When I first met my father-in law, Ernest, he was in the prime of life. It would be three years before I married his son, Melvin. By that time I had decided any man who could survive growing up with a father like Ernest was worth marrying. I was right.
Ernest was first and foremost a “Swede” — an immigrant who arrived in this country at age 17. He was hearty, self-assured and hospitable, with a commanding voice that was at its best when telling a story. A working man, he dressed in flannel shirts, pants of good strong material and heavy shoes. His head was balding, with a thin ring of graying hair around the edge. At 53, he wore no glasses. His eyes were Scandinavian blue, bright and perceptive and seemed never to miss any detail. He was built solidly, of medium height with broad shoulders still capable of swinging an axe. He had a ruddy complexion, well-worn lines in his face, a ready smile, and he laughed often. His hands were large and capable, used to hard work and the out-of-doors.
After coming to the U.S., he made his own way by working the lumber camps of Northern Minnesota, the wheat harvests of South Dakota and the saw mills of Minneapolis. As he learned the English language, he also went to night school. He learned construction, how to read blue prints and do machine work. He possessed sublime self-confidence. At one time, as he was asking for work, the superintendent took him to a large room filled with machinery. “Which of these machines can you run?” he was asked. Ernest looked around the room for a minute, and answered, “Dere isn’t a machine in dis room dat I can’t run!”
He married at age 26. Anna was a woman he had met in Sweden when he was 16. Their coming together in their middle 20s is a story he related over and over. It was a good match. Ernest was a family man, always putting his family first and working hard to keep his wife and three children fed during the depression. He and Anna lived frugally, but he never worried about money. When he finally had some, he bought land, to him the only thing of worth. We would often hear stories of men who thought only of money, but he was scornful of “dose who luff da almighty dollar.” “I come to dis country vit von suitcase, and ven I leef I von’t eefen hef dat!” was a favorite line. He later took a job with the city of Minneapolis and rose to become construction foreman for the City Water Department, a responsible and demanding position. A natural-born leader of men, he had concern for the laborers under him. He had been there, and he was dedicated to their safety and well-being.
This was a man, not just from Sweden, but from northern Sweden-Lappland, the “Land of the Midnight Sun.” In later life he took up painting. Using oils and acrylics, he painted scenes from memory of a land that obviously was very dear to him. His sunsets over fjords, surrounded by mountains, scenes of snow-covered cottages, brooks rippling along icy banks and crystal clear lakes, filled the walls of his home and spilled over to those of his family and friends.
Another of his oft heard lines was “Enchoy life vile yu’re liffin. Yu’re a long time dead.” And he did enjoy. He enjoyed good food, good company, good conversation, good fishing and hunting-and above all his good wife, Anna. He was romantic and protective and loving toward her until she preceded him in death. Commitment, honor, honesty, strong will, determination, stubbornness and grit are Ernest’s legacy to his family. And we are grateful for it!
Note: Janet Swanson Enquist, wife of Mel Enquist and daughter of Camden’s long time funeral director, Herb Swanson, wrote this in tribute to her father-in-law, Ernest Enquist. Jan was born and raised at 4138 Aldrich Ave. N. and lived there until she married Mel Enquist.
Barbara Meyer Bistodeau