happens in the United States, where so many kids grow up with a
sense of hopelessness. One of those six sons was my grandfather, Leo
Waldemar Tornqvist, the fellow who introduced me to computing.
Then there was my paternal grandfather. He was the fellow
who concocted the name Torvalds, fashioning it out of his middle
name. He �as named Ole Torvald Elis Saxberg. My grandfather
had been born fatherless (Saxberg was his mother's maiden name)
and was given the last name Karanko by the gentleman my great
grandmother eventually married. Farfar ("Father's father") didn't
like the guy, enough so he changed his name. He dropped the last
name and added an "s" to Torvald on the theory that this made
i t sound more substantial. Torvald on its own means "Thor's
domain. " He should have started from scratch, because what the
adding of an "s" does is destroy the meaning of the root name, and
confuse both Swedish-and Finnish-speaking people, who don't
know how the heck to pronounce it. And they think it should be
spelled Thorwalds. There are twenty-one Torvalds in the world,
and we're all related. We all endure the confusion.
Maybe that's why I'm always just "Linus" on the Net. "Tor
valds" is just too confusing.
This grandfather didn't teach at a university. He was a jour
nalist and poet. His first job was as editor-in-chief of a small-town
newspaper about 1 00 kilometers west of Helsinki. He got sacked
for drinking on the job with a little too much regularity. His mar
riage to my grandmother broke down. He moved to the city of
Turku in Southwestern Finland, where he remarried and finally
became editor-in-chief of the newspaper and published several
books of poetry, although he always struggled with a drinking
problem. We would visit him there for Christmas and Easter, and
to see my grandmother, too. Farmor Marta lives in Helsinki, where
she is known for making killer pancakes.
Farfar died five years ago.
Okay: I've never read any of his books. It's a fact that my
father points out to total strangers.
Journalists are everywhere in my family. Legend has it that
1 4
j u s t fo r F u n
one of my great-grandfathers, Ernst von Wendt, was a journalist
and novelist who was on the White side and arrested by the Reds
during the Finnish Civil War that followed our independence from
Russia in 1 9 1 7 . (Okay. I never read his books, either, and am told
. I'm not missing much.) My father, Nils (known to everyone as
Nicke), is a television and radio journalist who was active in the
Communist Party since he was a college student in the 1 960s. He
developed his political leanings when he learned about some of the
atrocities committed against communist sympathizers in Finland.
Decades later he admits that his enthusiasm for communism may
have been born out of naivete. He met my mother Anna (known as
Mikke) when they were both rebellious university students in the
1 960s. His story is that they were on an outing for a club of
Swedish-speaking students, of which he was president. He had a
rival for my mother's attention, and as they were preparing for the
return bus trip to Helsinki, he instructed the rival to oversee the
loading of the bus. He used the occasion to grab the seat next to my
mother and convince her to go out with him. (And people call
me
the family genius! )
I was born more o r less between campus protests, probably
with something like] oni Mitchell playing in the background. Our
family love nest was a room in my grandparents' apartment. A
laundry basket served as my first crib. Thankfully, that period isn't
easy to remember. Sometime around my three-month birthday,
Papa signed up for his required eleven-month Army service rather
than go to jail
as
the conscientious objector he probably was. He
became such a good soldier and such an excellent marksman that
he was rewarded with frequent weekend leave privileges. The fam
ily tale is that my sister Sara was conceived during one of those
conjugal visits. When my mother wasn't juggling two blond
haired rugrats, she worked as an editor on the foreign desk at the
Finnish News Agency. Today she works as a graphics editor.
It's all part of the journalism mini-dynasty that I miracu
lously escaped. Sara has her own business translating reports for the
news, and she also works at the Finnish News Agency. My half-
L i n u s To r v a !ds a n d Da v i d D i a m o n d
1 5
brother, Leo Torvalds, is a video-type person who wants to direct
films. Because my family members are basically all journalists, I
feel qualified to joke with reporters about knowing what scum they
are. I'm aware that I come off as a complete jerk when I say that,
but over the years our home in Finland hosted its share of reporters
who stopped at nothing to get their story, or who made up their
stories from scratch, or who always seemed to have had just a little
too much to drink. Okay: a lot too much to drink.
That's when it would be time to hide out in the bedroom.
Or maybe Mom is having an emotional rough spot. We live in a
two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an unremarkable
pale yellow building on Stora Robertsgatan, in Rodbergen, a small
area near the center of Helsinki. Sara and her obnoxious sixteen
month-older brother share a bedroom. There's a small park nearby,
named after the Sinebrychoff family, which owns a local brewery.
That has always struck me as being odd, but is it any different from
naming a basketball stadium after an office products vendor?
(Because a cat had once been seen there, Sinebrychoffsparken was
henceforth known in my family as the "Catpark.") There's a vacant
little house there in which pigeons would gather. The park is built
on a hill, and in the winter it's a place to sled. Another play area is
the cement courtyard behind our building, or on the building
itself. Whenever we play hide-and-seek, it's fun to climb the ladder
five stories up to the roof.
But no fun could compare to computer fun. With the com
puter at home, it was possible to stay up all night with it. Every
boy stays up "reading"
Playboy
under the bedcovers. But instead of
reading
Playboy
I would fake sleeping, wait for Mom to go away,
jump up and sit in front of the computer. This was before the era of
chatrooms.
"Linus, it's food time! "
Some of the time you don't even come
out. Then your mother starts telling her journalist friends that you
are such a low-maintenance child that all she has to do to keep you
happy is store you in a dark closet with a computer and occasion
ally throw in some dry pasta. She's not far off the mark. Nobody
1 6
J u s t fo r F u n
Dostları ilə paylaş: |