I lost one of my best friends last night…
My morfar was born on Jan 17th, 1912. For us babies, that was 2 years before world war one, just a few months before the Titanic sank, the year New Mexico was admitted as the 47th state, and coincidentally, the last time the Summer Olympics were held in Sweden.
In college I had the opportunity to take a Swedish language class (kudos to CU for offering that). Even better, I headed over to the homeland that summer to hang with family and see people I hadn’t visited with since early childhood. One of the most lasting impressions was made when I met Tage’s younger (in the relative sense) brother Gunnar. I had filmed a message from my morfar and mormor to bring over to him. They hadn’t seen each other since the early 80’s, so it was amazing to see the respect and love Gunnar had for his older brother after all these years. My morfar was the oldest of 4 brothers and moved out of the house at an age most of us weren’t driving yet so he could make money and support the family. This led to an apprenticeship in Copenhagen followed by a storied career as a baker that would traverse 8 glorious and delicious decades. It was truly inspiring to visit somewhere 40 years removed and to know people still remember the bakeries he ran. His princess Torta, bread, and danish were always flowing out of his oven throughout my life. The one that he never repeated was his infamous mocha cake. Legend has it that the line would be 100+ people long every Sunday morning for people to pick this up in Goteborg. In an age where we are constantly looking over the fence, changing rolls, figuring out what to do next; it is refreshing to have known someone who managed to make his art his life’s work. Looking back at family pictures I can’t find one holiday without his masterpieces bringing everyone together.
Shortly after my mormor passed he decided it was time to head back to Sweden. He travelled there for two separate summers. Once at the tender age of 94 and again at 96. I was lucky enough to fly over with him this last time. It was for my cousin Jonas’ wedding in 2007. I don’t know about you, but tell me the last time you saw a 96 year old traveling his summers in Europe…well, yeah. Playing his harmonica, belting out the traditional Swedish songs, it was all a site to behold as he brought together so many people. One of his favorite things to think about was his family. So many of us are here because of this man and it was always fun to hear his stories about how it came to be.
Most important to me is the fact that he finally had a chance to meet and get to know Laura. It was fun to see how much he adored her. At one lunch shortly before getting engaged he asked me if she was the one. Having not told anyone else of my plans to ask her 2 months later in Italy, I told him without hesitation. Just a simple smile and nod between us and I could tell he was proud.
This winter, a tough bout with pneumonia sent him into the hospital for the first time in his life. Once there doctors were amazed he had been living so long with such a weak heart. Having known him so long, I am certain that it wasn’t his heart keeping him alive. On his 98th birthday this January family and friends gathered to celebrate. Despite a new dependence on an oxygen tank, he immediately took out his trusted harmonica to sing his tune for everyone. I can say with certainty that this man lived every day to the fullest until he decided it was time to move on. People try to live life without regrets, they try to remember to tell people they love them before leaving the house. Looking back at the memories and conversations I have with my morfar I can say goodbye without a regret. Every time I reach into the cupboard and begin baking the princess cake he apprenticed me on, every time I look through his recipe book to discover something new, I’ll remember him with nothing but happiness.
Goodbye my friend…
