John, Mathilda Swansonís last days
Posted 3/6/03

Today all of the John and Mathilda Swanson family are gone--Grandma and Grandpa and their six children. Six of them lived well into their seventies, eighties and beyond in reasonably good health until their latter days, except for Charlie who required nursing home care for several years following a severe stroke. Alys, who wrote our Swanson Family History, died in 1994. Gertrude outlived all of them. She left us in 2001 at age 93. Two of the children passed on much before their time, Esther, in 1935 due to a damaged heart from rheumatic fever, and Bob in a mid-air collision in 1975.

Of my grandparentsí 13 grandchildren, 10 remain, and I am the eldest of these. Not the most favored position, but if I did not claim this space I would not be around at all.

Alys wrote of wintertime in the Swanson Family History, "Although we looked for ways to break the monotony and look at the bright side, the winters were long and tiresome for both people and animals. Winter, with its cold weather, brought colds and sickness. We often had coughs and running noses. Poor Esther developed rheumatic fever. The doctor diagnosed her illness as fallen arches and treated them by putting her feet in hot water for a period of time. Even if her illness had been diagnosed, there was no treatment for rheumatic fever at that time. Her heart became permanently damaged and caused her death, November 27, 1935 at age 32."

Esther Swanson

Esther, born in Kasota in 1903, was in seventh grade in school when she developed rheumatic fever. Though her health gradually improved, she did not return to school. Esther married Lenord Bergstrom from Bock. They had five children. I am second oldest.

It is known today that rheumatic fever must be diagnosed quickly and treated with antibiotics before the heart is damaged. Penicillin began to be produced in large scale during the 1930s about the time of Mother's death. It became widely used for treating injured members of the Armed Forces when World War II began. As the quantity of penicillin increased, it became available for the civilian population during the later years of the war.

The great tragedy of my grandparentsí lives was the loss of their daughter, Esther. It was equally tragic for my father and us five children, ages 4 to 13. Mother held a needed place in all of our lives at the time hers abruptly ended. She was buried in Borgholm Cemetery across from her grandparents. The east half of the Swanson plot now is the Lenord Bergstrom plot. The SwansonsóAnna, Gust, Swen, John and Mathildaówho died in that order, are buried in the western half.

Natureís delights

My siblings and I and a couple city cousins were engulfed in nature at my grandparentsí farm. In daytime we walked in the pasture and followed the creek from end to end. On summer evenings when chores were done we walked with the adults along the gravel road to be submerged in sweet smells of Earth. Long grasses and flowers absorbed moisture from the air, their mixed scents rising in the hint of coolness. No perfume is more pleasing to me than newly mown hay in the damp of evening.

Uncle Charlie was an earth and sky watcher. What he didn't understand, he searched for in books. And he puzzled about thingsóabout weather and stars and the arrowheads he found while plowing, and he came to reasonable conclusions. Once, on a cold fall day, he took us children for a walk to see a beaver dam. It was up to us to find it. When we gave up, he said we were standing on the dam. It was built so long ago soil had filtered down the mass of sticks to become a ridge of earth. The creek found its way off to one side and rambled on toward Vandal Brook.

My grandparents

My grandparents sold their farm and moved to Bock in 1949. Today, the farmhouse, the barn and a few other buildings are still there. The house, which long ago lost its long front porch with the stone foundation, is in the process of renovation by new owners. The barn also needs repair. Like when my grandparent's arrived in 1913, this family, too, "has quite enough to do."

Alys says they always had a dog, most of them named Prince. We all remember my grandfather's fondness for dogs. When one dog died, usually from old age, Grandpa immediately found another. Pedigree played no importance in his choice. Dogs were desired friends. When my siblings and I were young, my grandparents had a white collie named Prince, of course, who loved us and whom we children dearly loved. Prince knew the sound of our Chevrolet and ran barking to greet us. Some years after I left Bock to continue schooling elsewhere, someone mentioned Prince had become ill and Grandpa shot him. Incredulous. I was shocked, dismayed, torn. No one had asked me if it was all right to do so.

One of my grandfather's many gifts was an innate sense of humor. As I entered their house in 1951 at his last birthday party, Grandpa shuffled from the living room (where a bed had been arranged for him following his diagnosis of cancer) singing, "Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to Grandpa. Happy Birthday to me." He died in January 1952.

When Grandma was growing old and living alone in Bock, she and I talked frequently. She sat smiling in her oak chair by the kitchen table. Mostly, I remember her soft smile seemed to come from way inside, as if she was in the present conversing with me and simultaneously somewhere back in time, warmed by some pleasant memory. Always, Grandma was interested in my work in health care. She was alert, adept in English and read magazines and newspapers. Clippings of poetry from women's magazines were found with some personal papers after she died.

I was the last of our relatives to see Grandma. She was having a temporary stay in a nursing facility after being hospitalized with a heart problem. I stopped to see her and we had our little talk. She died a day later in 1959.

Grieving a loss

When encased in one's own grief, one is not always aware of the grief of others. Grandma's occasional mention of things related to my mother caught me by surprise because of their sensitivity. I remained silent, not knowing what to say. A few years ago these memories came together in a poem I wrote published in the poetry magazine, Dust & Fire 2000.

TOUCH OF EMPTY

My grandmother told me years later
of her grief after Mother died.
Gramma fled to the granary.
Beside the bins of oats and barley,
the mended feed sacks, she wept
and raged at the unfairness of death.
She cried out alone with only the bull
in his stanchion to hear her.
The men were working in the fields.

Another year, Gramma lifted a small
blue and white mixing bowl
from the kitchen table.
Her fingers grown pale and thin,
smoothed the inner side.
Your mother's hands touched this, she said.

Today, fresh death burdening my shoulders,
I weep for my sister and remember
my grandmother alone with the grain,
calling, pleading to the empty space
that held vigil beside her.

Now too, I weep for my grandmother,
for her daughterómy motheró
and beg time to rest this sagging hollow,
this place my sister left
where I am here alone.

-used with permission of Loonfeather Press

In her Introduction to the John and Mathilda Swanson Family History, Alys Swanson Johnson wrote, "Actually, I began thinking of writing about our family one warm and sunny September day in 1929 while I was walking along the creek in the meadow of our farm near Milaca. That was over 60 years ago and I was 19 years old." She died suddenly and unexpectedly in November 1994. Aunt Alys left us a legacy.