As they aged, my mom and her older sister Anna began to show a close physical resemblance. Growing up, the three sisters – Anna, Esther and Dorothy (my mom) had distinctive individual appearances.
Anna, the eldest, lived in a lovely home in Wahoo, Nebraska, married a Swede and was very active in the Lutheran Church. When her daughter Genevieve married a Lutheran minister, she felt she’d achieved the ultimate goal.
Esther, the middle sister with the beautiful blue deep-set eyes, married Frank Smith – an Irishman who enjoyed imbibing a little too much. Esther had a great sense of humor and we Christoffersen kids adored her. Dorothy, my Swedish mother married a Norwegian, not really all that acceptable in her Swedish family, and became the very hardworking mother of seven.
Anna and Esther lived in Nebraska, but their families visited us in Ogema every summer, so we got to know them fairly well. I never liked my Uncle Walt, Anna’s husband – he was pompous, though I don’t know what he had to be pompous about. Apparently, he had a good enough voice that enabled him to sing baritone solos in church, and when they visited us, he’d always perform. Mom and Aunt Anna almost popped their buttons listening to his sanctimonious vibrato, while I suspect Aunt Esther and Uncle Frank, who were not churchgoers, tolerated it. I don’t know if my dad had an opinion, and no one cared what us kids thought.
I didn’t like the manner in which Uncle Walt managed to destroy the ambiance of dinners my mother had worked so hard to prepare. If she served sweet corn, he’d made a royal pig of himself, slathering on butter, chomping on each ear as though he were playing a mean harmonica. His eyes would dart from one family member to another, keeping track of how many ears were left on the platter and keeping score of how many each person had already consumed. Seriously, he’d say, “John, you’ve only had one ear of corn, don’t you want another?” as melted butter drooled down his chin. My siblings and I talk about those dinners to this day, over sixty years ago.
However, the real reason I didn’t like Uncle Walt is the way he’d greet me when they arrived or said goodbye at the end of their visit. He didn’t just hug me or give me a peck on the cheek – no, he’d somehow manage to give me one of those slobbery wet kisses on the mouth. Did I ever complain? No, because who listened to a little kid? But I have clear memories of dreading their visits, only because of his abhorrent behavior. It still gives me the shivers.
I began this story writing how my mom and Aunt Anna began to physically resemble each other as they grew older. The incident that proved their similarities happened when Dad and Mom were shopping at J.C.Penney’s in Marshfield, Wisconsin.
Walking into the dress department, Mom approached the full-length mirror straight ahead. As she neared the mirror, she exclaimed, “Anna, what are you doing in Marshfield?”
Mom was terribly embarrassed – but not too embarrassed to later share the funny story with anyone who’d listen.
