Feb 25, 2018

Winter = true!

Just as I lay down on my couch the sun reached the upper left corner of my big west window here in my great room where I am mostly living my life. It dazzles me and it’s really hard to write, but there is no way I am shutting it out. Here comes the sun!

2017 was the year of +11°C  (52°F and 0°C (32°F). Around freezing point most of the winter and pretty much 11/52 during the summer. I was wearing a wool coat in July! And the winter was covered in ice as precipitation came in rain and snow every other day. It was horrible. I felt like I was living on an island as the ground around my house was covered in ice and it was life threatening business for me and the people helping me out to get to and into the car when I had to leave my island. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so physically isolated.

Since I had to quit going downhill in 2000 I haven’t been a fan of snow. There is no point with it any more. Only worries about how to get it out of the way. But this season we actually had snow already in late fall, and it really helps with our struggle fighting the dark here on the 64th latitude. Even when there is hardly no light at all to reflect in the snow, it makes the ground brighter and so our souls. 

Frankly, I thought (and I’m not the only one) the days for real winters were over. 2015, -16 and -17 have surely pointed in that direction. It’s 5 years since we had a winter that followed what used to be a normal pattern. But here we are 2018 with lots of snow and really cold temperatures!

The white stuff has been falling continuously since even before the Holiday season kicked in and there has only occasionally been days around freezing point making the ground dangerous and the snow pack water filled. Temperatures mostly at -5° - -10°C (23-14F), which is pretty much perfect. The landscape has been white as a winter painting, and since it hasn’t even been windy the trees have been all covered most of the season. It’s been truly beautiful.

It’s not new the winters are unpredictable, but when people have been complaining my response has always been: well, we can always trust February. Which means however miserable December and January can be, we can rely on February bringing the real cold temperatures and our heat bills to rocket. Not even that was true for 2017!

But 2018! For some weeks now weather systems over Arctis have pushed high pressure from Siberia our way, and it’s really cold here! -25°C over night warming up to around -15°C (-13F - 5°F) during the day. And it’s even colder further north!

I don’t think I’ve seen this much snow (it’s about one meter /3,3 feet) since my sons were young, and March can sure bring a lot more. Jonas who is doing the plowing in the village hardly has anywhere to put the snow anymore, the piles are huge! And my brand new gutters at the house are demolished from the weight of the snow hanging from the roof…

Now, you might be wondering, when does spring arrive when there is such a snowpack? The funny thing is, it doesn’t really seem to make that much difference. 2017 there was hardly a feet of snow and mostly mild temperatures, yet spring was three weeks later than normal! And than the wool coat summer followed…

The sun has wondered over my window and is now disappearing at the bottom to the right and behind the forest. We have won exactly three hours since the winter solstice already! The snow mobiles are roaring crossing the fields towards Torrberget/Dry Mountain on the perfect bedding. In only a week the worst of the cold will let go and the winter will transform into springwinter, giving room for midday thaw and shades protecting our eyes from the sharp snow-reflecting sun. The season promising everything you hope will come!

Feb 18, 2018

My aunt Inga-Märta

Three children born in the nineteen twenties grew up in my house. My mother Kerstin who was the oldest, my uncle Arne and the baby sister Inga-Märta. Inga-Märta is now the family matriarch, and today we celebrated her 90th birthday!

Stories have been a vital ingredient in my family on my mother’s side. Stories from the village and stories from the family. I grew up with them and even the next generation is quoting them although not always aquatinted with the origin of them. Inga-Märta is one of the storytellers. And her dream was to be an author.

But life has it’s ways. In 1950 Inga-Märta became a single mother. At that time it wasn’t only difficult - as it often is - but a disgrace. The baby boy she gave birth to was beautiful of course and adored by his mother and grandmother with whom he grew up. He was also intelligent, clever and sporty and Inga-Märta has had every reason to be very proud of him through her life.

As a little girl I often visited Inga-Märta and grandma during school breaks. My cousin, at that time a teenager, oftentimes came home late into the night. I remember him waking is mother up. Sitting at her bedside they talked about how the day had been before it was time for sleep. I recall it as an agreement between the two of them. I am guessing the reason I remember this so well is that I was touched by the warm and special connection I felt they had to each other. I think I was a bit envious. 

One other thing I remember from those visits is how when the morning newspaper was delivered at about 4AM Inga-Märta woke up, picked it up and read it before she went to sleep again. That’s of course when she didn’t have a really early start at the hotel where she worked. I think I found that odd, at the same time she gave me the message you can do what you want as long as it works and doesn’t harm anyone.

A couple of years ago I found this very special story. It was about Värner, my next door neighbor who was Alida’s husband and passed away 2008 at the age of 98. The story was about his childhood, a poor home with struggling grown ups and children. It was beautifully and giftedly written and it touched my heart in a profound way.

When I realized the writer was Inga-Märta I amazed called her to talk about the story and the writing. That’s when she told me. Yes, my plan was to be a writer. But then it all went downhill. She said.

Inga-Märta’s life has in many ways been challenging. And she has had a special place in her heart for single mothers. For children without fathers being present. But her existence has also been populated with friends friends friends! People she has been loyal to from early years as well as guests at the hotel for whom she was a warm and fun fix point at the front desk, always there. Her true life companion has been her bicycle on which she up in her late years swiftly navigated through Umeå for shopping and visiting friends.

Although Inga-Märta’s eyesight is very poor now she still reads the newspaper. It takes her hours. Word by word. Her son has been her pride and joy. And he has given her three much loved grandsons. And two adorable great grandchildren.

