My grandfather in the early to mid 1950s.
Immigrated to the Pacific Northwest in 1953 from Lillehammer Norway – at 18, by himself, with a suitcase and a couple hundred dollars he’d saved.
Built a career as a developer, builder, and architect of homes in Tacoma.
Semi-pro gymnast, skier, ice skater, and flat track motorcycle racer in the old country.
Could walk around on his hands indefinitely in the yard to entertain the kids, and crack walnuts with his bare hands into his 80s.
He passed last week due to complications from Alzheimer’s disease at 83.
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Wimp
https://preview.redd.it/y3wds7sgvmtb1.jpeg?width=866&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=8c94d91d98bf6a42f0c1b9d14a46c0e7daf83146
Colored/Enhanced/Color corrected
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https://preview.redd.it/zj77epssxmtb1.jpeg?width=649&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=42eacb3515ddc355579db4dfdc7712b8a86b9140
Dude never missed lat day.
https://preview.redd.it/6vnkyit32ntb1.jpeg?width=2000&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=3d1b2ec2c0fbd9970c81d217cab6796dc3a210cb
With me as a little dude circa 1985
https://preview.redd.it/db0lbzi82ntb1.jpeg?width=2599&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c01db2a8e43c017f53491c766bf60138caf63b42
In the garden with Bestefar
Forgot to mention – Bestefar grew up in Norway while it was occupied by the Nazis, basically when he was 5-10 years old.
He and his friends used to run around their town and sabotage german trucks and transports by ramming potatoes up the tailpipe as far as they could with a broom handle.
This was especially damaging to these vehicles as most ran on a finicky wood gasification system for fuel.
Dude was fucking with Nazis at seven or eight years old!
This wasn’t without significant risk either – whole families in his town would just disappear overnight if caught resisting the occupation.
https://preview.redd.it/4v8r56854ntb1.jpeg?width=2138&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=a11c0fe556aed974fe9aba58a5e34b3ed83f2f91
As I remember him when I was a kid.
Bro has wings đź‘Ź
The original Dorito
Did he do much weight training or was he just constantly active using functional movements and had great genes? Your grandpa looks “country strong” but at a swole new level.
What a legend, condolences. He was a world war 2 hero and achieved the America dream.
Grandad was a unit!
https://preview.redd.it/wr92ty7lqntb1.jpeg?width=1574&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=833bba5def968b9b72612a544fc6cb1be0cdcb84
Nearly 80 in this picture, could still kick ass.
BAMF
My grandfather was a character. He had that kind of Obi Wan “these are not the Droids you’re looking for” force of personality very few people possess, but it’s pretty impressive when you experience it.
Now, I don’t condone this, but it was a different era – when I was a little boy, he often would drive around with a beer in hand as he went from job site to job site in his work truck.
This was in the mid 1980s in the small suburb that he had built a good chunk of the residential housing in. He knew the mayor and most of the police, and would pull up and shoot the shit with the cops, beer in hand, me in tow on the bench seat, Frankie Yankovic’s greatest hits on the eight track deck. If I was really lucky, he’d work the clutch and let me make the gear changes on the manual transmission.
Anyway, I remember multiple occasions where he’d be chatting with the local gendarmes, can of animal beer in hand, and not once did the cops say a word, or even acknowledge seeing the offending beverage.
Now, you might feel comfortable to chalk that up to the local good ol boy system at work, and I wouldn’t blame you.
However, what’s not as easy to explain, is the time he took my Dad, uncle, and young me on a road trip to go stay in his cousin’s mountain cabin in Eastern Washington.
We were all piled in a camper conversion van he’d bought – something like a 1978 Dodge camper conversion with the fiberglass top. He gets pulled over by a highway patrolman somewhere out in deep northeastern Washington in the high desert, turns out he’s got a tail light out.
Well, it’s not until they chit-chat for a good ten minutes or so about fishing spots and skiing trails in the area, etc. until the statie says you folks have a good day now and sends us on our merry way, that I notice the can of Hamms that’s been sitting in the old man’s bear paw the entire time, without a word from Johnny Highway. Who knows…
He’s huuge for the 50s nobody worked out back then
Wings of gold
Was Charles Atlas his spirit animal?
That’s a helluva life. RIP proudly
Damn, Grandpa was STACKED
RIP Grandpa. 🥹
Okay, another Bestefar story. My Dad swears this is true.
He had a car, like the one in the picture.
A 1938 Citroën Traction Avant. Snazzy old world French luxury car with gangster doors, somewhat famous in automotive history as one of the first mass produced front wheel drive cars.
