6. Family Story

Looking back I will always remember Sundays in the fall. As a growing boy, the world was my playground designed only for digging sand-castle moats and collecting flat rocks to later skip on the lake. Sundays were no different with the exception of our weekly venture into town to visit Grandma and Grandpa Swenson. Upon arriving at their home just off of Main Street in Lehi, Utah, I entered the antique doors and was smothered with the scent of fresh cotton and small chocolate candies complemented by white rose aromas every now and then.

My grandmother was an expert seamstress and intricately fabricated blankets for every newborn grandchild (or great grandchild like myself). My grandfather was the Mormon Jay Gatsby dated 60 years into the future while demostrating the epitome of love that only a grandfather can give. He was the son of Helge Vincent Swenson, the first immigrant of a happy Swedish family who embraced the Gospel inside their humble Scandinavian home in the hills.

Family heritage was held in high esteem by the Swensons. Perhaps it was because ancestors split up and were shipped to Utah one at a time, with the youngest being but 12 years old. Or maybe because the early Swensons sold everything they owned for the fare of only half the family. In any regard, Swedish influence remains in our hearts and our blood and binds us together despite circumstances of age.

Visits to my grandparents' home were filled with rich storytelling and rich chocolate, as I very well remember, that I personally consider priceless. But one thing continues to stick out to me more than anything else. Ever since I was an infant, my grandfather would teach me invaluable lessons of life connected to things I would remember as a kid. My most vivid memory came when he would hoist me atop his shoulders and would walk to the foyer of his dated 1970s home. Lining the walls stood a freestanding display of metal rectangles and squares with one per row filled with stained glass of a solid color. My grandfather and I would routinely trace the rows of the foyer as he asked "How many rectangles are there here?" or "What color would this red and this blue make together?". I would intuitively answer him and memorize the answers as his memory would fleet much quicker than mine and he would repeat a question he had asked just seconds ago. His favorite was the combination of blue and yellow, which is blurted to make green before he could explain why he liked them. He would go on to teach me the colors of the Swedish flag and flags of nations surrounding, teaching me to love lands of the world long before I would have any chance of visiting them.

Soon enough I asked for atlases and maps for my birthday or Christmas and would plead with my mother to stop in the grocery aisles with them.

I became acquainted with the rich history of my family roots and learned invaluable lessons from my Swedish grandparents. My grandfather Swenson passed away before reaching the millenium due to chronic pneumonia. His life is remembered by so many for the incredible things he accomplished while I remember him for the simple time he took to teach me love through rudimentary principles. Despite my young and naive age, I will never overlook the legacy and character he left behind, illustrated in each of those Sundays spent in the fall.