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Yes, my curiosity got the better of me. I just had to find out. I wanted to know why she went into foster care. What about the mother? I had to do some more digging, work my way back into more old archives. I was hooked!
To fill in the gap in her story I had to go back to the above page in the picture. As you can see, without reading any particular words, some text is in darker ink, fresher and younger if you like. At the bottom you can read “Dot. Maria”. That’s our girl. “Dot.” is short for daughter. Above her is another girl, born in 1878, three years later than the brother on the line above. Squeezed in a bit further up is a new entry, Maria’s mother, Kersti Persdotter.
The reason for Maria and her mother being added to this page, to this household, you find in the column on the right, with the heading “Död”, which means dead. Have you guessed it yet?
In February of 1879 the wife and mother of this household dies of consumption, and in June, four months later the daughter Anna, almost exactly Maria’s age, dies of diphtheria.
Maria and her mother move in, and the mother marries the farmer on 15 May 1880. So far so good. But the farmer had obviously lost both wife and a daughter, but rather quickly replaced them with a girl the same age and a new wife six years younger. Spookily enough, the deceased wife had exactly the same name as her replacement, Kersti(na) Persdotter. Kersti, Kjersti, Kerstina and Kjerstina were all the same name, nobody made any real difference between them.
So where is the problem then? Answer: nine months after the wedding. Yes, sadly I found the evidence in the “Death Book”. Nine months and one day after the wedding our Kersti, Maria’s mother (36), dies. No cause of death was recorded, but the assumption is of course that she died in childbirth. No child, stillborn or alive, was recorded on that day, or near that day, so Kersti presumably died with the child inside the womb more or less. Tragic. Her first child was born out of wedlock, which was noted in archives to follow her wherever she moved, and then she marries properly like a “good woman” and things go horribly wrong.
Not knowing who her real father is and having lost her mother, five weeks later Maria moves in with her aunt Anna, witness at her christening and her closest relative, at the age of eleven. Three and a half years later she appears in the household as a maid with my relatives, my grandfather being just a baby. My first great aunt was just seven days away, so Maria’s presence in the family was welcomed, I guess.
Like I wrote in my previous post, she moved to Denmark within a year, she was ready to fly at the age of sixteen. Perhaps she had children of her own to care for later, but that’s another story.
A young girl has intrigued me for a couple of weeks now. No no, it’s not what you might think. She lived over a century ago. You see, I am doing research into my family properly now. I have turned into an amateur genealogist by joining a website holding over 30 million photos of pages from Swedish archives. Before, I relied on handed-down documents and just copied other people’s work.
I started by trying to look into my paternal grandmother’s background, because nobody had done that to my knowledge. Since I knew some of her parents’ data I got going straight away. I ran into problems early on, finding some discrepancies to the little information I had previously. I thought I needed some guidance, but decided to practise on something easier first.
I chose to go for my paternal grandfather, and it was much easier. Most of the facts I had before, so this was a pure exercise in research strategy. When my grandfather was born in 1883 there were already two children in the family, but before he was six months old they died at the ages of four and two. The girl succumbed to bronchitis and the boy to diphtheria and paralysis. Later another girl was born, my great aunt.
But now there was a surprise. A fifteen-year-old girl was all of a sudden a member of the household. Where did she come from? Who was she? Could these poor people afford to have staff? Was she a maid or just a lodger? My guess is as good as yours. In this document I could see where and when she was born, where and when she had moved from, that she had moved in only seven days before my great aunt was born and that she within a year emigrated to Denmark, at the age of sixteen!
I was intrigued and puzzled. I needed to find out who she was, so I followed her trail back in time. First I tried the birth register where she claimed to be born, and could not find her. What? Then I suspected she might have lied about her age to get employment, which made me look up and down a great number of pages. Still could not find that entry anywhere, so I took another approach.
I found her in the parish she had moved from in the register (household by household), with data about family members and their literacy, “character” and their catechism knowledge. She was a foster daughter in a farming family far away from my grandfather’s family. She had officially moved from there 13 days before she registered in the town where I had first spotted her. That must be the time it took to move in 1884.
