Early the next morning, we took a commuter boat across the water to the island of Hugla, where Kåre Sylvesterson, my grandfather’s nephew, was waiting on the dock to greet us. Kåre spoke only Norwegian, so my grandfather served as the translator.

Eighteen years younger than my grandfather, Kåre was the son of John’s sister, Marie, who, as the oldest sibling, inherited the family farm. In time, it passed on to Kåre and his brother, Amund. A narrow island road separated their two properties. Kåre’s land rose up to the base of the mountain, while Amund’s fields sloped down to the water’s edge.

Kåre arrived at the pier on his farm tractor, pulling a flat-bed trailer that carried us a mile to the family homestead. Before setting out, he gave us a tour of a pier-side rendering plant that processed herring into a protein-rich meal used for fertilizer and as a feedstock for aquaculture. To say that the area reeked would be an understatement. Phew! We did not linger. The next day Kåre would show us how well his garden grew when the herring meal was applied.

Kåre’s house stood near the midpoint of the island, a stone’s throw from the home where my grandfather was born and raised. Wearing multiple coats of traditional white paint, the old place looked clean and well cared for. Despite its age, it was still habitable, though seldom used.

In anticipation of John’s return, Kåre’s wife had prepared familiar Norwegian treats. Krumkake, lefsa, and assorted cookies were served with strong coffee, much to my grandfather’s delight. Agnes was quiet and more reserved than her husband. We later learned that her grandfather was “Sami,” or as Americans would say, Laplander. Anna, my paternal grandmother had grown up beyond Tromso in the far north of Norway. Her small hamlet of Tommervik was located in Sami country, and I have often wondered if there could be Laplander roots on her side of our family.

Later that afternoon, Kåre gave us a tour of the old homestead. In an upstairs bedroom, we found a trunk that had belonged to my great-grandfather, which still contained some of his possessions. The front bore the hand-painted inscription Jacob Isakson.

Back outside, I saw my grandfather and Kåre standing near the corner of the house beside a gnarly, old, birch tree. On the day John Nickoli departed for America, young Kåre watched with family and friends as my grandfather planted a young sapling in that very spot. After carefully tamping down the soil, John grabbed the tree rmly by the neck, shook it vigorously, and vowed to do the same thing when he returned. Reminded of that solemn pledge, Kåre carefully watched over the tree as it grew tall and strong.

That afternoon, Uncle and Nephew reunited under the canopy of the aged birch tree that now towered above the house. It was then that Kåre was heard to say, “The time has come, John. Shake it again as you promised.” Sixty-six years had passed and the tree had not forgotten.