This will be a narrative of an eight year old boy’s memories of the land of his forefathers, the land of the mid-night sun where the flag – the yellow and blue – waves over the happiest people on earth.

A people that can sing and dance where hill and dale echo and e-echo with laughter and song through the bewitching half dawn of the summer night – if night you can call it – where the glow of sunset in the western sky stretches out its smiling good morning to the increasing light of the eastern morning sky.

A land where laughing tumbling brooks and rivers climb, dance and fall over and among smooth, pebbled stones, winding through the most beautiful woodland – a land of deep blue lakes and deep blue sky above. The lakes hemmed in by sober evergreen forests where among its branches, the nightingale sings its bewitching song the summer night long.

A land of beautiful valleys where the farmers till the soil. In the valleys also are the towns and cities – clean, well-kept and inviting.

Some people believe it is a land of winter cold and snow, only fit for the Laplanders. That is a great mistake. What makes the Swedish climate almost equal to southern Europe is the gulfstream along the western and northern coast of Norway, and the towering mountains of Norway. Norway stretches 500-600 miles further north than Sweden. It is the gulfstream that is the cause of the ice-free harbors of northern Russia outside the polar circle.

And just as the mountains north of Los Angeles and Pasadena turn the winter storms of Washington, Oregon and north California east over to the desert, and leaves sunshine in our valley, so also do the mountains of Norway for Sweden.

Our people came from the southern Sweden. It is twenty-one miles south to the city of Helsingborg on the south coast, and six miles west to the city of Engelholm on the west coast. Do you know that the southern part of Sweden is just about as far south as the northern part of Denmark?

Also, the southern part of Sweden is as far south as the central part of England and Ireland.

The City of Helsingborg is on the "Cresund Sound," and the Sound here is only a little wider than the Golden Gate at San Francisco. Across the straits from Helsingborg is Helsingör in Denmark. This is the city of Shakespeare’s "Hamlet." I mention this city, being as it was a place where father often went to transact business. It is, also, the city from which the Nelson family embarked for New York in August, 1881

The little city of Engelholm, then about 5,000 – 6,000 people, is now probably 30,000 – 40,000, and is located three or four miles west of our home village of Munka Ljungby¹. It is located on the bank of Rone A (Rone River) and west of the city, about two miles, in Engholm Hamm (harbor). Small steam boats carry passengers and freight; and on the river front, in towns, are many small boats, mostly row boats, anchored and fastened with chains to posts.

Once brother Emil and I had a close call. We had climbed into one of the little boats, and first thing we heard a sharp whistle. Looking up, there came a steam boat at full speed, and not over 20 – 30 feet from our boat. First thing, we knew, our boat was rocking and spinning, as it was caught in a whirlpool. We did have sense enough to hang on to the sides of the boat until danger was over. I was five or six years old at the time.

As you know, Sweden has the best government of any country in Europe – half capitalistic and half socialistic – and one balances the other. So, of course, they have state-owned railroads, the best school system of any country, bar none, and a splendid system of macadam highways.

East from Engelholm runs the big King’s Highway, east through Munka Ljungby, where our home was located, and where mother’s folks had lived for many generations. The name of the next village was Osjo² where father was born.

Grandfather’s name was Nels Olson. He was married two times. There was one son of the first marriage. This son joined the army. It was their custom that they would then change their name, so he changed his name to "Lundal." One of his sons came to this country some time in the year 1870, and after making his home in Iowa for a few years, moved to Missouri. There he married a French woman, and still lives there.

The old oldest son of the second marriage also joined the Army and changed his name to "Lindau." He had four sons. All four had been in this country at Butte, Montana. One of them died there, two went back to Sweden, married back there and stayed, and the youngest, Carl, was still in Butte the last I heard from him.

Next to Lindau was Aunt Hilda. She was married to a Bongt Anderson. They emigrated to Genesso, Illinois in the early part of 1870, and later moved to Odebolt, Iowa, then to Chappel, Nebraska, where the old people died. They had a big family of boys and girls, now scattered throughout western United States and Canada.

