My Ancestral Home

My Ancestral Home by Louis Jenkins | Friday, July 28, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

We came to a beautiful little farm. From photos

I’d seen I knew this was the place. The house

and barn were painted in the traditional Falu

red, trimmed with white. It was nearly mid-

summer, the trees and grass, lush green, when

we arrived the family was gathered at a table

on the lawn for coffee and fresh strawberries.

Introductions were made all around, Grandpa

Sven, Lars-Olaf and Marie, Eric and Gudren,

Cousin Inge and her two children… It made me

think of a Carl Larsson painting. But, of course,

it was all modern, the Swedes are very up-to-

date, Lars-Olaf was an engineer for Volvo, and

they all spoke perfect English, except for

Grandpa, and there was a great deal of laughter

over my attempts at Swedish. We stayed for a

long time laughing and talking. It was late in

the day, but the sun was still high. I felt a won-

derful kinship. It seemed to me that I had

known these people all my life, they even

looked like family back in the States. But as it

turned out, we had come to the wrong farm.

Lars-Olaf said, “I think I know your people, they

live about three miles from here. If you like I

could give them a call.” I said that no, it wasn’t

necessary, this was close enough.