How
wonderfully fitting it was for me, a writer who loves telling personal and family
histories, to find out my surname — Stolt — also happens to be the
Swedish word for ‘proud.’
Stolt
– proud.
Yes
sir, that works damn good by me.
Because
almost 120 years ago, on November 26, 1889 to be exact, my paternal grandfather
boarded a ship for the first time in his life in the port city of Göteborg,
Sweden, and embarked on a weeks-long winter voyage across the North Atlantic
that was anything but safe and luxurious. Based on historical record, the boat
he was on most likely sailed from Sweden to Great Britain before setting out
for a promising but wholly unpredictable new life in America. Traveling by
himself that day, he possessed little more than the clothes on his back and a
Swedish Bible (Bibeln) given to him the day he sailed – someone’s subtle
way of saying there was no going back if things didn’t work out. Falling in
line with all the strange faces, he walked up the gangplank and never saw his
homeland again.
He
was twelve years old.
(Note to
self: When I was twelve years old it was all I could do to safely ride my
Schwinn 10-Speed bike to a friend’s house a few miles from home.)
Ours
is a nation of immigrants, and all of us have a similar story somewhere in our
past; it’s part of our collective DNA. Given the times they lived in, our
ancestors had no choice but to be strong. They were solid, steady and full of
faith. But they were not fearless. Not at all. They had already grown up steeled
by life and death risk and hardship the likes of which we can barely imagine in
our world today. More than once I’ve asked myself if I could ever be that
strong.
In
Sweden it’s called försyn, in America
the word is providence; but whatever
the language and however strong the belief in such things, it’s enough for me to
know that Francis Ludwig Johanson, my grandfather, survived the trip across the
Atlantic, though in landing in America his perilous journey was nowhere near
finished. Upon arrival he quickly found himself surrounded by bustling, chattering
crowds, but he didn’t understand a word of their language. (Again, I can’t think
of anything I’ve gone through in life that compares to that kind of challenge.)
Here
the historical trail goes cold for a while, but somehow Franicis made his way
to the town of Bay City in western Wisconsin where he was reunited with his
father, who himself had come over two years earlier to put down roots, as they
say. By this time his father had legally had his name changed to Stolt upon
arriving in the U.S.
In
time, Francis Stolt would grow into manhood and serve his newfound country in
the Spanish-American War. Then he worked as a commercial fisherman on the
Mississippi River before settling down, getting married, and starting a family
of his own.
As
for that Swedish Bible he was given, he held on to it for the rest of his life,
eventually handing it down to his firstborn, a daughter named Gwendolyn. Years
later she gave it to my care, with the understanding that by matter of fate and
the Family Tree I would be the last to carry on the name. Today it is one of my
most cherished possessions and sits prominently atop my writing desk. As a
talisman it brings me good fortune, I hope, and greater purpose, I’m sure.
For as long as I can
remember I’ve had a sincere appreciation for anything I can hold in my hands
that has lasted longer than a century and still holds a story. As I
said, I don’t know every detail of that story, unfortunately, but every time I see
that Bible now I imagine a twelve-year-old boy clutching it to his chest in a dank,
crowded cabin as it pitched and rolled with every frightful wave, hoping it
would somehow bring him luck and safekeeping on the voyage. I look at that
Bible now, with its weathered cover and sturdy binding, and it reminds me of
the man he grew up to be, and of the good will and common sense he passed down
to my father, who passed the same on to me.
Stolt indeed.
I
never knew my grandfather – I was barely three years-old when he died in a
Veterans nursing home at the age of 86. But thinking and writing about him like
this builds a bridge between past and present that may well defy logic but is
all too real to me.
It’s
a well-circulated axiom that one should always write with a specific audience
in mind. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Then again, when it comes to the
craft of writing, rules only go so far. All I know is that telling stories
about family and honoring the lives of Francis Stolt and others who are gone from
this life has been, and probably always will be, the greatest passion and fulfillment
of my writing experience. Knowing their stories and legacies will never be lost
to history, knowing the examples of how they lived will go on a little longer
and maybe reach out a little further means everything to me. In terms of my own
writing work, that’s the number one reason I do what I do.
It’s
my way of paying them back for the sacrifices they made so I could be who I am
today. The way I see it, It’s the least I owe them.
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