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One of the descendants that we know the least about is Greta's oldest son Bob (or Bobby). He was born in Chicago 1914 and died in 1971; his full name was Robert Lindman Andersen. (Under "Other Documents" you can read about him in letters written by Greta and Lydia.) He had three siblings: Margaret, Else and Chris. When they moved to Sweden in the 30's he didn't follow them and that's why we know so little about him.

In March this year I decided to call Else and find out some more, but unfortunately she was already rushed to hospital for the very last time. I never got that information. So I decided to write a letter to her only remaining sibling, her twin brother Chris in the US. He never answered it, likely because he read it on his deathbed.

I didn't dare to contact any more people.

Anyway - when I visited Jennifer in Ottawa in July, i found a document written after Aunt Karin's death in 1985. It was a record of her survivors, saying that Bob had an (adopted) son named Lee Drott, living in Rockville, Maryland, US. By the internet I could find out some more: he would be 75 years old by now and seems to have a son named Justin and a daughter named Greta!

Who knows. Maybe some day they will read this, contact us and want to be a part of our society. And when they do, they will be most welcome. (September 19.)

This is my aunt Anniqua, my great great aunt Karin, my grandfather Bertil and grandmother Brita celebrating Christmas (possibly at Skeda before the upper floor was restored).

...is a poem that Dick sent to me. It is said to have been found besides the bed of an old man after he had died at hospital:

What do you see nurses? . . . . . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man . . . . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . . . with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food . . . . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . . . . the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding .. . . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? . . . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am. . . . . . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . . . . . with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . . who love one another.

A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet..
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . . . . With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons . . . . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me . . . . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . . . and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man . . . . . and nature is cruel.
This jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . life over again.

I think of the years, all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . . open and see.
Not a crabby old man . . . Look closer . . . see ME!!