NOVEMBER 10, 2022 – (Cont.) According to a story my dad later told, however, George Campbell was as thrifty as my Swedish grandmother was frugal. One fall day when the Campbells were closing up their cabin for the season, George hiked over through the woods to offer my grandmother a leftover, half-stick of butter wrapped in waxed paper. “Can you use this?” he asked.
“Why certainly,” said my grandmother, reaching out for the stub of butter and thanking him. She wasn’t about to turn down a generous freebie.
George hesitated, according to my dad, who witnessed the exchange. “That’ll be 50 cents,” said George, who, mind you, owned a dairy back in Northfield, MN.
“In that case,” said my grandmother, “you can keep your butter.”
You might say George got the short end of the stick. But as my Swedish dad joked—with a degree of comparative pride vis-à-vis the Scots—“We Småläningar* are so cheap we dilute our water.”
Dad told another story about George getting the short end of the stick—or actually, the short end of a brand new shovel.
George was driving into town one day for supplies. On the narrow, twisting road he encountered a brand new, shiny shovel lying in the middle of the lane. A cabin owner could always use a nice, new, sturdy shovel—especially one that was there for the taking. So George did what was natural. He pulled over, alighted from his car and looked around. No one was in sight and no approaching vehicles behind the bends could be heard. Finders, keepers: George stepped out to snatch what was his—or so he thought. As he reached for the handle, the shovel skidded suddenly—supernaturally. Dad made no mention of eyebrows, and I’m sure George hadn’t either, but I’m certain George’s eyebrows jumped in proportion to the shovel’s skid.
I’m also of Dad’s accuracy when he said George had again grabbed at the shovel—and yet again, as it moved mysteriously all the way to the other side of the road. Only then did George notice a couple of teenagers laughing at his expense—and the extra heavy fish line in their hands. As Dad embellished the tale, “I think George was more disappointed that he’d lost out on a free, new shovel than he was embarrassed by a teenage prank.”
As I swept debris past our garage doorway, I recalled the garage door connection between the Nilssons and the Campbells . . . at Grindstone Lake.
In the late 1960s, George built a shed for his impressive supply of firewood. For siding he used the non-debarked, outer slices of Norway pine logs. It was a rustic but attractive and substantial structure, with windows and entrance ramp for George’s garden tractor. The challenge, he told Grandpa, who came to inspect the new shed, was fitting it with a suitable door. Grandpa had just the solution: discarded bi-fold doors from his garage back in Minneapolis.
And that’s how George’s firewood shed got outfitted with a fine looking set of doors, which outlasted both George and Grandpa. I don’t know if Grandpa collected any pengar (“money” in Swedish) for the doors, but I’m quite sure that George hadn’t offered any. (Cont.)
My car is now tucked away in our garage and Joana’s letter is tucked away as well—until it’s swept away for good . . . along with the memories it triggered after its random escape from the attic and chance rescue from the garage floor.
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*Swedes from the province of Småland, the place of origin of the majority Swedish immigrants in America—including my paternal relatives.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
