Photo courtesy of Jerry Nelson Barbara Horten, Becky Ekeland, and Doreen True wore traditional Norwegian attire for a recent Sons of Norway meeting. The gathering was a celebration of Syttende Mai, otherwise known as Norway’s Constitution Day, and included a banquet that featured traditional Norwegian desserts.

I was recently asked to speak at a meeting of a secret society. I was surprised when they invited me as it’s widely known that I can’t keep a secret.

My wife and I went to an innocuous building located in the midst of a sleepy college town. We descended a set of concrete stairs that led to the bowels of the building. We soon met three ladies who were wearing colorful attire, the kind that you’d never see on civilians. They were obviously members of the organization.

My wife, who adores sparkly things, immediately complemented the ladies on their jewelry. I was too overwhelmed by all the colors to utter anything intelligent. Something about their outfits triggered a nebulous memory from deep within the dusty recesses of my brain. Or maybe it was a genetic echo from the distant past.

Ok, so the organization wasn’t all that secret. My wife and I had been invited to attend the Syttende Mai Banquet, held last week by the Sons of Norway, Fjordland Lodge #1-508.

“Syttende Mai” translates to “17th of May”, which is Constitution Day in Norway. It’s a national holiday that celebrates Norway’s separation from Sweden in 1814, although the actual parting didn’t take place until 1905. It’s complicated.

The banquet meal was sumptuous. The stars of the show were the baked torsk fillets that were swimming in a vat of melted butter. It wasn’t lutefisk, but close enough. I had a couple of rosettes for dessert, a treat that evoked memories of Christmas Eves at my grandparents’ farmhouse and all the other yummy Norwegian treats such as sweet soup (which is actually spicy) and rommegrot, which tastes better than it sounds.

Lydia Ellsworth, a young lady who just completed seventh grade, serenaded the gathering with her rendition of “Solveig’s Song”. The tune was composed by Edvard Grieg, who was born at a time when there was a critical shortage of the letter “w” in Norway. The “w”s were often replaced with a “v.”

Lydia was impressive, and not just because of her vocal talent. When I was her age, standing up before any sort of gathering — even if it was just a handful of Holsteins — would have embarrassed me so deeply that I’d fall to the floor in a fetal position. Even more remarkable was that Lydia sang in Norwegian. I know only a few important Norwegian phrases such as “Vennligst send lutefisken” (please pass the lutefisk) but that didn’t reduce my enjoyment of her operatic performance.

Then it was my turn to address the gathering. I have long since gotten past falling to the ground in a fetal position in such situations. I have evolved to the point where that only happens in my imagination.

I began by announcing a recent and deeply troubling development. About 10 years ago, I took a 23andMe genetic test which revealed that I’m 100% Norwegian. That was exactly what I had expected.

This past winter, Ancestry.com ran a special offer for their genetic test. It was too cheap to resist, so I repeated the spit-in-the-tube ritual. When the test results came back, they implied that I’m 97% Norwegian and 3% Swedish.

When I revealed this to the gathering, one of the ladies in attendance pumped her fist and whispered “Yes!” It’s comforting to know that I wasn’t the only crossbred at the gathering.

But it’s complicated. I think that my Ancestry.com genetic test was compromised because I had recently consumed Swedish meatballs.

I think my talk went well. At least no one fell asleep and nobody booed or hurled decaying vegetables at me. I spoke with several attendees afterwards, which is always a pleasant reward for surviving such a stressful undertaking.

One of the people I chatted with was a guy named David, who wore traditional Norwegian peasant garb. A small knife was strapped onto his belt, so I asked if it was real or a prop. David slipped shiny blade from its sheath and assured me that it was fully functional.

I learned that David is actually a Lutheran pastor in disguise. He’s also fluent in Norwegian, both written and spoken.

“Norwegians basically spoke Danish until about 200 years ago when we began to introduce Nyorsk, which is closer to the regional dialects,” David said. “It’s complicated.”

I later emailed David a poem that was written in Norwegian by my great-grandfather Charlie Sveen. David translated the poem, which is dated Feb. 20, 1887, and I was finally able to understand Charlie’s hand-scribbled words.

There’s one troubling detail. The poem is addressed to a Miss Frenning, but my great-grandmother’s maiden name was Nilsdatter.

If I could ask Charlie to explain this, perhaps he would say, “It’s complicated.”

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