We drove over to Haarslev this morning. Grandmother’s Grandfather was from this little town. We arrived in the morning, through spookily foggy weater, to see a church surrounded by a cemetary where the evergreen shrubbery was tinseled in glistening cobwebs. The place felt eerie, and somewhat familiar. Perhaps it felt like the Northern parts of America, like the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where Danish and Swedish ancestors would have felt at home in the new world. Part of us is from this mysterious little town. Ancestors worshipped in this modest little church.
We spoke with the Priest about finding records from that era, but she explained that records of such age would be found at the archives back in Odense.
The family makes its way out of the car. We know we are somewhere special, and we can feel it in the air.
The sun comes out a bit, and shines on the church.
The church yard and cemetery are well-kept, but that in places you can see that things are old.
Uncle John studies the interior of the church.
We returned to Odense, not to review nineteenth century Danish paperwork, but for Uncle John and me to visit the train museum while Mom and Grandma visited the Hans Christian Andersen Museum.