So now I had found her closer to where she claimed to be born at least. I followed the trail and found an entry stating a completely different birth place. Now things started to make sense. But why had she put down the wrong birth parish? Did she not know where she was born? According to this latest information her mother and she were born in the same place, twenty years apart. I had to dig deeper.
But what about the father? My suspicions were soon confirmed. She was born out of wedlock, father unknown, by a twenty-year-old maid in a big household, on a big farm. Since the father was unknown, she was given the Christian name of the master to add to “daughter”. Like so many other girls born out of wedlock she was christened Maria, perhaps to appease the Church, God and whoever. In the registers it was noted that the young mother had “given birth out of wedlock” and the date for when she was given absolution. And I can read about it still after 142 years!
Since the registers and archives I now have access to are photographs, it is not possible to search on the computer in the modern way, but I sometimes have to flip page after page on my screen in my search for a certain entry. In one of them I had to start on the first page until I found her on page 331! But it was worth it.
So now I know that Maria Jakobsdotter was born outside wedlock, father unknown, by a twenty-year-old maid, went into (correction: was in) foster care at the age of ten, moved to my grandfather’s family at fifteen and then emigrated to Denmark at sixteen. The “misinformation”, discrepancies, call them what you like, might have been an attempt to cover up her origin, so that she could start an adult life without prejudice. Did my relatives know her true background? We’ll never know. I only hope that she managed to get a decent life for herself, because I think it takes some guts to move away from what you know when you are fifteen.
Outstanding questions: Who was the father? Why and when did she go into foster care? What happened to her mother?
I think I will have to give up here and go back to my own family history. But I am sure she sang lovely lullabies to my grandfather and his baby sister.
Well, December was apparently the coldest in the UK since the Met Office started monitoring the weather a long time ago. But we went to Sweden to spend time with relatives and friends, and the coldest temperature the car thermometer registered was –22 degrees.
The whole country was covered in masses of snow. You needed your long-johns and thermals, that’s for sure, and woolly hats and gloves …. but it created some beautiful scenes for free…
…and some funny ones as well.
In Stockholm my grandchildren could not go on the swing …
… although some kids played outside in Malmö …
… my two little darlings had to play indoors most of the time…
While the snow caused some people problems …
… others took the opportunity …
… but most of all, it was beautiful!
My mother is still going, not strong perhaps, but she is going. Yesterday she turned 88. Sadly I could not be there, but I will see her in two weeks’ time.
I was in fact frantically scanning old photo albums so I can return them when we go for Christmas. That’s when I came across this wonderful almost 69-year-old picture of her and her best friend at teacher training college. She was still 19 years old that summer when she graduated. I believe this photo is from early spring 1942. So elegant, a real class act! (She is the one on the left by the way.) The hat might be dated, although beautiful, but the rest of her outfit would have done a modern business woman proud. What a good dresser she was!
Well, that's how it feels at least. I just can't get started. I find it difficult to focus on material for this blog. Self doubt has started to creep in.
I could write about the goings-on in the garden, the in-fighting greenfinches, the cheeky squirrels, the blackbird splashing in the bath, the new bird feeder stand in black metal and preying cats, but I don't.
I could write about the progress of the book I am trying to write (in Swedish), currently at around 100 A4 pages after a lot of editing (deleting mostly), how I struggle sometimes to write anything for long periods of time, the joy of actually achieving something, but I don't.
I could write about my part-time work at a boarding house where I sleep in an uncomfortable bed, supervise spotty teenagers and drink lots of tea, but I don't (partly because of confidentiality).
I could write about how I invigilate GCSE and A-level exams, but that would be plain boring, so I don't.
I could write about life as a civilian dependent in a NATO community in Germany, the imminent relocation of half of this community to the UK, the many second-hand cars in the main car park people are trying to sell before they leave, the anxiety of many colleagues because of an uncertain future, knowing the whole garrison will close in a few years' time, but I don't.
I could write about our own situation, where to move next, where to settle and eventually retire, Sweden (where only I have lived), France (where we only have a holiday home) or the UK (where both of us have lived), but I don't.
I could write about my health and the complication of doctors trying to establish which type of diabetes I have got, type 2 or 1.5 (LADA), but I don't.
