What was going through her mind, this six-year-old Swedish girl, when she was dropped off at the foot of Tribou Street in Brockton after a long ocean voyage to Ellis Island, the endless lines of New York City, the medical exams, the checking and stamping of papers, and the train ride from New York to Brockton?  Whatever was going through her mind was not being thought in English.  She had yet to learn English.  There were four of them–her mother, her two older brothers and she.  They waited for their father to meet them and show them their new home. They waited with their trunks and bags at their feet as a seemingly endless stream of people passed by, ignoring them, all intent on some business of their own.
          Their father had come to America earlier, set himself up making shoes, a trade he knew well.  He’d been a shoemaker in their little town of Reftele, Smoaland, in Sweden.  But the shoemaking here was different.  In Sweden, Oscar Heyl had made shoes by hand in a small outbuilding on his own property.  Each shoe was different.  The shoe for the left foot was different from the shoe for the right foot.  Each foot was measured separately.  A good shoemaker like Oscar could make a shoe for each foot that would not cause chafing, callouses, or bunions.  It was an art to make a shoe for each foot that would feel as good on the day it was first put on as it would when it had been worn for months.  Here in America, on the other hand, shoes were made in vast factories, and each worker contributed to only one part of the shoemaking process.  Some people worked on the uppers, some worked on midsoles, and some worked on the outer soles.  There were lasters, stitchers, cutters, and so forth.  Skilled shoemakers like Oscar were usually hired as lasters, a good job in the shoe industry.
          But six-year-old Svea wasn’t thinking about making shoes as she waited at the bottom of Tribou Street.  She was wondering what her life would be like in this new, busy land where everyone seemed to be in a hurry.
          Ninety years later, we are gathered here in this beautiful church to mourn Svea’s death and to celebrate her life.  Both of these things are important to us.  Svea brightened all our lives.  She endured hardships, like the loss of her twin sons at their birth over seventy years ago, yet she was always ready with a smile.  She kept her spirit to the end.  That’s a big part of the reason that we’re sad to see her leave us.  We will miss her bright smile and courageous spirit.
          I didn’t meet Svea until she was 64 years old.  She and Walter seemed to be a very contented couple to me then.  They took great delight in driving around New England in their car on an autumn weekend to see the brilliant displays of foliage.  They drove to the Cape to indulge in a clambake.  They participated in family weddings.  They treated honored guests to “dinner in a dish” on a Saturday night.
          For years before I met them, Svea worked as a bookkeeper at Brockton Oil Heat, and Walter worked as a machinist at George Keith.  It’s hard to say what their work meant to them.  It was a living, at least.  Probably, it was much more.   Walter and Svea were part of the hum of Brockton in its industrial heyday.  Svea, like everyone else in her family, was smart.  She learned English quickly and soon spoke with the accent of a native.  She graduated from Brockton High School showing an aptitude for figures.
          But in the back of her mind was always that six-year-old girl thinking the Swedish thoughts of what was in her future as she waited for her father to pick her family up and take them home.  And it is that girl, that Swedish girl, whose life in Brockton we are gathered here today to mourn and celebrate.
          She was always a distinct self, yet she represents all of us.