But make it home they did, building a church across the way and a school down the lane. All that remains is the cemetery, where my great-great-grandparents and great-grandparents were buried.
Great-grandpa Rasmus
I spent my vacation day with my dad, exploring his hometown, visiting my (step) grandma (who pressed lefse and hardanger into my hands as I left), eating rosettes and flatbread at the local bakery, and meeting people who are actually named "Swede."
Discoveries:
1. My family has a here-to-unrealized tradition of draft-dodging, starting with my great-grandparents, who left Six Mile Grove for North Dakota for seven miserable years so that the oldest son could stay as the head of household and thus avoid serving in WWI. (See also Grandpa, "sand on the lung," WWII, and Dad, "old football injury," Vietnam).
2. My great-grandma had 14 children in 24 years. If a child died after being born, they used the same name for the next child. (Luckily, twice was always the charm).
3. In leafing through the big book of descendants from my grandma's maternal line, I came across lifelong friends of Husband's family, their neighbors at the Ely cabin. Luckily I did not come across Husband's family itself (Although my dad pointed out the first cousin swap done by the great-grandparents was much worse. Apparently it was slim pickin's at Six Mile Grove.)
The little house on the prairie where my great-great grandparents lived (now on display in the local historical society)
Cozy
Benson is also where they make Shakers vodka using local wheat.
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