Sarah Nigbor

With Memorial Day coming up, I always think of my grandma. Every year, without fail, she made sure to place a pot of red geraniums on the graves of her parents at Gilman Lutheran’s cemetery, her grandparents at Rush River Lutheran and Martell, and my grandpa’s parents at Plum City. It’s a tradition my aunt carries on to this day, since Grandma has been gone now for three years.

I used to love going with her on her annual flower-dropping sojourns because she would tell me stories about our ancestors. I believe growing up without my dad and not meeting his family until my 20s, I struggled with feeling like I truly belonged anywhere. I always kind of felt like the black sheep who didn’t fit in. I don’t feel that way anymore, but I think soaking in the stories of past relatives helped me feel a sense of belonging. To this day, I absolutely love genealogy and have spent more hours than I can count on Ancestry.com.

I come from hardy Scandinavian stock, immigrants who came to Wisconsin and Minnesota from Sweden, Norway and Finland. My dad’s family came from Finland and settled in the Iron Range of Minnesota, where they farmed and worked in the mines. My mom’s family eventually settled in western Wisconsin: The Norwegian side was scattered across the Martell and Gilman areas, while the Swedes were clustered around Plum City and Lund. Apparently, when my grandma met my grandpa at a dance, her parents were horrified: She was Norwegian and he was Swedish. What could she possibly be thinking? I think it turned out pretty well: They were married for 65 years before he died.

When I was young, my grandpa and his sister Lorraine joined forces to purchase their uncle, Philip Carlson a headstone. Buried at Lund, I’m not sure why he didn’t have one, but I thought it was nice that they did that. It has beautiful pine trees on it. I remember scampering through the cemetery on a warm spring day, trying to pay attention as Grandpa pointed out his beloved relatives: His aunt Alma and the tiny headstones of her children; his grandma Carolina Hedberg, who ran the farm and kept the family together after she and her husband divorced, unheard of in those days; and many others. That visit must have stuck with me, because the name Carolina was always stuck in my head. I had no other names in mind if I were to have a daughter. And now I have my own Carolina. I believe she is as strong-willed as her great-great-great grandmother.

I loved the stories of Grandpa’s mother, Esther (Carlson) Lundgren, who was tiny yet extremely feisty. Apparently on a trip to Tennessee, Grandpa found a ball peen hammer in her purse. It was her protection if anyone dared try to mug her. She was also a huge fan of Johnny Cash, something we have in common. Her mother died when she was 12, and she helped her father take care of the farm and her siblings after her death. Sounds like she too was a tough lady.

During my genealogy research, I discovered that one of my grandpa’s distant cousins was a stand-in singer for Frank Sinatra, until he was arrested for draft dodging. Our most famous relative also added a black mark to the family tree. Ouch.

During my research I learned of a close relative who was married before that we didn’t know about, a secret baby born out of wedlock and given up for adoption, another family member who moved out to Montana to start a new life. It’s absolutely fascinating to me. Maybe one day one of my ancestors will read some of these columns and learn about their history.