I could write about the joy of still having my mother (87), my son and two grandchildren, other family and friends, but I don't.
Why don't I?
This fat king on his fat horse, a quote from an old friend's (Mikael Wiehe) song when he turned 55, actually made sure I was born Swedish and not Danish.
It is very appropriate to mention him now in this cold weather because in January 1658 he (or rather his generals) took his army across the ice between some Danish islands and secured victory. They had come from Poland, where they had been fighting earlier, and attacked the Danes from the least expected direction. He was Karl X Gustav.
They had arrived when the water was open, but decided to try the ice when it just kept freezing. Nearly all the army made it across, only a couple of German squadrons fell through the ice and drowned, but what the heck.
That cunning plan surprised the Danes, who had to fight the enemy coming from behind. The peace treaty that ensued gave the southern parts of the Scandinavian peninsula to Sweden, and this statue stands in the main square in Malmö, my home town, to commemorate this historical event.
By the way, I am sure I would have been happy to be Danish as well!
What a lovely holiday we had! But it was the wintriest journey and stay I can remember. The first, short leg to Bremen took over four hours instead of three, and Bremen to Malmö, including the ferry between Germany and Denmark, took nearly seven long hours, all due to snow and -10 degrees C. The gritters and snow ploughs ganged up on us, cars, coaches and lorries coming off the ferry, and blocked the motorway driving at 50 kph (30 mph) for about 20 kilometres. Not everybody was happy about that!
The return journey was even worse, close to disastrous, twelve hours and forty minutes! Just before the Danish ferry port the snow started to come down faster than I have ever experienced before . All motorists were very cautious, but about a kilometer from the actual ferry terminal an articulated lorry spun round, jackknifed and ended up the wrong way in the snow-covered field, luckily without personal injuries to the driver. We saw him jump out of the cab with the windscreen wipers still trying to keep off the persistent snow.
When we reached the check-in, the snow fall (some would have called it a blizzard) had intensified and you could hardly see more than thirty metres. The whole waiting area was soon covered in thick snow. Everybody stayed in their vehicles, engines and wipers running. Only some, desperate for the toilets, man and dog alike, braved the conditions and walked, ran or jumped in a rather comical fashion to relieve themselves.
After one and a half hours of waiting in the car, we finally found shelter on the ferry. Most drivers left ample space to the one in front in order to clear the snow blanket, 20 centimetres thick. The cars looked like igloos! Less than an hour later we rolled off to encounter even more winter.
The remainder of the journey was extremely slow, sometimes just crawling on the icy, snow-covered autobahn in heavy snow fall. Other times you tried to see through the slushy spray from the car in front.
When we finally got home after midnight I found my reward in the drinks fridge!
But between these troublesome journeys we had a wonderful time in Sweden. We celebrated Christmas with family and met up with friends, some of whom I had not seen for sixteen years. Southern Sweden was wintry white, but welcoming.
I leave you for now with some pictures.
... for having absconded yet again from the blogosphere. I blame my grandchildren personally. Do I really have to visit them to keep up with their development and to be part of their lives? Yes, I do!
I spent a rather long and also busy weekend with my son's family in Stockholm. It was wonderful.
On the second day I picked up my grandchildren from nursery on my own, first the older one, and then we went to pick up the toddler brother from his group. It was a proud moment for a granddad who doesn't see them that often.
Then it was time for some physical work for me, pushing the pram with the attached roller board for the older child to stand on after a tiring day "at work". But we got back in good order, now all three of us tired!
The weekend was somewhat more relaxed and I had the privilege to attend the 4 1/2-year-old's "swim nursery", where they get used to the water through little games, rhymes and a lot of splashing.
Then I and my granddaughter had a day to ourselves. We had planned to have a fun and exciting day out in central Stockholm. We travelled by underground, ferry and bus, just for the fun of it.
With the help of mum and dad I had prepared some interesting visits; to Junibacken, a museum dedicated to Astrid Lindgren characters like Pippi Longstocking and many others, to Aquaria with sharks and all sorts, and lastly a big toy shop.
