An American Dream

I have a picture on my kitchen wall that talks to me and tells me stories. It shows a horse and buggy with its faceless driver traveling down cobblestoned streets. The picture appears repeatedly on my patterned gold wallpaper. At first when I heard it talk, early one morning, I thought I was going crazy, or was not yet awake and still dreaming. 

I live in my grandparents’ house, a house that my carpenter grandfather built long ago. Grandma would be 112 years old if she were alive today. My grandfather was slightly older than her. They moved into the house in the 1940s, when my dad was about ten years old. I imagine the wallpaper was installed shortly after that. At the time, it was probably fashionable. Now, although it has aged well and is not even peeling, it is no longer en vogue. I’ve never seen anyone else with wallpaper like mine.

Although I should probably have had my walls painted a more modern color long ago, I decided it was not worth the effort. Why fight it? After a friend said my house was retro, I decided to just roll with it. It is what it is. Why try to make my house into something it’s not? Plus I feel like my house honors my grandparents’ memory and traditional values. Although I remember them driving a car, they had lived in simpler times. Metaphorical horse and buggy days.  

One morning as I stumbled into my kitchen, barely awake and desperately needing my caffeine, I heard what sounded like a horse’s whinny, followed by creaking noises, and the clip clopping of hooves. Next, I heard vague murmurings and a voice saying “Giddyup.” 

I looked around, startled. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” The voice said.

“What?” I answered in fright. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me. The wall.”

“The wall?” I asked in disbelief. “Is this some sort of joke?”

”No. I was talking to the horse. He keeps pulling to the left. I was scolding him. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Oh.” I was at a loss for words. Was I still dreaming? Had I sleep-walked my way into the kitchen?

“Don’t look so shocked,” the voice laughed. “You know how everyone always says, ‘If only these walls could talk . . .’”

“Yeah?” I croaked in disbelief. 

“Well, a lot of us can talk, at least us wallpaper. We just choose not to.”

“Oh.” I said again, not knowing what to say. How does one converse with wallpaper? 

“You’re kind of quiet. Don’t you want to know what I have to say?”

“Sorry,” I paused. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I really don’t know how to talk to a wall.”

“It’s okay. Do you feel like chatting or aren't you awake yet?” asked the wallpaper. “No offense, but it gets kinda boring around here sometimes. I could use someone to talk to.”

“Well, yeah, I guess we could chat,” I paused, taking a long drag from my coffee. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around all this. It’s way too early in the morning.”

“No problem. I know it’s a lot to absorb.”

“You think?” 

“Anyways, do you like me? Do you think I’m attractive? I know at one time you were thinking of changing me, peeling me off and giving your kitchen a makeover from Sherwin Williams.”

“Well, you’re old,” I protested. "I thought maybe it was time for a change.”

“Well, I’m glad you decided against it or I wouldn’t still be here.” 

“You fit this house. I decided that long ago,” I said logically. “Anyways, being retro is now trendy. And I’m nothing if not trendy,” I joked. 

“I’m glad you came to that conclusion,” the voice said reasonably. “I’ve seen a lot over the years. It would be a shame to lose all of my wisdom.”

The words didn’t seem to be coming from any one area, rather they came from all sides, as if my kitchen had stereo surround sound. For old wallpaper, though, his acoustics were surprisingly good. At the moment, the horse and buggy seemed to have stopped moving. I could hear his voice quite clearly. Maybe the horse needed a rest.  

“What have you seen?” I asked, getting back to our conversation. It was still unreal to me that I was talking to a wall, but I might as well hear him out.

“I’ve seen a lot. You know you’re only the second homeowner who's ever lived here? I lived with your grandparents for many years.”

“I know that, of course. I kind of inherited the house,” I said in irritation. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. “Well, I rent from my parents anyway.”

“Do you want to hear more about your grandparents?”

“Of course. You know I do remember them though. They both lived to a ripe old age. I was here with them in this house many times.”

“I know,” the wall replied. “But maybe you’d like to hear about their lives before you arrived.” The voice paused. “I know you’re a romantic. I hear you watching Hallmark movies all the time. Maybe you’d like to hear their real life love story though. It’s much better than any movie. I was a witness to it after all. They sat by me in this kitchen many times. At this time of the morning, they’d often huddle over their coffee and cinnamon rolls.” 

“Well, yes, I’d like to hear more about them,” I said. “I know the basics, of course, how they met and got married and had my dad and aunt. But you probably know all the interesting stuff. Being an ever present observer and all . . .”

“Yes, I do know all their secrets. I’d be happy to share them with you. Sit back and pour yourself more coffee. This may take awhile.”