Today all of us celebrated our 90 year old matriarch. I read to her and us the story about Värner and also one about our grandmother. Many of us were moved to tears and unaware about Inga-Märta’s writing talent. We talked about her dream to become an author and how hard it is for anyone to pursue a profession as any kind of artist. But agreed on the fact that a young woman in rural northern Sweden in the forties listening to the voice of that dream was really special. As she is. 

Feb 11, 2018

Going to bed with Italian

I thought I was covered for the rest of my life. But the duration surprisingly wasn’t more than 1, 5 years!

I wouldn’t say I am studying Italian. Study is in my mind something you go to school for, or take a class. And I actually did, to start with.

2002, after an extremely difficult winter, I took off to Florence to study beginners Italian for two spring weeks. It was an intense adventure as I didn’t know a single word except si and no and the class moved forward exhaustingly rapid. For about 4-5 semesters later on I took evening classes back home to learn more.

My next move was ordering a self study package, which turned out to be a course from the fifties, true to that time illustrated with pencil drawings. Also, the language was kind of dated my friend Agneta, an Italian teacher, told me. It was an Italian nowadays mostly spoken in Sicily. 

The study pace I chose was pretty slow so the 16 jam-packed yellow booklets lasted for many years. In addition, somewhere in the middle of the course the instruction part was lost (it wasn’t in the package), so the grammar help wasn’t there any more. But as I like to finish what I start I persistently continued reading, figuring it would at least not do me any harm.

I love the Italian language. The sounds, the intensity. Just listening to it makes me smile and my heart beat. I hardly understand anything at all as the Italians speak insanely battering fast, still…

In May 2007 my friend Eva and I spent a week in Rome. Many years ago I had read Susanna Tamaro’s Va’ dove ti porta il cuore /Follow your heart /Gå dit hjärtat leder dig, in Swedish. One pleasant evening I stumbled over that book in one of the Rome book stores. And I told Eva while feeling the weight of it in my hand, one day I am going to read this Italian novel. 

It sat on my bookshelf for the longest time. All those years it took to stubbornly finish up the 16 yellow booklets. My routine was to read them in bed right before lights out. The last thing I did for the day was to figure out long complicated sentences in Italian, to take every word I didn’t understand and decipher until it all made sense to me, what a joy!

Now, in August 2016 it was finally time for Va’ dove ti porta il cuore to move from my bookshelf to my bedside table. Along with the Swedish version of it and a dictionary. It’s not one of those really thick novels, pretty ordinary, still I actually thought I wouldn't have to worry about Italian literature for the rest of my life. I mean, I was in fact taking on an Italian novel!

So, I continued my routine. At about an average of ten minutes a day (night) I filled my brain with a foreign language. Dissecting the sentences. Going back and forth between the original and the Swedish translation, peeking in the dictionary when necessary. And this week I finished the last paragraph. It didn’t take me the rest of my life, only 1,5 years!

So what to do now? Was it time to end my day differently? And maybe “study” Italian at some other point of the day when I am not that tired? It would be a really good thing to focus on the grammar which got lost on the way, study from out of a high school book which Agneta has provided me.

Yes, it would definitely be the right thing to do. If my goal was to speak Italian. It was of course when I started out 15 years ago. But I will probably never spend time in Italy any more. So I actually don’t have to be capable in this sense. I can continue reading Italian just for fun!

Agneta told me about a novel by Alessandro Baricco, Seta/Silk. It’s the fascinating story of a French silk worm merchant falling helplessly in love with a Japanese concubine on one of his trips to the country. It landed on my bedside stand two days ago. Already on the first page I loved the way it was written. Seta is not translated to Swedish, so my help this time around is the English version Silk. It’s a thin little book so I am estimating not more than half a year.

Studying Italian is my brain work out. My crossword or Sudoku. And doing it at lights out is cleansing my brain from whatever the day might have been. It’s also my joy. My smiling heartbeat. And the proud satisfaction of learning something new every day. Slowly and patiently conquering new territory. 

Feb 4, 2018

Bidding Alida a last farewell/epilog

Monday morning in the shower an unexpected feeling of panic tapped my naked body from inside.

At my visit to Alida on her hundred years in June I posed myself in front of her. She was in her wheel chair. I knew she could barely see at all. And her hearing was as dim as her eyes. Also, we hadn’t met in about three years.

- Alida, I said, hello.

She lit up. Hardly could she hear me and barley could she see me. Yet, there must have been something in my presence bringing memories back, making her smile. 

The panic in the shower two days after my farewell to Alida was the sudden understanding of having lost someone who loved me. Someone who had known me all my life and unconditionally just loved me.

I remember a summer afternoon when Trouble & Trouble were young. We were all on the front yard playing in the greenery. Värner and Alida came by and Värner was mentioning how lucky I was, having such a nice husband and sons.

I got that a lot. Yes, I had a very nice husband, and of course my little boys were as cute as they could be.

Then Alida responded: and how about E, isn’t he lucky having such a lovely wife?

There is a reason I remember this so well. There is no way a woman can compete with a nice husband when it comes to being appreciated among friends, family and I would say society. Marry a nice man (and you should of course, anything else is just plain darn stupid) but be prepared of him wearing an aureole, being treated like a hero while you are fortunate and not much more. Or let me put it this way, you need to be impeccable in every way to balance up a nice husband.  

Anyway. Alida’s comment that Sunday afternoon was such a gesture of love. Not that she didn’t like my husband, she really did of course. But she saw me. I have never perceived myself as lovely, but Alida did. And she wanted Värner to see what she saw.

How many people do we have in our lives who lit up in our presence? Who look at you as you were the sun itself?

I know I lost someone to whom I got to be a sun. Someone who received and embraced me at every aspect of the multifaceted being that I am.

I am stepping out of the shower, putting my clothes on. I feel like I need a lot of clothes. And a blanket.