My Swedish Grandfather

In this picture I’m about about six months old, flanked by my father and grandfather.  It was taken around 1957. 

My grandfather was named Sigurd Larson.  My earliest memories are sitting on his lap, playing with his watch.   He was sweet and gentle.  As I got older, my sister and brother and I would giggle over his thick accent and pronunciation of words like baby, which he called “bee bee”. 

Grandpa grew up in Stockholm. When he was 13, he received a bad report card and rather than face his stern mother, stowed away on a merchant ship.  The seamen found him and not knowing what else to do, put him to work.  Grandpa sailed around the world. 

Years later, the ship docked in New York harbor where he decided this was the end of the line. Grandpa walked off the ship, disappearing into the streets of lower Manhattan.  In time he met another Swedish immigrant, my grandmother Bertha.  They ended up owning a chicken farm in Manchester, New Hampshire.  He and my grandmother had two boys.  Grandpa also made a living as a roofer.

Decades later he returned to Stockholm to see his family, bringing his first son, my Uncle Richard.  There he was reunited with his mother, now an old woman. 

In later years, Grandma and Grandpa moved to Danbury, CT.   His last months were spent in the hospital.  I was fourteen when he died, no longer a little girl climbing onto his lap.  Instead I was a teenager, mostly interested in boys, clothes, and fitting in.   Looking back, I wish I had my grandfather longer.  I wish I could hear his accent, listen to his stories and see his face again.  Over forty years later, I can still hear him say “bee bee” and smile.