“Ok.” I said, pouring more coffee into my mug. “Go ahead.” I next slathered butter on my English muffin and sat back expectantly in my chair. 

“You know your grandparents started building this house in the 1940s. Well, it was a long road for them to get here. This house, of course, was their first and only. Prior to living here, they only rented or lived with others. I guess you could say building it was their American dream. That makes me feel proud,” he said immodestly. “I’m part of an American dream. They say the kitchen is the heart of a home, after all.” 

“Having a house and family meant the world to your grandfather. I could tell that just by hearing him talk. He didn’t have an easy childhood. Erik was only twelve when his father left him alone in the world. That would be your great grandfather I mean.”

The wallpaper paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 

“You don’t mind if I call your grandpa Erik, do you? I know he isn’t Erik to you, he's grandpa. But to me, however, he's a contemporary. Of course, he’s now dead, and I’m still here.” The wallpaper sounded somewhat chagrined that he had referred to my grandpa in the present tense.

“No, it’s ok. Call him whatever you’d like,” I assured him, wondering if the wallpaper had ever spoken directly to my grandfather. Had they been friends? The morning was getting weirder by the minute. I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.

  “Keep going with your story,” I pleaded. “I’d really like to hear more.”

 “Ok. Well, you know that both of your grandparents’ parents came over to America from Sweden. When your great grandfather returned to Sweden, leaving your grandfather behind, he then became an orphan. Quite a bitter pill for him to swallow. Since your grandpa was born in the US, however, he was a regular citizen, however, unlike his parents. I guess you’d call him a naturalized citizen. Sadly, his mother died of the flu when he was around ten or eleven. It sounded to me like it had been a lengthy, miserable illness.”

“Her last days were brutal. Your grandpa kept reliving them, hearing her hacking, dry coughs and desperate gasps for air over and over. Finally, her exhausted body – heart and lungs – couldn’t take it any longer and she mercifully died one night, fortunately relatively peacefully in her sleep. At the very end, at least, she hadn’t suffered, at least from what I could tell. I think he took some consolation in that, knowing her suffering was finally over.”

“But at the same time, your grandpa's father, Theodor, was understandably heartbroken. He had long held the dream of a better life in a new land with his family. In each version of that dream, however, his wife Ebba had been there. He couldn’t fathom life without her, especially this new life in a foreign land. He was simply lost without her. The way your grandpa described it, his father became a wandering shell of a man, shuffling aimlessly from one day to the next, paying scant attention to his four children. That hurt your grandpa a lot. He felt like he lost two parents at once.”

The wallpaper’s voice was now soft and low. I had to strain to hear him. I could feel a lump forming in my throat, thinking of my grandfather as a grieving, lonely child. The wallpaper was also subdued. Then, he seemed to gather himself and resumed speaking. 

“Well meaning friends, fellow Swedes, tried to rouse your great grandpa out of his stupor. They reminded him how desperately his children needed him. Nothing seemed to get through to him, however. He thought his family would be better off without him. He had his heart and mind set on returning to Sweden, to where he had first fallen in love with Ebba, your great grandmother.

Your great grandfather was convinced he would feel closer to Ebba in his motherland. God taking him from her was an obvious sign that he was not made for this new country. At least that’s how your grandpa explained it to your grandma. Before your great grandpa left to return to Sweden, however, he needed to ensure his children were settled. Although he was incapable of being a parent at that time, he knew at the very minimum he needed to ensure that his children were well cared for. 

At that time, the three older children were all teenagers – strong, healthy, and capable. Children grew up quickly in those days, unlike now. He felt they were plenty old enough to fend for themselves. The girls, they would be your great aunts, found work in a restaurant, cleaning, cooking, and waiting on tables. In exchange, they were given a shared room on the second floor over the diner. All their meals came from the restaurant. At least they wouldn’t starve.

The boys, Erik and Hans, were sent to live with another Swedish family, the Bergstroms. Hans was your great uncle, your grandfather’s brother. In exchange for room and board, the boys were to be farmhands on the Bergstrom farm, milking the cows, cleaning the barn, baling the hay, and doing other chores. It was a bargain your great grandpa made with the Bergstroms – his last act as the boys’ father. Now they were alone in the world, without parents.”

“My poor Grandpa,” I said in a choked voice.

“Yes, it must’ve been rough for him. The Bergstroms were good, honest, righteous people, but it definitely wasn’t the same as having real parents. They fed, clothed and cared for the boys as best as they could. They were stoic farmers, though, accepting their lot in life without complaint, working hard on their land from sunup to sundown. They expected the same from the boys, treating them like a cross between houseguests and hired help. Although they were good to them, supplying all their material needs, they were not affectionate people. I don’t think they ever smiled or hugged the boys. Life was a serious business. Idleness and laughter had no place on a hardworking farm.

