Every year as Christmas approaches so too does the memory of a special person who lived her quiet humble life with dignity and distinct mental acuity. Born in Sweden in 1932 Anne came to the United States with her dad and younger sister after her mother’s death. Nobody seemed to know precisely what year they immigrated but I parsed to together an approximate date based on some facts at my disposal.
Anne’s father, Stephen, was already married to my mother’s Aunt Rose in December of 1949 when my mother and brother arrived in New York. Since he was only three then my brother doesn’t recall much aside from the toys and gingerbread cookie Aunt Rose gave him at the airport. Although Swedish was her first language, Anne spoke English with only a slight hint of an accent which leads me to believe she went to Bryant High School in Astoria where she lived with her father and stepmother. Stephen, her dad, was the engineer of a ship and a loving father. Aunt Rose was a good woman but not very maternal or outwardly affectionate.
Although Anne did have some mysterious chronic and debilitating physical condition that became more noticeable with age, her mind was far from the euphemism, “slow,” sometimes used to describe her. Anne would need more physical and emotional support than Rose was ready willing and able to personally provide. Then “it just so happened” that Anne began helping my Aunt Betty who lived a few blocks away with her growing family.
Little Victor and Richie were a handful but Anne loved children and would take them to the park so Aunt Betty could get her housework done. When the family continued to grow and Peter was born Uncle Victor and Aunt Betty bought a house in Valley Stream, Long Island where they had two more boys and finally a baby girl. Anne moved into the new house with them.
Her dad had set up a trust. Aunt Betty would get financial aid for Anne’s room and board as well as her care. It was a blessing for both Anne and Betty who did what needed to be done with love and good cheer. As far as I knew, Anne was always part of our family and Aunt Betty’s house was her true home.
One time over coffee in their kitchen Anne told us a story of how she followed Rose’s advice at a High School Dance to never give her real name to anyone who asked her to dance. With a shy sly smile and a slight chuckle, she slowly continued the tale. The following time she went to a local dance she told her partner her name was Sally and he replied, “the last time we danced you told me your name was Alice.” The next morning, she told Rose about the incident. She swiftly retorted, “Oh Anne can’t you do anything right?” That threw Aunt Betty and Anne into one of their crazy laughing fits.
Not everyone realized that with Anne there was much more than met the eye. We all knew we were in for a long story when the first sentence began with “back in Sveedin…” Boys being goofy and rambunctious would tease and endeavor to distract her, but they came to realize they were no match for her tenacity. Once she was back in Sweden, you could get a refill on your coffee and another piece of Aunt Betty’s homemade Strawberry Shortcake and take your time with both of them. It was never easy to follow her meandering anecdotes but watching her as she recounted these events was very entertaining.
We all went out to Valley Stream to visit the Beyers much more often than the other way around. During the Christmas Holidays we’d spend some afternoons and evenings there. The gifts were never the focus of our family gatherings but to Anne giving each of us a gift was important.
“Anne is not a wealthy lady. She receives a small allowance and she chooses to save enough to give you a present,” my dad explained one year. So naturally I paid close attention that year.
The gifts we received from her wouldn’t be considered costly or valuable in the materialistic sense. That year she gave my brother a pack of white socks probably with my mother in mind. He always got them dirty traipsing around without shoes on. My cousins got a yo-yo, a top, toy trucks and cars. To this day I am touched whenever I remember my gift from her that year – a bag of naval oranges. They were so vibrant. Their aroma of citrus mingled with a scent of pine from the live tree in the living room.
Fruit was not what I expected or had hoped for, of course,
but of all the fruits I’d eaten, oranges were my favorite. Riding in the back seat of Dad’s Oldsmobile
on the drive home, my mother mentioned how wise Anne’s selections were. All these years later it’s the only Christmas
gift I can recall that stirs me deeply and brings tender tears to my eyes
whenever I think of it. I wonder if
“back in Sveedin” somebody once gave Anne fruit for Christmas and she never
forgot it either.
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