The Civil War hadn’t been over more then ten years when my great-grandfather, Peter J., became suspicious one day. Newly arrived in the United States, battling a language barrier and attempting to support his growing family on his meager teacher’s salary, Peter J. would have little spare time for any investigating, but would, it ends up, pass on his suspicions to his youngest son, Simon Olaf, my grandfather.
Born late in the year 1900, Simon Olaf would enter the world at a time when nearly everything felt magical. From radio to indoor plumbing, electricity, the telephone, the automobile, and the acceptance of flight. Simon Olaf would witness a man walking on the moon, and would shave daily with an electric razor. If his coffee grew cold, he could warm it up in a microwave oven, and if his heart ever gave out, he could have it repaired. And in the mornings, if his home felt cold, he could warm it up within minutes without the need to split a single stick of wood. Simon Olaf’s world was much different then that of his father, and with each passing year, life in northern Minnesota became easier. Life had never been more convenient.
So it should come as little surprise that Simon Olaf, the youngest son of Peter J., never felt the need to explore the suspicions of his father. Surrounded by so much convenience, curiosity would become a thing left to others. And while I can imagine that there were times when he’d look in the mirror at his own reflection, thinking about the things that his father had said, I imagine that those times were most likely few and far between. Because in spite of all the conveniences born in his lifetime, Simon Olaf still remained, at heart, a working man. A carpenter and construction worker, the man built bridges and roads and houses his whole life. He would father seven children and marry two women. Life would consume him, just as the conveniences would soften him, and there would be little time to explore the suspicions of a now long dead, Swedish school teacher. Simon Olaf, through no fault of his own, would take the suspicions to his grave with him, not once uttering a single word of them to any of his five sons or two daughters.
They say that some things skip a generation, like the probability of having twins, or heart disease, or even baldness. I’ve heard jokes about good looks passing up entire generations of Swedes, although it’s almost always a Norwegian doing the telling, if you’ll notice. I never did understand this friendly animosity that existed between the Swedes and Norwegians in my life. My grandmother, a full-blooded Norwegian, would make some joke about the Swedes never wanting to take off their snowshoes, and my grandfather, a full-blooded Swede, would retaliate with some joke that had a punch line involving Norwegians eating nothing but fish.
None of it made any sense to my young ears, but I would laugh anyway, right along with everyone else, never knowing that it was all just a test. I know now that my grandfather was testing me, seeing if I measured up, finding out if I should be trusted with the suspicions. I should have known this all along. An old Swedish man never utters a single word without some purpose in mind. Words are not something to be wasted. My grandfather knew this, no matter how many conveniences life threw his way. Life may be good, but you don’t waste time talking about it. No, you keep things to yourself. My grandfather knew this, just like his father before him. You keep your mouth closed. You tell no one anything. Secrets are secrets, and there’s a reason that emotions are on the inside, where no one else can see them, and things should be kept that way. My great-grandfather passed this onto my grandfather, who in turn passed it onto my father, who in turn did his best to pass it onto me. Some things, it ends up, do not skip generations.