Next was our father, Per Nelson. He, with his family, emigrated to the United States in 1881.

Next to father was Uncle Lars Nelson. He arrived in Marshalltown, Iowa, some time in 1870, and to the Kiron neighborhood in 1878. He retired from the farm and moved to Odebolt in 1892. He was married and had a child, but both of them died before 1881.

Then there was John Nelson – the youngest of the brothers. He married in Sweden before he was twenty-one, moved to this country early in 1870. [Webmaster's note: Danish Emigration records show John and family left Denmark April 27, 1871 rather than 1870.] He lived in Odebolt, Iowa, and his wife died in 1880, leaving a big family of boys and girls. He married again in 1882, moved to Chappel, Nebraska in 1884. He was considered to be well-off when he left Iowa, but lost it all in the dry western Nebraska climate. In 1894, he packed his worldly belongings on two lumber wagons, and with a dozen other people and relatives, set out over the mountains for Idaho Falls. He died there in 1902, leaving a big family of boys and girls.

I was out to Idaho Falls in 1894 when all of the west was a wild country. It was at that time a village of a few hundred people, bit is now a city of 20,000 – 30,000 people.

One day while sitting around visiting Uncle John, he said "John, you sure are my namesake." Being that he was highly respected, I told him I was proud of that, but to myself resolved that I would not have as big a family as he did.

Then there was the youngest in the family, a daughter – Petronella or "Nellie" for short. She was married to a Mr. Anderson. They left Sweden in 1874 and located in Rock Island. He was employed by the United States Government at the Arsenal for many years. Anderson had one son, Gustaf. He was head bookkeeper of the John Deere branch office in Omaha, where he died years ago.

Grandfather Olson was a shoemaker by trade. All his sons, except our father, were farmers. Father learned shoemaking as a boy and young man, stayed by it until he retired.

Our grandparents tried as much as possible to raise their children to be good citizens, admonished them not to use liquor, or gamble, and to respect church and religion, and they all turned out to be good citizens.

Mother’s parents, Lars Bengtsons, lived in Ljungby³, where the family had resided for many generations. He was "Hemmansegare" (a man who owned his own farm).The name of his homestead was "Kropakra."

Mother’s people were decidedly not the Nordic type. They had black hair, dark eyes, and olive complexions. The opposite was true of Father’s folks – they were all fair, had blue eyes and flaxen hair.

During the wars in Sweden 300 years ago, when Charles XII of Sweden was mixed up in war in southern Europe, a great number of people from Italy came to Sweden with the retiring army and settled at Karlskrona, a new navy concentration city built by King Karl. This city was some forty miles southeast from Munka Ljungby, and possibly mother’s people were related to them several generations back. This is only my guess, you never find so dark-complexioned people of Nordic origin.⁴

There were three sons in their family – Bengt Larson, Peter Larson and Johanes Larson. Also, there were three daughters – our mother, Christine, was the oldest, then Hilda, and Marie, the youngest.

Bengt Larson, the oldest in the family, was a most handsome young man. He had black curly hair, dark snapping eyes – a regular Adonis. All the children in mother’s family were a handsome bunch.

Bengt married a very wealthy young woman and inherited a large estate (farm). He had lost everything he inherited. Not only that, but a brother-in-law, Per Hanson, who had married another sister and inherited also a large fine farm, signed notes for him for large amounts, and also lost his farm. He had just enough money to buy a ticket for his family to Marhsalltown, Iowa.

Bengt’s wife used to tell him that he just married her for her money. There is an old saying, "Never go security for strangers." I would say, "Don’t go security for anyone."

In Bengt’s family, there were three sons. The oldest stayed in Sweden. His home was in Bostad, a beautiful little city and summer resort on the west coast about forty miles northwest of Engelholm. He was a building contractor and built himself a beautiful home there.

The second son died when a young man.

The youngest, August, changed his name to Billings. August Billings worked for six years for a baking firm, just to learn the trade. No wages. He used to laugh when he was telling about it. Said he could have learned as much here in six months.

