds. He’d attach a timed bucket to release hundreds of notes to float through the air with little messages like, “Where am I?” or "How far are you from here?"

He made homemade ice cream, peanut brittle and fudge—the old fashioned way. He hated modern technology and often destroyed his television. He would go on juice fasts and preach health to everyone but loved Kozy Shack Rice Pudding. He would re-invent things like the toilet lever to flush. He’d rip it out and replace it with a string and a cork. Of course you wouldn't know about some of these re-inventions until you used his bathroom and then sat perplexed with the prehistoric levers he would put in modern's place.

Roy was a fantastic pianist and painter. He would turn to you in the middle of doing something and share a deep thought of his. He was always thinking about the wonderful and amazing things the body could do: He would call feet "earth pads" and would sit down with you and demonstrate the dexterity of your hand or how amazing it is to hold chop sticks.

My mother would tell me stories how he could lie on his back and hover a round grape over his mouth by simply blowing steadily on it. He would use fruit to explain the solar system. He would have his children gather the edges of a sheet and walk into high wind storms to really feel the gust and respect the force of nature.

He’s 94 now and my Uncle Roger picked up Roy to bring him to see us at a little sendoff for us organized by the family. He looked good despite a rough past six months and he asked to hold baby Keegan. I carefully placed him in Roy's arms and Keegan looked up and touched his great grandfather's face. A long gaze was shared and we all watched with great pleasure.

Also at the party was my Great Auntie La La. Fancy as they come, with false eyelashes and enough flare to send any room afire. Age cannot tarnish her beauty and wit.

At 88, she came into the party room with, “I need a drink before the fight starts!”

My mother, puzzled and a little curious, “What fight?”

“The fight between me and the bar tender when he finds out I have no money!” she laughs.

Now understand this: Auntie La has come from a legend--Great Grandma Ruby. Ruby was known to call the ambulance for her husband reporting that he was sick. Upon admittance, the doctors would find nothing wrong with him and he would return home only to find his wife, Ruby, all dressed up and ready to go out and party. That "Ruby Gene" has gotten a lot of us women in trouble... including myself. That's how I met my husband--having a "Ruby Moment."

So all was well and we enjoyed a good evening together. The children behaived as well as they could. Bono chucked a pool ball down the steps but did no harm. It was late and we continued on to my step-dad's farm to spend the night.