“Ett…två…tre…”
I sat at the dinner table with a sheet of paper, jotting down Swedish numbers as my grandpa taught me what little he remembered from childhood. On command, I repeated after him, though as a born writer I was more interested in getting it on paper.
“Fyra…fem…sex…sju.”
He stopped on seven and made me repeat it several times. It’s really hard, he said, with a grin. Only Swedes can pronounce it! After I tried a few times, I believed him.
“Foo? Fwoo? Hoo-hoo?”
To this day, I couldn’t pronounce sju if my life depended on it.
And even after studying several languages, I’ve begun to think only Swedes can pronounce anything at all in the Swedish language. (For the record, my reserved, coffee-loving, non-Swedish-speaking Papa would agree!) But something in me has never stopped longing to connect with this part of my history.
I still remember the Christmas when I first heard Papa say we were “Sweetish.” As a kid, I had no idea what that was, but it sounded exciting. I mean, come on. Sweets.
Soon enough I was eager to learn about all things svenska. But Papa’s not exactly a fountain of memories like my great-aunts and grandmothers. All he could offer me, when I begged to know, were a few stories and phrases. I began to feel a sense of loss, like we’d let a treasure fade behind old photographs and names on headstones.
To me, family history is as precious as any heirloom. That’s why I pore over photo albums and even visit cemeteries on no particular occasion. I want to honor and reflect upon the lives of those who have gone before. The same impulse fueled my studies in German and sent me wandering through Germany, Ireland, and Scotland—the homelands of my ancestors. But the Swedish part of my history remains the closest and yet most elusive of all.
I’ve never been to Sweden. I know almost nothing about it.
But I dream, strangely, of driving snow and dark winters, even deeper than those in my Pennsylvania mountain town. I dream of frozen lakes and northern lights, lingonberry jam and knäckebröd. I imagine strolling along the parks and canals of Gothenburg, breaking for a little fika with coffee and sweets, or ruminating on life beside a fire.
And that’s only thinking about winter!
But someday—hopefully soon—I’ll go, even if I go alone. I’ll study as much as I can beforehand, and learn as much of that odd, musical language as possible, so I can appreciate Sweden both for what it was and what it is. I want to roam the streets, breathe the air, and imagine how this was home for the Andersons before me.
And maybe … just maybe … when I return, I can go to my Papa, pour a strong, steaming cup of coffee, and recite:
“… fyra…fem…sex…sju!”