But it was Monday! The Astrid place was closed, the aquarium was closed and so were all nearby restaurants. Granddad went into overdrive, but kept cool and checked if it was possible to eat at the Vasa Museum and the Nordiska Museum, but in both places one would have to pay an entrance fee to access the food facilities! The situation was getting slightly desperate.
It was cold and windy, which did not do much for the little girl's growing hunger or bladder.
After an emergency hot dog she informed me that she desperately needed the toilet. Granddad, after having spotted a restaurant down a side street some distance away, told her she had to squeeze and hold tight, in the most calming and reassuring voice.
Hurry, hurry across a couple of streets, park the buggy, rush through the entrance, past a man who was allocating tables to lunch guests, straight into the gents', find a cubicle, and YES, she had managed, to granddad's great relief.
After having thanked the understanding man by the door, we got on a bus, where we did not have to pay thanks to the buggy. Then we enjoyed the day-old Christmas window display at NK, the famous department store, marvelled at all the lovely toys in a big toy shop, and finished it off with some Italian ice-cream before counting all the underground stations on the way home.
Wow, what a day out!
BTW I have now finished setting up my photo web site , and I have already planned some adjustments to make navigation even easier, especially for when the number of images will grow in the future.
So I have taken down the flashing neon sign saying "Under Construction". From now on it will only be maintenance and expansion.
(In my next post I will tell you why I dislike (I hate the word hate) Ryanair so much that I struggle to find words to describe it.)
No, I have not had writer's block. I have not been without ideas, and I have definitely not been short of photos to illustrate blog posts with.
I have written a lot, but not for this blog. My ideas have gone into other writing. Since I last posted here I have taken about 1600 photos, some of which will appear here today and in the near future.
You see, we do not have a land line at our house in the French countryside, which means no internet connection. I have used my netbook on a couple of occasions to check email and to get news using a hotel's or restaurant's Wi-Fi, but I have not dared do internet banking or anything involving passwords and money. Neither do I have the necessary programs on the netbook to blog. I have, in other words, been bloggingly celibate.
The fact is, we do not even have a TV, just French radio, so we have been almost completely out of touch with the rest of the world apart from a few mobile phone calls and text messages. I will come back to our French holiday in a later post.
As soon as the school year was over, I and Ms Swenglish went to see my son's family in Stockholm. I do not think I need to tell you what a wonderful time we had. Among other things we went on a couple of sightseeing tours by boat in gorgeous weather.
I leave you for now with some pictures from the beautiful Swedish capital.
Now I might even find time to read other people's blogs!
I could not resist the temptation to get my camera out for this as I was having a coffee in the new Western Harbour area of Malmö where there used to be an enormous shipyard. Now it is full of innovative and interesting buildings with a distinct international feel to it. We all needed a good, strong coffee the day after my brother's birthday party. In Bar Italia I had the best Latte of my life so far.
What you see in the picture is the bridge, part of a link including bridge, tunnel and man-made island, between Malmö in Sweden and Copenhagen in Denmark. But the dominating feature is the rain cloud, which, together with the water, makes up one solid mass of grey-blue with only two dots of orange on the water. So had a fisherman not put out his net there, this photo would have been very close to monochrome.
We went to Sweden (Malmö) to celebrate my brother’s 50th birthday. Before the party itself, one of the highlights of the trip took place, when my mother met little Hampus, her great grandchild, for the first time.
But I kept hold of him most of the time, what else did you expect?
The party had been moved to 6th June, which just happens to be the Swedish National Day, hence the abundance of flags.
Then the party got underway with interesting drinks, delicious food, good company, loud music and dancing, some funny and emotional speeches, a musical tribute and a lot of good humour.
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By the time I went to bed at nearly three in the morning (!) this was the view from my mother's balcony.
The sun seems to be hiding only just below the horizon. Some party people might have been hiding in bed the day after, and some might even have been in need of these to get back into shape.
(Only joking; it's my mum's weekly medication, but you knew that.)
Throats were a little sore from talking over loud music and the body knew it had been dancing for far too long. But it was all worth it; we all had a great time, everybody from my mother (86) down to Hampus and Måns (2 1/2 wks), who went for the quiet option.
Who said it is not fun getting older? I certainly had a lot of fun when my brother got much, much older than before.
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