When he was twenty-one years old, he came to this country, and worked at his trade, – first in Des Moines, Iowa, then in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and finally in Denver, Colorado, where he settled down, started in the baking business, prospered, married, and acquired quite a bit of property. He died five or six years ago, and Mrs. Billings died a couple of years ago. They had no children.

Next was Peter. He married in Sweden. He had four sons and three daughters. He moved with his family to this country and settled in Hinsdale, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. Both Uncle Peter and his wife are now dead. Two of his sons and one of his daughters are dead years ago, and most likely most of them have passed on now.

The oldest of the boys, Olaf, was a paint contractor. After the World Fair in Chicago in 1893, there was a great slump in real estate values – what is called the "Cleveland Depression." Olaf bought a large apartment building that was put up during this World Fair close to the fair grounds. Then values started to go up, so got a very good thing out of it. Then he traded that off for a large farm in Tennessee. How he came out I don’t know, but his son-in-law moved on it, and was running it.

Olaf’s oldest son, Erick Peterson, was, and probably still is in the brokerage business with offices in the Exchange Building, in Chicago.

Another of his sons died a young man years ago.

The oldest daughter, Henrika (Rika for short) was accidentally killed by a train. The Illinois Central Railroad is double-tracked. She had been into Chicago and stepped off this train and onto the other tracks, never noticing the train coming from the opposite direction.⁵

Olaf is also dead. From the rest of the family I have not heard anything for years and years.

The youngest of grandfather’s sons, Johanes, inherited the family homestead (Kropakra). He died when quite a young man, leaving a wife and two small daughters.

Mother was the oldest of the sisters. She used to tell about how she used to go to dances when she was a young girl. Then when she was eighteen years old, she was converted, and if ever there was a person who lived up to her religion, mother did.

Next was Aunt Hilda. She married as a very young girl, a Sven Lafgren. He and his family came to this country during 1890 and settled in Hinsdale, Illinois.

The youngest sister, Marie, married a Mr. Fogelberg in Sweden. They had one daughter, Anna. She was in this country for a few years in Chicago, but returned to Sweden, where I suppose she is, if she is still living.⁶

This is all I know about the family history.

I shall now tell about the old home place in Munka Ljungby and the rest of the country as I remember it.

If you start out from Engelholm and go east over the King’s Highway, it is about ten minutes driving in automobile to Munka Ljungby. Coming into the village, the first suburb is Kropakre, grandfather Larson’s homestead. (It was in 1881.)

In Sweden, the farmers live in villages and have their land out a little ways – some closer and some farther out. And grandfather’s place was one of three such places built together when we were there – Per Svenson, Gustaf Person and Anders Nilsson – the places were built like this:

[Webmaster's note: Apparently a hand written map was placed here in the original version of this essay]

You will notice that Mr. Svenson lives in the first farm place. Uncle Johanes died and his widow married Per Svenson.

The farmers had their farmland probably in different patches from where they lived. At grandfather’s, some of the land came up to the buildings to the south side of the homes and stretched south probably twenty or thirty rods. On the south line was a creek. Here they had built out of wood a dam with a hoisting door that they could raise and lower – to raise and lower the water in the creek. On the south side of the creek was a hedge of roses, some four or five feet high and full of roses in the summer time. There was also what was called a "Trask" – a small swamp probably seventy-five feet wide and one hundred feet long. Here many trees and shrubs were growing and flowers of all kind in the summer time. This country was very thickly settled. Most farms were ten or twenty acres and some were a hundred acres – but they were mostly small places.

I am drawing a small map of this village as of 1881, except the railroad which was built after we left. You will notice from that, that our home place that father built is quite close to grandfather’s place, and the half acre were he built was part of the old homestead which he might have bought or if grandfather gave it to him, he built his home then. It was a white stucco house. We used to call it the white house after we came to this country when we mentioned it. Of course, it was not quite as large as the White House in Washington.