It went without saying that Erik had to quit school. I think he only made it through the sixth grade. Back then, it was a luxury to get an education. In the country, boys were expected to work. It was the same with your grandma. She also lived on a farm and quit going to school when she was young. Even though she was a girl, she also had to stay home and do chores.”

The wall then took what I imagined was a deep breath before continuing his story. Did walls breathe? 

“It was this shared background that led her to your grandfather. They both lived fairly close to each other in the country, on farms, and were Swedish. At the time, for entertainment and for a break from all of their hard work, the Swedes in the area would gather for picnics and parties. It was at just such a picnic, I think at the Bergstrom farm, that they met. They were both pretty young at the time. They kept company together for many years before they married.

Their courtship was not without problems. Your grandmother had never been anywhere or seen anything. Like any other young girl, she longed to see the world. She thought there was more to life than what she saw on the farm.”

Hearing that, I felt terrible, picturing my grandmother’s restless nature, her longing for other things. How had that affected my grandfather? First, his dad had deserted him and then his girlfriend wanted to leave for greener pastures. No pun intended since she was a farm girl.

“Don’t look so dismayed,” he assured me. “Your grandma was still strongly attracted to your grandfather. He was a striking man, being strong and fit from all his hard work on the farm. Like most Swedes, he was really tall and had the brightest sky blue eyes, eyes that always melted her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to settle down, however. But she also didn’t want to let him go,” he said emphatically.

“Like that old saying goes, she wanted to have her cake and eat it too. He kept asking for her hand in marriage. She always answered, ‘I’ll never marry a farmer.’ That surely broke his heart at the time.

Your grandpa was an enterprising young man, though, and not one to give up. He discovered that he had a talent for building things. He was very handy with a hammer and saw. He loved to fix things, mending fences and barn doors, even building furniture from scratch. He decided to try his hand at being a carpenter. He was sure your grandmother would approve of his profession then. He felt it was the only way to win her over. 

So, he found work in town being a carpenter’s apprentice. He got himself his own apartment, like his sisters, over a storefront on Main Street. Surely your grandmother would accept him now, he reasoned. 

With a hopeful heart, he took her for a walk one night over the farm fields, stopping to pick daisies along the way, her favorite flower. He presented them to her, looking deeply into her eyes. He got down on one knee in the thick grass and weeds, staining his one good pair of overalls in the process.

‘You know I’m a carpenter now?” he asked hopefully. ‘I’m no longer a farmer. I did it for you. Well, also for me,’ he qualified. ‘I really like building things. But, that’s besides the point, I know you don’t want to marry a farmer. But how about a carpenter?’ he asked, his heart in his eyes. 

Your grandma paused for a few long moments, not saying anything. It was a momentous decision after all. Your grandpa waited expectantly, although he was rapidly lose his patience. He had jumped through all her hoops. They had been together an eternity at that point in their relationship.

She continued to stay silent. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer.

‘Well, stay an old maid then!’ he shouted.

Her face registered surprise. He was normally very mild mannered. 'I’m not saying no!’, she protested. ‘I just wanted to savor the moment. Yes, I’ll marry you.’

His face broke into a large smile, and she leaned into him, kissing him sweetly on the lips. Thus, they became engaged at last. The rest as they say is history, and they lived happily ever after,” he said dramatically.

“Your grandfather often joked with her over the years, however. He always loved to remind her how hard he had to work to win her over. And now here you are, years later, their granddaughter sitting in their kitchen today,” the voice concluded. 

“That’s quite a story,” I said. “Thank you for sharing. I knew my grandpa grew up on a farm and later became a carpenter. I didn’t know how it all came about, though, or how hard he had to work to get Grandma.”

“Yes, I for one, think it was very romantic. And, he and your grandma always kept the spark in their marriage alive. Look out the window,” he said surprisingly. “You see those three acres? Back in the day, this was a gentleman’s farm. Your grandparents grew corn, strawberries, potatoes, peas and other vegetables. Your grandpa used to tease your grandma, telling her she married a farmer after all.”

“I remember that,” I said. “I also remember sitting outside in the yard around a wooden picnic table my grandfather built, shelling peas. And I remember picking strawberries in the field.”

“I’m sure you have a lot of good memories,” the wall said. “Did you know the kitchen was your grandpa’s favorite room though? He loved nothing better than to sit with his beloved family around the dinner table. He had found his home at last. It was his American dream.”