Happy Birthday Opa

Today is my Swedish Opa's birthday. Opa is not a Swedish name, it's German. My two older brothers were born in Germany where my mother and father were living after Europe was liberated, courtesy of the US Army. Willie and Freddie learned German as a first language and called their grandfather "Opa." I am now "Omi" to my grandkids, a take-off on Opa. Opa was the one who called me bundaflicka. I realize now that he was saying bonde flicka, but my ear heard bundaflicka. Opa was born somewhere in central Sweden, in Narke province. He was the 10th child and his mother died when he was very young. Most of the siblings emigrated to America. Young Knut Birger (pronounced BEER-yer) Alexanderson came over and travelled the country, working harvests in the mid west, and making money setting up bare-knuckle boxing matches. Opa told us stories of hitching rides on freight trains and how to position your pack just right while jumping on a train going 40 mph. He settled in Brooklyn, New York, and met my grandmother, also a Swedish immigrant, Elin Johnson. She only lived until her thirties and died after a hysterectomy. They are all resting in Mount Olivet Cemetery in Queens, where we recently buried my father. Opa was so proud to be an American. Swedish was only whispered in the kitchen where no one else could hear. In America we speak English. Opa would not accept any public assistance during the Great Depression. He was incredibly proud when my father graduated from Brooklyn College at the age of 19 and joined the NYPD. When an immigrant's kid becomes a civil servant, then the family is American. I miss my Opa. We made the trip over the Verrazano Bridge to the Scandinavian section of Brooklyn endless times while I was growing up. You could walk past the churches at Christmas time and hear carols being sung in Norwegian and Swedish. We ate ludvisk and pickled herring along with limpa bread that resembles Jewish challah. I never saw him without a white shirt and tie on, sitting in the window of the row house, waiting for us to arrive. He made a big stir on the block when, in his mid 80's, he beat up a mugger who was assaulting a woman across the street. He got a shiner in the process that he was very proud of. When Opa and the older Swedes died and the others moved to warmer climes (Swedes love hot weather) the Christmas celebrations died with them. I think I have some of the Swedish qualities my folks had like, the love of agriculture, the need to make quality things by hand, the love of fishy things like herring that make most people gag, the belief that suffering is a part of life and one should resist pills and drugs for every little pain, and the strength to endure a basic, simple farmy lifestyle. Interesting though, my Opa and his people settled in the city and rejected anything to do with the country. Their life in Sweden was so hard and they were so poor, I think the city represented a better life. There were so many Scandies in Brooklyn, it must have felt like home. Opa became a skilled carpenter and built pianos amoung other things. He must have smashed his forefinger knuckle along the way because it was always stuck out straight. I have inherited his serious demeanor, huge hands and big Scandie square head. I can still sing happy birthday in Swedish. Wish he was here to hear it.