Anders, son of Brynild. On a farm near the Swedish border, there’s not enough work to go around. You’re 18 years old and have to leave. A ticket to Minneapolis, 1907, where the Norwegian immigrants find a little piece of home in another country. You change your name. You work on a farm. On this virgin land that stretches out of sight, work is measured by the time spent along the railway. Then you give out tickets on tramways. 1918. The army, France. You marry. Two children. You settle in this small town in Burgundy. They call you “The American.”
Following in the footsteps of Anders, my grandfather.