This fifth installment update was submitted by David Anderson’s sister, Debra Holmstedt.
Here I sit, gazing at green
fields lined with purple and pink lupine, which this year is blooming early in
Sweden. I am taken up by the
peacefulness, quiet cries of birds and a solitary cat roaming in the
grasses. And my thoughts go back to just
a week ago, in sunny California, preparing to fly away from North America for
the first time, to visit the roots of my father.
It has taken my brother a number of
years to persuade me to travel to Sweden. The heart and practicality have
finally blended to allow me to fly from Sacramento to Chicago, then to
Frankfurt—sitting next to residents of Europe who share in my native tongue
their thoughts of America--where I meet my brother and we fly towards Stockholm
together.
Flying
out of Frankfurt I have been allowed the window seat and long to see the land
of my father’s forefathers, but am greeted with a blanket of clouds, solid, but
not forboding. Finally we land, securing
our luggage, Stockholm cards, and tickets to ride the express train into
Stockholm. We quietly speed through the Swedish countryside, seeing the first
of the red houses which dot the landscape and I pinch myself—for I have been
transported to a new world. I am in
Sweden.
We
disembark, and walk up into a world of new juxtaposed into history—boat-lined
waterways, great hotels, and cobblestone streets which require careful
navigating. (I don’t believe I am the
first to trip in the uneven pavement, excitement and attention drawn to the
surroundings and not to the placement of my feet.) Finding myself face down on the sidewalk I am
met with the concern of strangers, who run to assist me if needed, and I am
grateful for their kindness.
In the
days ahead, my initial excitement has calmed enough so that I learn to absorb
the sights and sounds of this land, descending circular staircases to a
breakfast smorgasbord of hard breads, cheeses, muesli and Swedish sour milk and
other new foods, climbing towers to thrilling views, walking trails through
ancient sites and restored homes filled with treasures from the past. Here and there I try to speak the limited
Swedish I have learned, grateful for the generosity and patience with which it
is received while interacting first hand with native Swedes.
And I am
beginning to see and understand my father.
Somehow, before he ever visited this land where his father was born, my
father built our compact but efficient home with wood-grained floors, the barn
for cows and sheep, and somehow the Swedish heritage that was in him came
through whether he realized it or not.
And as I am introduced to my roots, I am able to share it with my
brother, who has traced relatives and planned the trip so that I can really see
Sweden.
For more
than two days (not nearly enough) we walk and ride the streets of Stockholm,
often with guidance from relatives distant in connection but now close in
heart, seeing sights and learning about this beautiful city not shared by the
common tourist. And the only regret has
been for the giant cruise ship which came up into the city waterways, rotated,
then turned away and left Stockholm, and the passengers on board excitedly
perhaps remarking they had seen Stockholm.
Debra
Holmstedt
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