Thankfulness for My Home

Photo of beautiful waterfront propertyA television ad last evening showed a glorious sunset. It reminded me of the beautiful sunsets I regularly witness from this location. It challenged me to explain the reasons why I am so thankful for this life I enjoy here.

My story begins with finding this beautiful seaside location. It is 1.9 acres of waterfront with views of Patricia Bay, Mill Bay and farther out to Satellite Channel. After a full year of seeking properties with one Realtor in the Victoria area, and with another Realtor in Richmond, seeking a place for us to live where my husband could fly directly to his employment on North Vancouver Island. We fell in love with this acreage, on one September evening, during our first sunset viewing. Yes, I am indeed fortunate to live where I do.

I live alone here now, in the home we built together, but I am not lonely. Because of the 45 years of love and partnership we spent together, nearly 30 years of them here, evidence of Dale is all around me. There are memories in pictures to enjoy, a home built to suit our specifications, by a well certified builder and with a garden we created together in cooperation.

The shrubs and hedges are mature, their nests produce baby birds. I can watch a bald eagle perched on a waterfront tree, as he looks for his dinner. Occasionally I see a peregrine falcon, often hear the call of a sassy blue jay or raven and always there are crows and sea gulls who seem to enjoy my new roof.

The ocean before me is filled with activity every day. Occasionally porpoises frolic through the bay, always there are seals and river otter to watch. On calm days there are paddle boarders, some with a dog or babe in life jacket, along for the ride. Frequently I watch kayakers who appear to appreciate the water as I do. On warm summer days I can, and do, swim on the incoming tide.

I have so much more to be thankful for. It includes three adult children, each established in their own satisfying career. In these difficult times of staying at home, they are living on sizable pieces of land that they each own. There is plenty of worthwhile work to be done without having to leave the property.

I am most grateful for having three delightfully different grandchildren, whose parents have taught and encouraged them in fields of endeavour, and interests they seek. School is at home just now, and that means in addition to the usual farm chores at 7:30 AM, each one takes some responsibility for part of the household jobs in order to be ready by 9:00 for a school to start in their rooms. With a short recess break with a snack and some physical activity, lesson time is usually finished by noon.

I have every reason to be grateful, with only one exception. At this time in our ‘unhinged’ world — that’s how it sometimes feels — I cannot travel to be able to hug these young ones. But I do now have their email address and have begun to use it.

Note: This piece was written during the pandemic lock-down.

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.