It was located on the north side of the street or highway, and father had his shoe shop in the southeast part. He always had one or more working for him, and they lived at our place – board and room.

Father also bought some land about five or six acres (fyra tunland). He paid one thousand kroner per tunland, then he built a "Länga" barn, I guess you would call it. It joined the living house to the north. There was first a kind of built-in hall from this house to the länga, then there was a large room where they packed in all the grain bundles, then a room with a cement floor where they threshed out the grain with a flail; then adjoining this room was a room for cattle, milk, cows, sheep, and next to that place, for chickens.

Across the street from our home was a school for girls (Fridstorpt Skolla). I remember the teacher used to come to our home and visit often. Father was head of the School Board and hired the teachers. Just west of the school was the village meeting house and west of that was Kropakra. East of the school in a nice brick building in a setting of evergreens lived a couple of old maid sisters. We children used to hurry across the street most every for a visit – most likely because we always were treated to apples.

Then a little further east was Larson’s bakery, where mother used to buy cookies, and a little further on, you got into the heart of the village, you might say. There were larger stores, a large nice church and high school.

Emil was only thirteen or fourteen years old when we left the country, but he had already finished the lower school, the middle school, as well as high school. If we had stayed, he would have entered college to learn bookkeeping. For his age, he was very good in arithmetic, spelling and penmanship.

Then we came to this country, out on the wild prairie where there was nothing to do but farm. Settlers were all new beginners and poor. When he was fourteen years old, he hired out to a neighborhood farmer – a mean cuss. He dad to be out and work in all kinds of weather – rain and cold. He did not know enough to take care of himself, caught a bad cold and kept right on working. It stayed by him for several weeks. When he got over his cold, he noticed he was getting hard of hearing, which increased more and more. It was the tragedy of Emil’s life that he ever had to leave Sweden, and probably for all of us – But I am getting away from my subject.

I should probably mention there were several small factories, such as wagon factories, paint shops, woodworking of all kinds, furniture factories, tailor shops. There were no railroads at that time. There were no saloons, but the beer wagon came up from Engelholm a couple of times a week and delivered beer.

For amusement, the young couples had dances. In the summer time, they would have them out in the groves.

Munka Ljungby was a very religious community and father and mother were very active workers in it all. Father was, of course, working in his shop all day, but in the evening, he was always out attending meeting of every kind. He was very good at giving a speech. It did not make any difference how large a gathering there was – and he always had something to say – in fact, we could not keep him still, as he always had to take part. Sometimes, for or six young fellows would go out, and they would sing one song after another as they were walking along. The air there was so very light and easy to breathe. It was just like swimming through the air, and you could hear the sound and voices a long, long way. The echo was so clear and loud that sometimes it would return over again – often as many as three times – but fainter each time.

I can still remember what a beautiful views there were from our home. Looking north was Halland As, a high ridge or highland, rising gradually higher and higher. Village churches and homes were standing out so beautifully embedded in the woods and park. There was one certain place where we could count eighteen churches, and this was not in the city or town, but the open country.

From Engleholm east – a little northeast – little Rone A River had it course. There was beautiful woodland on both sides of the stream. This river was just a quarter of a mile from our home, with many nice bathing beaches and camping places, and places where they gathered for dancing. This river emptied into the Storra Ron A, the large Rone River, a quarter of a mile east of Engelholm. This river course was southeast and was about two miles south of our home. The land was thickly settled with homes all over showing up through the woods – white houses with red roofs.

And now we have come to the last day in Sweden. I remember so well the day of the sale. In Sweden, it was not like it is here where the auctioneer is the whole thing and gets the big pay – there it is the opposite. The clerk is the only one that matters, and gets the big pay. The auctioneer, or as they call it there "Boparen" just gets a few coppers.

We had been invited to different homes in the evening for farewell meetings with half a dozen prayers that God would be with us and sustain their dear friends on their journey.

On the morning of the departure, the closest friends and relatives met at our home. Our neighbor, Per Svenson, was going to drive us to Helsingborg, so we all walked over to their place, some two or three blocks. I can still remember how heartbroken the women folks were, and the men folks walked just ahead of father, who was leading the smallest by hand.

