The results of a recent genetic test shook me to the core. It seems that I’m not who I thought I was.

Some years ago, I sent a spit sample to 23andMe. The test revealed, unsurprisingly, that I’m 100% Norwegian. All my ancestors came from Norway; the test simply confirmed that I’m the whitest guy on the planet.

The folks at Ancestry.com recently ran a promotion for their genetic testing. I’ve been working on our family tree at Ancestry.com and thought it would be interesting to know if there were any hidden connections in my genetic past.

My Viking ancestors spread their genes far and wide. Perhaps I’m descended from Charlamange and am heir to a vast European empire!

But there was a bombshell in the new genetic report. It stated that I’m 3% Swedish!

This news probably won’t affect my predilection for pickled herring or my love of lefse. On the other hand, maybe some distant relative bequeathed me shares of Volvo. I would gladly accept a new P1800 Cyan in exchange for my hypothetical stock.

Finding my roots is as simple as glancing out the window. My wife and I reside on the farm that my great-grandfather Charlie Sveen homesteaded in 1887. My Nelson grandparents lived here before my wife and I bought the place. I’m perpetually living with the past.

Ancestry.com has deluged me with more info about my progenitors than I ever could have imagined. I’ve viewed old family photos that I had never seen before.

Among my favorite photos is one of Dad’s great-uncle Jens Nelson. Jens left Norway in 1882 and homesteaded the farm where my siblings and I grew up. Jens eventually brought over several of his relatives, including his mother, Ingeborg. In her photos, Ingeborg is as stern as a sulky schoolmarm who just bit into a sour apple.

In a 1925 photo, Jens is standing beside his new car, a broad grin stretching his bushy gray mustache. It appears that Jens had done OK for himself.

My most recent immigrant ancestor was Emil Hammer, my mom’s father. Emil and his brother Oluf left their family farm at Nærøy, Norway on March 22, 1914. They made their way from Bergen to Liverpool, where they boarded the RMS Empress of Britian. The ship departed Liverpool on April 4 and arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia on April 11. Immigration records state that Emil, age 19, had $29 and spoke Norwegian.

The boarding manifest for the Empress of Britian includes a signoff from its surgeon stating that he had inspected the passengers and found that, among many other things, none were “an idiot, imbecile, or a feeble-minded person, or insane.” I wish there was an app for that. It would be immensely useful for choosing our elected officials.

I once asked Grandpa how much his voyage from Norway to South Dakota cost.

“It was about $90,” he replied in his thick Norwegian brogue. “That included a layover in Liverpool and a train ride to Wentworth, South Dakota.”

That sounds like a bargain until you consider that he spent a third-class week in the fetid belly of a pitching, rolling steel beast.

Emil was issued a draft card on June 5, 1918. He enlisted in the Army two weeks later and was naturalized on Aug. 8, 1918. Service was rewarded with naturalization during the Great War.

Some of my ancestors took a longer route to citizenship. My second great-grandmother Sigri had lived in America for 26 years when she applied for citizenship in 1875. Her application states that she renounced “all allegiances and fidelity to any foreign Prince, Potentate, or Sovereign, particularly to the King of Norway and Sweden.”

Sigri must have been illiterate; she signed the document with an “X”. I hope that somebody explained to her the part about severing allegiance to the king. That sounds awfully serious.

Wait a minute! The King of Norway and Sweden? That’s right. Norway didn’t gain independence from Sweden until 1905. I’d be angry with the Swedes except that it would involve being mad at 3% of myself.

Ancestry.com frequently suggests potential new ancestors. I wonder how accurate they are given that the handwritten records are hundreds of years old and are scribbled in a language that I don’t understand. I wish Emil was here to help.

Scandinavian borders were probably quite porous in bygone days. A guy could be Swedish in the morning, take a short stroll, and be Norwegian in the afternoon.

Norway and Sweden have constitutional monarchies. Maybe I should go over there and entertain offers from their royals.

I’d be happy with deputy assistant to the secretary of the vice president of lutefisk quality control.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.