Hilma and August

In 1951, at age 25, my mother left her life and family in Sweden to live in America. She married my father, also a Swede, and they settled in New Jersey where they lived their entire lives. They had a good life here, but I know they missed Sweden, especially my mother. She didn’t share much about her family, and when I asked, she deflected. I don’t know why.

My grandfather’s name was August, which I always thought was a really cool name. Sadly, that’s just about all I know of him. I don’t even have a photo of him. But I do know that he looks something like the guy to the right in the piece below. I dug this out of a chest in my mother’s house one day, and asked her about it. “That’s my father and his friend sharing some wine on a Sunday afternoon in the garden”. Why don’t you hang it up? “Oh, it’s so brown and dark, I don’t like it”, she replied. She said I could have it. My grandmother made it. I ironed it, cleaned it up, and framed it. I love to wonder what August and his friend were talking about. I love that they are wearing ties on a Sunday afternoon. I wonder what that garden really looked like, and what he really looked like. I wonder what my grandfather was like, and who his friend was. Funny how a primitive, simple piece like this can evoke such questions.

My grandmother’s name was Hilma. Apparently, Hilma was something of a force. My mother didn’t speak much about life in Sweden, but she spoke proudly of her mother, a skilled dressmaker and business leader in their community of Höör, Sweden. I was told all about the shop she owned, and how other local business owners would come to her when they needed help. She apparently had a sizeable sewing room that employed a number of seamstresses. And she ran it all while raising five children. I was given a clear message that she was the primary provider for the family. This always impressed me given that we’re talking about a woman making her way in and around the 1920s, 30s, 40s. I have no idea what August was up to in the mean time, other than drinking wine with his pal. Joking aside, he may have been just productive. I’ll have to do some research!

Later in life, her needle work skills morphed into something else, taking the scraps from her years of dressmaking and turning them into works of art. She had impressive gallery shows and created quite a prolific range of creative pieces. My father used to say she was considered the “Grandma Moses” of southern Sweden. I’m not sure how true that is, but it was always endearing to hear him gush about her.

The piece above hung in my bedroom for my entire childhood. I remember looking at this as I would drift off to sleep at night, never really sure what it was about, but I always loved the fantasy of it, and how the boy, confronting the bear, showed such strength and calm. And of course, a blue bear and a pink sun. Or is it the moon? It’s been tucked in a drawer my entire adult life, shame on me. Today, I decided to have it framed.

The city and waterscape above is another one I found in my mother’s house after she passed away. I am guessing it was also too brown for her taste to display it. I don’t know much about it, but I’m most curious about the flags on the boats, none of which are Swedish. It’s been hanging in my home since discovering it.

My parents had this one over our mantel in New Jersey. For some reason I never loved it the way my parents did, and, regretfully, I didn’t take good care of it. My guess is that my grandmother made it specially for my mother because it is the only piece I’ve seen of hers that has the blue and pink tones my mother loved. It’s in rough shape and has faded over the years. I will do my best to bring it back to life.

Maybe the moral of this story is to honor the things we have in our lives, and especially the things that have been handed down, whether they meet our specific tastes or not. They aren’t “just things”. Their history gives them value greater than anything we can buy. They deserve to be respected, admittedly more-so than some of these pieces have been. They all have a story. That story is worth being told, no matter who’s listening.