A Fanciful Past

Kimberley Armstrong

(607) 100 Dr. Lilly

12-14-06

Even as a small child I was very interested in my ancestral roots. I suppose this was because I was trying to define myself in some way. I wanted to know everything about myself. I remember constantly pestering my mother, “So I’m one-quarter Swedish—right? What else am I?” She would tell me that she thought I might be part French-Belgian, Irish, Scottish, French, and maybe a few other nationalities, but these answers would not soothe my yearning desire to know. I wanted everything written out before me in exact measurements: French: 15, Scottish: 7, and so on. I do not know exactly what I thought I could gain through this but decided that there was something sinister and mysterious lurking around in my past, and I was convinced I was the only detective brave enough to unmask and divulge these terrible secrets.

It was to my great disappointment that there were no axe-murderers, thieves, or psychotics in my family history. In fact, everyone seemed so docile and normal—especially all of those silly kings and other royalties. I would much rather have had my great-great-great grandfather spontaneously combust, or have had my sixteenth cousin abducted by aliens. Nevertheless, my ancestry would probably please and make proud any other person, so I suppose I will have to live with it.

My constant pestering must have had some affect in my mother who ended up unearthing some of the great, ancient people we were supposedly related to. Charlemagne, or “Charles the Great,” who conquered Italy in 774, turns out to be a direct relative of my family—the supposed founder of France and Germany! While never achieving this magnitude of greatness or fame, my family makes more sense to me now. On both sides, my family seems to be completely identical: Protestant Christian, harshly pale, blue eyes, dark brown hair, average in size and stature, all in the teaching profession, and comfortable in the middle to upper class. I figure our lines must have crossed somewhere in that mass of “European-Northern-ness.”

As I have mentioned before, I have been told I was approximately 25 Swedish. This large percentage comes from my mother who is 50 Swedish herself. While I have never experienced a strong Scandinavian influence, as I live in a largely Italian community, my mother grew up in Northern Michigan where this influence was very prominent. Her parents were both second-generation Swedes who were very proud of their ancestry and embraced it dearly. To me, the upper peninsula of Michigan is Sweden. I went to visit them a few years ago in February. While driving along an isolated path, I felt a jolt of claustrophobia. The piles of snow were so deep I actually felt like I had been swallowed by a monster with a white throat. My grandparents live in the heart of a very deep forest. When I finally arrived I felt drained, like I had traveled to a different country. Even though my home was also in a temperate climate, the atmosphere of this place seemed foreign somehow.

My grandmother is very handy in the arts; from painting to quilting, she is extremely apt. Many things she makes are traditional Swedish designs. She uses a lot of patterns that exhibit eight-pointed stars. They sound interesting, but the colors are very mild and are almost ugly. Her art seems rather plain to me, but represents a cultural home for her. My grandfather is surprisingly good at cooking (when my grandmother helps him) and makes strange foods like pasties, which I believe are a Scandinavian food. Pasties are pockets of crusty dough with chopped potatoes and ground-up meat inside. Like everything else Swedish, I find them rather bland, but with a bit of ketchup they do not taste terrible.

I have always considered my father’s side of the family to be bit more refined and elegant when compared to the rough, wintery people I imagine on my mother’s side of the family. My grandmother’s maiden name was LeSuer, which I have decided is outrageously French. I wouldn’t consider her to be very culturally aware of her past, but that may be because her family has been here longer than my other grandparents, and may also be that French culture isn’t so different from my American culture. What I do know of her family lies right there in Afton, New York. She recently moved away from Caswell Street where she has lived for all of my life, and most of hers. The Caswells were a very rich family back probably a hundred years ago, and shockingly enough they are related to me through my father and grandmother. I know this because of the frequent trips I’ve made to Glenwood Cemetery in Afton visiting the grandfather I never knew, and putting flowers on the graves of people who have interesting last names. After asking my grandmother who else in the cemetery I was related to, she pointed out the Caswells, who have a very large gravestone that lies in the center of the cemetery. Being realistic, I am inclined to call it a monument; a stone lady carrying an anchor stands on a base that is taller than I am. The date 1872 stands out for some reason, but the end of their reign is very approximate in my mind.

My family search was not what I expected. There are no murders or seers and everything mysterious that ever happened was solved quickly and uninterestingly. At the same time, I have a rich cultural background filled with royalty and common folk. I can appreciate where I’ve come from and respect the people who brought me here, no matter how simple or common they may seem to me, their stories, I’m sure, are incredible.