Bestefar

My grandfather, Einar Strand, was the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.  He was my pirate king and my hero, my loving Bestefar (grandfather).

Einar Anthonsen Strand was a large man, a good 2 or 3 inches (maybe 4?) over six feet, and despite skinny legs and knobby knees, and being slim, he was broad and strongly built.  He wasn’t particularly good looking.  Nearing sixty when I first met him, his receding brown hair was peppered with grey.  He had fair skin mottled by spidery red veins and his large eyes were blue.  He had angular features and bushy eyebrows that got wilder as he got older.  He had kind eyes, though, and a kind heart and somehow one got the impression of an attractive man, despite his physical appearance.

Bestefar loved children.  I think he liked hearing them laugh.  I remember him leading bands of children to the King’s Park a few blocks away.  He would play tag and other games with us until we were breathless and convulsed with laughter.  He would gather the children on his knee and tell them stories of the Strandaguttene (the Strand boys).  He was one of five brothers and he would tell of their adventures on the strand – the beach at Lier, Norway -  where he grew up.  I wish I could remember these stories, but they are lost to time, I’m afraid.  He would also tell the traditional tales of Norwegian folklore, tales of Bamsefar (the bear father) and Mikkel Rev (Michael the fox) and the other creatures of the forest.  Of course, every story began, Det var en gang… (Once upon a time) and ended,  Snip, snap, snute, så var eventyret ute (Snip, snap, snute, the story is over).

Lier Åsen in Winter

It wasn’t until I was grown that I realized Bestefar also wrote stories, especially historical and color pieces, for the Drammen newspaper as a free-lance reporter.  We didn't discover this until well after my brother Jay, Einar's only grandson, had gone into Journalism as his life's work.  There's gotta be something to this genetic inheritance stuff!

When Bestefar finally retired, small children in the neighborhood would often ring the doorbell at #4 Mauritz Hansensgate and ask if “that nice man can come out and play”.