For Emma and Joe,
Your great-grandfather Walt came over from Norway in 1923 with eleven dollars and a jar of pickled herring his mother packed for him. The herring didn’t make it past Ellis Island. The man at the desk made him open it and then wouldn’t let him close it again.
He worked the ore boats out of Duluth for nine years. That’s where he lost the tip of his left thumb, which he told everybody was a bear. It was a winch. My mother told me when I was twelve, and I didn’t believe her either.
He met her at a dance at the Lutheran church, and he couldn’t dance. He stood by the punch bowl for three hours and walked her home anyway. They were married forty-one years.
Every Christmas Eve he’d hold up that thumb and say, “Now, the bear.” You’ve both heard me do it. Keep telling it wrong.
Grandma

