Our Grandpa

by Lisa Siebert

 In passing times and moments

    we think of you again

you were so kind and gentle

you were our perfect friend.

    It started with a knee ride

and song to make us laugh,

soon nature’s simple pleasures

were the beginnings of our craft.

Whistles, bows and arrows,

you made them from the land,

a man with understanding

and the largest pair of hands.

Respect is something special

    you had it from the start,

we’ll always remember this

    deep inside our hearts.

You see, there really is no end

for the memories stay within

    this patient, gentle giant

Our Grandpa. Our Friend.

The Importance of Grandparents

Einar Einarson Forberg

Ten years after grandpa Andy had immigrated to Canada, he returned to Norway to find a wife. My mom had said they had played together as children. Of course, she was his cousin. In 1909 he returned to Canada with my grandmother, Gunhild Gunnulfson. She had been teaching young women in Oslo to be housekeepers, a similar field of teaching that I had undertaken at university! Life is so strange. Upon returning to Canada the two were married in a New Westminster church before they began a life together in the places where I knew them both well.

In August of 1998, and after three years of family history research, I made my first trip to Norway where I met 18 second cousins and three elderly ladies who were first cousins of my deceased father, Einar Forberg. Hosted by the families of the grandchildren of two of my grandfather’s brothers, I walked the farm Grandpa had chosen to leave and explored the old church and cemetery that held the names and was the seat of the Forberg relatives.

I will never know why he left his birth place. It was likely a desire for a better life because with large families, and the scarcity of what farmland produced, life was not easy. But his determination not to live as a farmer was more likely the reason. Before making a firm decision to emigrate, he had left home to work in a forested area.

I had only recently learned that he was the eldest of four brothers and according to the rules of the country at the time, he would have inherited the large Forberg family farm. This was apparently not a role he wanted, so he left the farmer responsibility to his next eldest brother whose grandson, Einar, now runs the Forberg farm that I had been visiting. At the farmhouse I saw the family heritage displayed: the original home he had left. It included carved boxes made by a younger brother who did not marry, wooden trunks, bowls and implements decorating with rosemaling and the family bible. My grandfather had returned the bible to Norway after he had decided not to move back to his original ‘home.’

In a roundabout way this brings me to an important observation, since it relates to genealogy. I am the eldest child of the eldest Forberg son and my father, Einar Rise, was the eldest son of our Canadian Forberg ancestor Einar, who emigrated in 1896. Dad had no sons, only my younger sister and me. Rules of inheritance have changed since 1896 and in Norway a daughter is now eligible for a primary inheritance. Had my grandfather remained in Norway, as the eldest grandchild, I could now be running that Forberg family farm!

In his Canadian home I recall being absolutely mesmerized by the process he went through each evening, to prepare and smoke his pipe. For special occasions he would use a traditionally carved long Norwegian pipe festooned with red tassels, attached to a cord from which the pipe hung on the living room wall.

I would watch him lift it from the wall hook and pack the bowl with a particularly pungent brand of tobacco that he smoked only rarely. Seeing him hold the bowl almost at arms length, suck into it to get a fire started enough that we could smell smoke, was an even more fascinating procedure for a little girl of six years to observe.

I remember Grandpa Andy as a quiet elderly gentleman; by the time I was six years old he would have been seventy-one, comfortable at home in his rocking chair, and though tired after his work day in the bush, willing to make room for me on his knee with a picture book. Although he appeared to enjoy watching his granddaughters, Grandpa Andy never said much even in adult company. Whenever I hear the lilting accent of a Norwegian-born person I remember those infrequent conversations again. Having mastered speaking the English language, reading it was difficult for him and he made little effort to read much more than newspaper headlines. He did however, spend time reading a Norwegian magazine that arrived regularly in the mail.