My grandmother didn’t travel much. She was never in a plane. Maybe she crossed the Swedish border once. She didn’t have many different jobs. She was serving in a house in her younger days and then married my grandfather. He was a farmer. Together they ran the farm and raised four children. After my uncle took over the farm and my grandfather died, she was basically knitting and reading the rest of her life – for 30 years or something. She became 98. Her life in short.

But her world wasn’t small. She was never into gossip but she would always know who people were and what they were doing. She cared for people. I could ask her about friends of my brother and she would know where they had moved and what education they had. If I ever wondered about something related to genealogy she was a living encyclopedia; ‘Oh that’s your father’s sister-in-laws’ second cousin who married this fisherman from Sandsøya.’ Something like that. I with my university degree wouldn’t have a clue.

At her funeral the church was packed. It was like everybody knew her or was related to her. Being the oldest of the grandchildren I had the privilege of making a speech:

“…. She was always here. And since she became almost one hundred years it felt as if she always had been here. But one hundred years is relatively short in the greater perspective. God’s word says: ‘what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal’…..”

A few months before she died grandma asked me: ‘Siri, are you writing a diary?’ I told her I didn’t. ‘You should.’

A few years later I started a public one. I know she would have enjoyed reading it.