Sigurd Christiensen

by Jim

Grandfather Christiensen died earlier this year. He made it into his 100th year. Born in August 1898 in a coastal Norwegian town, he lived in the village his family had stayed in for the previous 400 years or more. He apprenticed in carpentry before immigrating to America, the land of opportunity.

Lifeguarding on the beaches outside New York City, his hands developed a strength that never left him to the end. I was always careful with his handshakes that made you feel like a hooked fish being reeled in as his grip drew you to him. Lifeguards must surely have spent hours and days rowing in the early 1900’s. He met a Swede at a Scandinavian dance in Washington, D.C., married and then his firstborn daughter married a Czech/Welsh man. I found a Canadian of Polish/English descent. My daughters are European mongrels. If Sydney or Morgan take up genealogy, they are going to have a lot of places to visit.

My mind stretches and struggles to grasp what it would be like to live for a century. Genealogy has been a means for me to glimpse my time and location in history. It has introduced me to many relatives spread out over Europe and America.

Sigurd’s grandmother’s house (Gunhild Gurine Aanensdatter b. 1844) remains in the family and I returned to Norway for a visit in September with my cousin Kirsten Eskedahl. Kirsten offered me a night in my great, great grandmothers bed (people were really short back then), on Landøy Island off the southern coast. I awoke to a traditional Norwegian breakfast, a brisk swim in the Skagerrak sea and the warmest, sunniest day Norway had all year. We then travelled to some of the farms our ancestors had lived on that neither of us had ever visited. They are still so isolated today that I can hardly imagine an existence where transportation was by foot. Trying to imagine farming on the rocky land makes America truly look like paradise.

When life gets a little fast paced, I can’t return to the isolated farmland and islands of my grandfathers childhood for solace. However, over the years, my grandfather passed along some of his woodworking tools to me. I can go out to the garage and get out one of his old hand planes, sharpen it up and shave away some wood. It’s smooth worn handle resting in my hand reminds me of my grandfathers hands, their strength, their commitment to Christianity, healthful living and his long Norwegian seafarer heritage.