If you research and think of/
how the Nordlanders kept records/
in Stave churches/
as they island hopped;/

How Asbjorn/
had the idea/
to put the Boks together/
the year before I landed;

How my friend’s dad/
knew right where/
Grandpa’s tiny nativity village was /
‘cuz he’d skied there;

How a young pastor/
debarked the ferry/
the same second I did/
after 2 years in the Holy Land;

How his elementary teacher/
bought the same house/
my great-grandmother’s sister owned/
and knew all my relatives;

How those aged Norsk cousins spoke/
such a strong, ancient Dialekt/
that I, Schwyzer-Duetsch schwetzen,/
could understand them/
(and they, Kojak and Rockford TV taught/
got American me, from the heart, baby!)

How much we got done, laughing,/
sharing information and old photos,/
in 2 short Norwegian November days,/
knowing it was a tongue gift;

How those Lind books landed/
in the hands of someone typing/
80 words per minute/
10 miles from a Temple;

How they held me up, /
typing until 2 a.m.,/
and woke me at 4:30 a.m., /
to do their work;

How, when the machine was broken/
and the records lost,/
the data was saved, protected,/
rediscovered and decoded;

If you think about/
and comprehend how all that,/
and more, happened,/
then you’ll know how and why/
those old fiskers/
never let me rest/
until they were,/
and are,
found,/
and bound,/
together.