Denmark is on my mind tonight. I’m reading a book about Denmark during World War II, but haven’t finished it yet. Above, a gauzy travel video.

I don’t write much about Denmark in this space, even though I’m a quarter Danish.  I suppose it’s partly because it’s my minority ethnicity, but I think it’s largely because being Danish isn’t as funny as being Norwegian. The Norwegians have a public profile in this country, for better or worse. The stolid, taciturn farmer in overalls, painfully shy, honest, not all that bright. Ole Olsen, the butt of a thousand jokes. Garrison Keillor’s Norwegian Bachelor Farmer.

I’m not sure what Americans in general think about Danes, if they do at all. There aren’t that many around – they didn’t come over here in the numbers they came from Norway and Sweden. There are a few famous Danish Americans – Victor Borge, the comic pianist. Gutzon Borglum, the sculptor of Mount Rushmore. Buddy Ebsen and Leslie Nielsen were Danish. But all in all, the Danes assimilated pretty well. They blended in. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a joke about Danes, except among fellow Scandinavians making fun of their pronunciation.

My Danish grandfather loved the out of doors and hunting. He liked polka music (someone once told my brothers and me that he played drums in a band, but I never heard of that). He was most notable for his sense of humor, which was exceedingly dry – people were always complaining that they couldn’t tell whether he was joking or serious.

I have striven to emulate him in this.

Which is no doubt why so many people don’t find me funny.

More on Denmark when I’m ready to review the book, probably on Monday.