He’d wanted one since they were new when he was a boy and had purchased it in Norway sometime after moving to the States and getting established financially, and had it shipped over by freighter several years later.
Since he didn’t really drive it except for the occasional weekend cruise, and had a somewhat libertarian streak and generally held a somewhat dim view of bureaucratic red tape, he never bothered to get it properly registered in the US.
It still just had it’s old Norwegian plates on it.
So sometime in the early 1960s, he was taking my dad, maybe 10 at the time, out for ice cream on a Sunday afternoon. My grandfather LOVED ice cream. Especially soft serve. If you’d asked him the greatest things about America, near the top would have been the plethora of frozen dairy confections to choose from.
So, he and my old man are in the Citroën, cruising to the Dairy Queen or wherever, and he gets pulled over by a cop.
He comes to a stop at the side of the road and looks over at my dad and says in Norwegian – commonly spoken in their household – “Don’t say a word, let me do all the talking.”
Cop comes up to the window. “Sir, I pulled you over today because you’re missing a valid Washington state license plate. Can you explain this?”
At which point, my grandfather fixes him with a friendly smile, and starts into what sounds like a calm and somewhat bored explanation of the situation, entirely in Norwegian. This goes on for over a minute before the cop buts in, saying “sir… sir… Excuse me sir, but I don’t understand your language. Do you speak English?”
At which point, my grandfather, beatific and patient, starts talking to the cop, slightly slower, with clearer enunciation, but still in entirely in Norwegian, save for a few words scattered here and there.
Words like “embassy”. “Diplomatic auto”, “Mission”, etc.
At this point, the cop starts to perk up, as he’s finally recognized something he can make sense of, and in short order, he’s practically connecting the dots on his own.
“So, you’re saying you’re with the Norwegian embassy?”
*indistinct norwegian chatter*
“And this is an embassy vehicle for diplomatic use?”
*indistinct norwegian chatter*
“And that’s why you don’t have Washington plates?”
*indistinct norwegian chatter*
“Do you have any documentation to this effect?”
*indistinct norwegian chatter while procuring a very official looking vellum document with engraving and calligraphy – all in Norwegian – from the glove compartment and handing to the cop with an air of solemnity and a slight bow of the head.*
The cop puzzles over the certificate. Scratches his head. Puzzles over it some more, and reaches a decision.
With a sharp nod to my grandfather, he hands back the parchment, gives him a small salute, and says “everything seems to be in order here sir.
Welcome to the United States. Enjoy your afternoon.”
And they’re on their way.
A mile or so down the road, my dad, befuddled as if he’d just seen a magic trick, finally worked up the nerve to ask the old man “what was that special paper you showed the policeman, dad?”
“Oh that? That’s the warranty certificate for the undercoating I had done on the car in Norway, before I had it shipped overseas.
But he didn’t know that.”
I’m so sorry. Alzheimer’s is such a terrible disease. I watched my grandmother go that way. If I’m ever diagnosed with it I’m putting my affairs in order and killing myself while I’m still me.
He didn’t swim? Those look like swimmer muscles! (The wings forming from the back)
Doffing the cap to a seriously satisfied and happy badass. Having mastered flat track, the rest of life seemed to move more slowly, I’ll bet.
His mere presence must have felt immense. I do not know if God is still issuing that model. I rather doubt it.
I am sorry for your loss, Person. But there is joy in having known one who made the place better for their participation and affection.
Ashley!.. look at me!..
Don’t you mean Gainzfather? He reminds me of photos of Vince Gironda from the 1950s, who also looked like Hercules!
Natty or Not
Hey. Looks like he had a great, productive life. Those numbers don’t add up though. If he was born in 1935 he’d be 87 or 88 in 2023.
Really nice to read about your granddad, he sure was an awesome guy.
Have a nice day, OP.
Man, I’m not living my life
Your stories are amazing dude! Your grandpa is a legend.
Damn OP reading through these comments it feels like you could write a book about the guy! I really enjoyed reading all the different stories you shared. He sounds like he was a real unique individual.
He just super daddied his pants
Is your Grandpa summoning his [STAND]?
Sorry for your loss, he was jacked back in the day
your dad looks like 1950s Gronk
That’s sum good DNA right there!
https://preview.redd.it/7l5it1tujutb1.jpeg?width=4016&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=a192d41fd581cb9f853cd4d320babc3a70482fd6
One of Bestefar’s hobbies was to make airplanes out of cedar scrap wood, entirely from his own imagination. He would trim all of the pieces and white glue or later hot glue them together, even carving the propellers and individual pistons, all with a utility knife. I have had this one hanging from the ceiling in my office for over a decade.