Brev från Minneapolis, Minnesota, U.S.A. 2011-08-03

My name is Charles Richard Gustafson  

My mother was born at Rabben in Skarbol on August 12, 1900. Her father was Nils Kristoffersson.  My mother's name was Hulda Nilsdotter which changed to Christopherson when she came to America at the age of 9.  Her younger sister was named Anna and was 7. Their mother died in childbirth.

The old photo is in front of Rabben getting ready to leave for America. Hulda and Anna are the two young girls in dark dresses in the center of the group. My morfar is standing at the rear holding the reins of the horse.

The date of the photo would be (1909) 1910.

" The photo of my morfar Nils Christopherson (or Kristofersson) with two horses was taken in Red Wing about 60 miles south of Minneapolis, a year or two after he arrived in America. My mother, Hulda and her sister Anna were sent to live temporarily with relatives on farms nearby.  

My grandfather got a job at a pottery in town until he could earn enough money to buy a farm. Eventually he did buy a farm and his daughters moved in with him.  

After the two girls married, my grandfather sold his farm and moved to Minneapolis in 1921 to live with my family. I had two fathers in my home until I was 17 years old."

Résumé

I think the photo from the town of Red Wing (named for a famous Indian Chief), fits into my mother Hulda´s story.  Her story is not unique and it could be the story of thousands of Swedish immigrant families who left Sweden for what they hoped would be a better life in a new land called America.  Sometimes it was better and sometimes not. The desire to become American was strong, but many kept their native language and customs along with the new for awhile.  
The ability to speak and understand Swedish has disappeared for most first generation Americans like me.  They may claim pride in their heritage but even that will be gone some day.  This story is not only a Swedish immigrant story, but it is the story of immigrants from every foreign country who came to America.  

Only one of my daughters can read and speak some Swedish.  None of my grandchildren speak or understand any Swedish.  I hope people who read my grandfather’s and mother’s stories, to which you have  given life, will understand that it is a Swedish story, not just about a man named Nils and two girls named  Hulda and Anna.

Perhaps that is now happening in Sweden with immigrants from other parts of the world coming for a new life in a country very different from their previous homeland.