we're going to a fiftieth birthday party in a few minutes, for Oddgeir. Not a regular American name, and he is not a regular American. He is instead, a Norwegian, a Norski as some of my high school buddies would have sneered. But the Olsen twins used to say, "ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds, pursued by one Norwegian".
Odd how your life unfolds. I married a girl whose grandmother emigrated from Oslo Norway, three years before the 1905 revolution from Sweden. Then, as luck would have it, my first seatmate at HP was Johann Sverdrup, whose grandfather was the admiral of the navy in 1905 when they won independence from Sweden. When my daughter Cindy and I traveled to Tallberg Sweden and then toured Norway, we landed in a small village and found a statue near Alesund erected in his honor. Our discovery included the fact that he mostly ran a small ferry boat service, and that was a prime source of his Admiralty title. In fact, his father was Prime Minister and earlier had been Minister of the Navy, and they did have two gunboats.
Kristiania was the capital of the new monarchy in 1905; the name was changed later to Oslo. Oddgeir is from a town 200 miles south, Kristiansand, as is Signe Churton, married to Jenny's nephew David. I visited Kristiansand in 2005, staying with them and touring the area, including a lot of the Nazi armament areas, especially out on a neighboring island, Ny-Hellesund. As it turns out, Oddgeir has built a war commemoration for his homeland that attempts to capture some of the horror and anguish that such events cause for humanity. He has been at Stanford for a term, studying in the Communication school, and leaves for home this month.
Ironic too that another Sverdrup, Harald, is credited with leading Scripps School of Oceanography to new heights of excellence, and hiring Roger Revelle as his replacement in 1947. Revelle and James Lovelock would use Don Hammond's HP temperature probe to begin the deep ocean measurements that underpin much of our current knowledge about global warming.
Yet another relative, Otto Sverdrup, became known for his Arctic sea explorations, including claiming three islands off the coast of Canada for Norway, still known as the Sverdrup Islands. Norway ceded claims to these in 1930.
The world is a wonderfully small place. We are privileged today to go honor Oddgeir.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
You look like my grand-dad
He answered the e-mail graciously, saying he'd love to talk about the upcoming four hour hike, as well as the Nature Preserve. I noted in the e-mail that if he were the son of Sharon, then I "knew of his grandfather from Scouting in Inglewood" a long long time ago.
We met; he greeted me with a big smile and a hearty handshake. For fifteen minutes, he regaled me with stories about the land, restoring the native flora, and how this all happened. Then, to the hike question, which I parried by saying I really had a different question by now, for which I needed to ask his confidence and his indulgence.
As I started the phrasing, he stopped me, backed away, and said, "you are the spitting image of my grand-dad; I've been looking for the Masonic ring, you're like a ghost from the past." The story unfolded easily from there, until he asked if his mother knew. As I said "no" he blurted out "well, she is pretty open-minded. Do you want to meet her?"
Ten minutes later, as I walked up to her door, she met me with folded arms and a quizzical look. "what's the story" she demanded. I froze, and blurted out, "do you want the short version or the long one?" She said, "let's try the short one" which turned out to be a show-stopper.
Recovery was not instantaneous. But when it happened, it was marvelous in terms of humanity and bonds that can exist even though we don't know them, or can't even imagine them. We embraced; we cried; we laughed.
And then, myriad questions. Who, how, how long, did she, did he??? It turns out that genetics does determine lots of things we decided that afternoon -- hobbies, habits, mannerisms, looks, attitudes, figures of speech even. Wild. Delicious. And somehow fulfilling to know, finally.
We met; he greeted me with a big smile and a hearty handshake. For fifteen minutes, he regaled me with stories about the land, restoring the native flora, and how this all happened. Then, to the hike question, which I parried by saying I really had a different question by now, for which I needed to ask his confidence and his indulgence.
As I started the phrasing, he stopped me, backed away, and said, "you are the spitting image of my grand-dad; I've been looking for the Masonic ring, you're like a ghost from the past." The story unfolded easily from there, until he asked if his mother knew. As I said "no" he blurted out "well, she is pretty open-minded. Do you want to meet her?"
