My sweet, tiny, late Swedish grandmother, Svea, was the most giving person that I’ve ever known. “Mormor” (translated “Mother’s-mother”), as my siblings, cousin and I called her, grew up in the small southern Swedish seafaring village of Brantevik. There, she found her love, my “Morfar” (“Mother’s-father”), Lennart Larsson, a marine painter and artist, before marrying and moving to the bigger cities of Eslöv and then Malmö, where they raised two beautiful daughters, Lena Ingegerd and Ann-Marie. When the girls reached teenage years and Svea had extra time, Svea leveraged her studies in child-care to begin caring for neighborhood children from her home.
“Tant Svea” (“Aunt Svea”), as all the neighborhood children called her, was everyone’s favorite. She always had little snacks in her coat pockets for every smiling face, and no tiny neighbor could pass by her kitchen window without being invited in for a cookie and some hot cocoa. Svea was always kind and sweet, taking joy in the happiness of every child, and feeling any child’s hurt as if it were her own. When discipline was required, Svea had to force herself to try to seem sterner – yet she always betrayed her efforts with soft caring eyes that just couldn’t play along.
