[ WP ] Your grandparents always playfully bickered in their native language . To surprised them , you took lessons , but now you understand what they 're really saying ...

It wasn ’ t Swedish. Well I have no way of actually proving it. I don ’ t know Swedish either. But I can say with one percent below certainty that it was at best simply a good impersonation. It didn ’ t help that his chosen persona, Bjørn Bjørnson, was actually Norwegian. Though I suppose speaking a real language was so far from the point that it seems ridiculous to even comment on. He was Swedish in a way that only an American can be. Was third generation, family line dating back to the Titanic, a fateful flu delaying their emigration a few days. An anglicized name given at Ellis Island. 
 
 
 My grandfather married an Irish woman before joining the Navy, served in the Korean War. Well served at Columbia University. Though it ’ s not like he ever really played up his veteran status, relinquishing that title to someone more deserving I guess. Graduated with an MBA from that very same institution a few years later. Climbed the ranks, was well off in a Mad Men sort of way. He had his first heart attack at the age of 55, spent the night in a hospital room, window lined by a fully stocked bar, ash tray still warm from the ashes of a recently smoked cigarette. 
 
 
 My father would always look at me with a sort of somber jealousy. My grandfather a man completely overwhelmed by work and vice during most of my father ’ s life. Quick tempered, often drunk. Would leave the entirety of his home life to be managed my grandmother. Though I suppose that was more the way things just worked in the 60 ’ s and 70 ’ s. That kind of privileged American Dream that so many want to harken back to. Easily defined gender roles, a nuclear family. Well so long as you didn ’ t have any real ambitions. 
 
 
 But here he was, mid 70 ’ s sitting under the Christmas tree, ogling at my grandmother. Having completely nonsensical conversations in a sort of pseudo-Swedish. Would talk about that one time he actually visited the country as a kid like some sort of badge. He was no more Swedish than I am. The only remnants my butchered last name. To me and my brother he was always just that goofy guy, a complete neglect of a true understanding of my family history. Couldn ’ t see into my grandmother ’ s eyes, a woman who had attempted suicide at least twice. Couldn ’ t see my grandfather ’ s rampant alcoholism. My father's depression. 
 
 
 When my grandmother had her first stroke they were separated for the first time in nearly fifty years. He would sneak ice cream like a little boy whose mother unexpectedly left the house and her credit card for a weekend. Gulping down scoop after scoop of ice cream, crying to the sky at a sudden outburst of brain freeze. Crying out in the voice of his alter ego Bjørn Bjørnson. Would make my brother and I giggle like crazy. A hesitant smirk from the corners of my father ’ s mouth. A sort of inherent Midwestern urge to suppress whatever cocktail of emotions swirling through his gut. 
 
 
 It took us all by surprise. He died quietly in his sleep at the age of 86. My grandmother still recovering from her stroke. Though she never really recovered. In the sort of way that, for good or for bad, when someone has been such an unobstructed part of your life for over fifty years, you become incomplete. And not even in some gushy romantic, “ you complete me ” kind of way. But that our personalities, our emotions are so intangible, and what dictates the self isn ’ t always entirely internal. And when he would look at her on a Christmas morning, break out into some absurd accent, and make us laugh even just a little, the rest was worth it. There was no alternative. No other path. This was life, and for the time being it was good. 