Ten minutes later, as I walked up to her door, she met me with folded arms and a quizzical look. "what's the story" she demanded. I froze, and blurted out, "do you want the short version or the long one?" She said, "let's try the short one" which turned out to be a show-stopper.
Recovery was not instantaneous. But when it happened, it was marvelous in terms of humanity and bonds that can exist even though we don't know them, or can't even imagine them. We embraced; we cried; we laughed.
And then, myriad questions. Who, how, how long, did she, did he??? It turns out that genetics does determine lots of things we decided that afternoon -- hobbies, habits, mannerisms, looks, attitudes, figures of speech even. Wild. Delicious. And somehow fulfilling to know, finally.
Meeting your sister for lunch
I met my sister Sharon for lunch a few weeks ago. Not so remarkable, most might say. But those who know me said, "I didn't know you had a sister." And, as it turns out, my sister didn't know she had a brother either.
It was actually quite a story. She is 73 years young, spry with a great dimpled smile, and teasing eyes that danced and sparkled -- just as I had imagined for years. I am her "little brother", four years younger, the result of a tryst between her father and my mother when they worked together. Each was married to another, and the resultant "love child" -- me -- was raised by my mother and her husband without (to my knowledge at least) him ever knowing that I was sired by another. I had one younger (half)-brother with whom I was raised; she had an older sister who died in early adulthood.
I've known that my origin was "mixed" for fifty years, the result of a coincidental blood test when I first got engaged to be married. Twenty-five years after that, my mother confided in me on a trip we made through Europe -- my genetic father by then had passed away. Ten years after that, at a 60th wedding anniversary for our Scoutmaster, I wound up chatting, no it was more like chattering, to a girl I was certain that I knew -- and she likewise, but we could find no common ground. The next morning, my mother said softly "that was your sister, but I couldn't introduce you there"
Well, as it turns out, it wasn't -- she was a first cousin; fifty-five years and a similar name does confuse things a bit. But on her deathbed, my mother asked me to "find out" if I could, and once her husband (my father, as I have called him for my whole life) passed away, I was "free" to pursue the question.
It was not as easy as the genealogy books would have you believe. But the real test was once I had an idea of who to seek, the next immediate question was HOW? Do you just knock on the door, and say, "Hi, I'm your long-lost brother." I decided against that strategy.
The real dilemma, of course, was that the other party, upon learning the news, may just not view it as the greatest of stories. Anger, denial, a rude dismissal -- all could be likely outcomes. How this transpired, and how it unfolded was in fact a wonderful story in itself.
It was actually quite a story. She is 73 years young, spry with a great dimpled smile, and teasing eyes that danced and sparkled -- just as I had imagined for years. I am her "little brother", four years younger, the result of a tryst between her father and my mother when they worked together. Each was married to another, and the resultant "love child" -- me -- was raised by my mother and her husband without (to my knowledge at least) him ever knowing that I was sired by another. I had one younger (half)-brother with whom I was raised; she had an older sister who died in early adulthood.
I've known that my origin was "mixed" for fifty years, the result of a coincidental blood test when I first got engaged to be married. Twenty-five years after that, my mother confided in me on a trip we made through Europe -- my genetic father by then had passed away. Ten years after that, at a 60th wedding anniversary for our Scoutmaster, I wound up chatting, no it was more like chattering, to a girl I was certain that I knew -- and she likewise, but we could find no common ground. The next morning, my mother said softly "that was your sister, but I couldn't introduce you there"
Well, as it turns out, it wasn't -- she was a first cousin; fifty-five years and a similar name does confuse things a bit. But on her deathbed, my mother asked me to "find out" if I could, and once her husband (my father, as I have called him for my whole life) passed away, I was "free" to pursue the question.
It was not as easy as the genealogy books would have you believe. But the real test was once I had an idea of who to seek, the next immediate question was HOW? Do you just knock on the door, and say, "Hi, I'm your long-lost brother." I decided against that strategy.
The real dilemma, of course, was that the other party, upon learning the news, may just not view it as the greatest of stories. Anger, denial, a rude dismissal -- all could be likely outcomes. How this transpired, and how it unfolded was in fact a wonderful story in itself.
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