I was thinking when I got to America, I am going to make money in no time, then I am going back By Herregard there is one of the finest gentlemen’s country estates that there is. But mother and father had found that in an even better land.

After a last farewell, we were off.

Oh, sweet, beautiful land, how can you children leave you.

Now I can understand the tears in mother’s and father’s eyes after they arrived in the Iowa wilderness – and the longing for old friends and familiar haunts.

Going from Engleholm south to Helsingborg, you are within a couple miles of this city and suddenly you find yourself in full view of this city, stretching in the park like a setting below. And beyond, on Ore Sound, hundreds of small sailboats and pleasure yachts are going to and fro. Here we stopped for three days to visit with old friends. We stayed with Gustaf Svenson and now well I remember the beautiful home in a park-like setting, nothing nicer in our adopted land.

Finally, we had to say good-bye to Herr Svenson, and father went down to the city one day on a last farewell tour.

Then down to the harbor we went, and the whole family boarded a small steamboat and crossed the Sound to Helsingör. Here we boarded a larger steamer that was to take us across to Glasgow, Scotland. In the evening, we were on deck to get a last glimpse of the beloved homeland.

On the second night out we had a bad storm. We, and a family from Helsingör had a separate room, but there was just a tin board wall that separated our cabins from a very large cabin where there must have been one hundred or more men and women. They played and danced and sang and laughed all night long during the storm. A heavy wave struck the boat, tossed it on the side, like an eggshell, and all the passengers lay in one heap on the floor in one side of the room. Next minute, they were in a heap on the other side of the room.

Along the walls were beds, three tiers high. I remember there was a crippled man who afterwards told father that he was in one of the top bunks and he was thrown out of the bed and landed across the room on the heap of people and was not hurt. This went on for quite a few minutes.

On the third day, we arrived in Glassgow. Here we stayed at a hotel for three days waiting for a large steamer to take us across to New York.

And eight days after leaving Glasgow, we arrived at Castel Garden. We did hav beautiful sunshine on the ocean voyage.

After you have been on a boat for nearly two weeks and you get on land, it seems like the rooms where you are staying rock and rock – just like it did on the steamboat.

In less than no time, we were on the train heading for the promised land. We arrived in Chicago on a Thursday. Here mother and father had friends from Sweden that they wanted to visit, so they decided to stop off here; and, although it was after dark, we all climbed into a taxi and soon landed at Mr. Pearson’s.

We stayed here for three days. Mr Pearson was a tailor by trade and was in business for himself.

Among other places we visited was Lincoln Park.

On Friday, we were again on the train headed for Odebolt where we arrived August 20^th, a Saturday.

John Nelson

Howard J. Nelson's  Notes (dated Sept. 16, 1987):

The foregoing essay was apparently written in the late 1950s, when John was in his eighties.

1. Munka Ljungby, the village where the family lived, is in the same latitude as Sitka, Alaska. The cities he refers to are listed on modern maps as Helsingborg and Ängelholm.

2. The village on current maps is Össjö.

3. Ljungby in the last paragraph means Munka Ljungby and not the city of that name.

4. What John says about Charles XII is true enough, although Karlskrona is 100 miles away rather than 40. When one remembers that Munka Ljunby is only 5 or 6 miles from the shores of the Kattegat, a maritime funnel between the North and Baltic Seas, and a much used sea lane since early man learned how to build ships, it is pretty clear that genes producing black hair and dark complexions have been close at hand for many centuries.

5. It was the Burlington RR that ran through Hinsdale, not the Illinois Central, according to a Hinsdale resident. The members of the Lofgren family are well known to the Nelsons, perhaps that is the reason their names do not appear here. See the outline of Lars Bengtson descendants for details.

6. I believe the correct spelling is Fageberg. Ann, unknown to John apparently, was living on Mentor Avenue in Pasadena when this was written. The sketch that John drew is missing from my copy.