Remembering Morfar

For Niels-Jørgen Hansen

Among the photos taken during the time I lived in Denmark, the one missing is of Morfar and I. This is despite hours spent together often involving some sort of playful shenanigan. For instance, his on-going attempt to get me to pronounce tongue-twisting, impossibly difficult Danish phrases. As I’d do this, he’d chuckle while patting me on the back affectionately. Morfar didn’t speak much English nor I Danish, but we understood one another. And it was in those moments when he became the grandfather I never knew.

Although I wish I had a photo of us, there is a memory that I am reminded of whenever I hear a motorcycle. It is one that I have never shared, and doubt Morfar did either before he passed away. However, I think he’d approve now. The difference is that he’d share it with the one thing I miss most: his infectious laughter. Danes are good storytellers. Morfar was one of the best.

Morfar had a particular habit. On the bookshelf was a worn atlas. Whenever a trip was planned, he would open it and carefully trace the route with his finger, excited about what might be discovered along the way. When he reached the destination he would pause, deep in thought. Morfar never went on many trips, and I speculate he wanted to travel more despite whatever it was holding him back.

Not surprisingly, Morfar also liked to drive; something he didn’t get to do often. On those occasions when I rode with him, he’d always take backroads, never the direct way he needed to go. A few extra minutes to live life all while staying within the familiar confines of the Danish countryside. Yet, during those drives, Morfar was always far away on a road less traveled; the carefree grin on his face said it all.

Our last drive together could have been like all the others - special of course, but largely uneventful. Except this time, an odd event occurred that set the stage for an experience neither of us would ever forget. The night before our drive, there was a shoulder-fired missile attack by the motorcycle gang Bandidos against their rival, Hells Angels, near Copenhagen. Events like this typically don’t happen in Denmark and I recall Morfar’s reaction of excitement and disgust as we watched the news. But once the television was off, the event was forgotten – or so we thought.

The next afternoon, we were along one of the usual backroads and, as always, Morfar was enjoying himself while taking his time. Suddenly, that changed.

“Motorcykels!” he growled in Danish.

We had little time to react as they quickly approached. Luckily, there were no other cars around, as Morfar was forced to steer out of our lane and into the middle of the road. It was then that we found ourselves surrounded by none other than the Bandidos: the large jacket patches revealed their identity.

As they passed, the scowl-faced riders peered in. I assumed Morfar was trying to ignore them like me, but when I glanced over, there he was meeting their stares with an impressive scowl of his own, middle finger fully extended! When the last one was gone, Morfar turned to me, that scowl still on his face, and then laughed hysterically.

This remained our secret and until now, one kept for almost thirty years. However, before I left Denmark, there were a few times when we almost gave it away. Morfar would sit next to me at family dinners, whisper the gang’s name, and “flip the bird” under the table so no one else could see. We would then chuckle like two schoolboys sharing an inappropriate joke. This drew confused looks, but never any questions. That is probably for the best!

August 2025

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

My elderly neighbor saw me in the garden this morning and stopped to say hello. I’d seen her from time-to-time walking, but we’d never spoken. As we talked, I picked up on a familiar accent but couldn’t quite place it. That is until she used a word which I hadn’t heard in a long time causing me to interrupt her.

“You said morfar!”

She looked at me with kind eyes, pleasantly surprised, but not able to immediately respond. For down the road came a sudden pop and rattling vroom-vroom that rendered our voices useless. As the machine turned sharply, it’s two wheels screeched, burning the asphalt underneath; the driver taking a moment to nod confidently at us before disappearing around the bend.

“You know the Danish word morfar?” she asked as the rolling thunder faded.

“Yes,” I said, thinking of that afternoon all those years ago. “Quite well.”

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Illustration Credit:

“One line drawing of sport motorcycle isolated on white background.” (Banner Photo) © [ngupakarti] / Adobe Stock