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Memories And Autobiography Of Jens Lind, Jens Lind

The Bridge

I don't know if I can write anything that will read any different from thousands of other immigrants that came to make their home in the U.S.A.

The reason I came was mostly because of economic conditions. Another was adventure and restlessness which many young people suffer from in our days, too.

I was born close to the east coast in Jutland, Denmark, September 30, 1892. We were eight in the family: our parents, three brothers and three sisters and, of course, poor as church mice, like thousands of others.

Memories From Childhood And Early Youth, Andrea Blichfeldt Smith, Alma K. Stark, Translator, Peter D. Thomsen

The Bridge

The story which follows was translated from the Danish language shortly after it was written around 1937. The original manuscript, written in longhand on scraps of brown-bag paper, no longer exists. On the typewritten copy of my cousin's translation, however, she writes: "Mother wrote this at my request." Today, at age 95, Alma Stark lives at 14801 Sherman Way, Van Nuys, California. She corresponds regularly with me and has been very helpful in my quest for genealogical information.

Mary Bardenfleth - "I Remember", Caroline Olsen, Translator

The Bridge

These are some memories of a woman whose life spanned a whole century, from 1886 to 1986. As a Danish immigrant in Minneapolis, she saw the changes in the Danish community from the time when the newcomers clung to their heritage, until today, two or three generations later when almost no one speaks in the mother tongue. Her special gift for story telling, her acting ability, and her amazing memory of poetry made her a very unusual, lovable person. Her outgoing personality and friendliness touched the lives of countless people.

Ribbons Of Memories, Ed Sundberg, Gerda Sundberg

The Bridge

Gerda and I are in our mid-fifties. We have survived and enjoyed nearly thirty-five years of marriage, three sons, three daughters-in law, and four grandchildren.

We are not sitting back in our rocking chairs waiting for the kids to drop by or bemoaning the fact that each year our hair is a little greyer. We don't have time for that. And we're not flying off to Timbuktu, Shangri La, or any place else to "start a new life."