New beginnings and strange substances

By Madeline Christensen As a child, I didn’t know much about my ancestry except for a dusty ceramic mug that sat on a shelf in my grandparents’ kitchen. It was emblazoned with big red block letters: “You can always tell a Dane, but you can’t tell him much.” Fittingly, my grandpa often sat on a bar stool right beneath it, the radio blaring and a magnifying glass nearby to read the crossword. A few months before he died he was no longer allowed to drive his beloved van, and like a symbolic middle finger to his doctor, he began...

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