The gentle touch of men

Johann Liss; A farmer and his dentist. Luckily things have come a long way since then…

Today I was at the dentist. I hate going to the dentist. No, wait; that doesn’t quite cover it. For days before a planned visit I have a constant stomach ache, and on the day itself my palms are sweaty, my knees are wobbly and all I want to do is flee. Don’t get me wrong, I have a wonderful dentist – now. It used to be I didn’t… Anyway, for a person with such dentist issues having to book an extra appointment is no fun, but as dental health is a prerequisite for a long life – and I do want a long life, preferably accompanied by good food, excellent chocolates and masses of tea – I had no choice.

I sat in the waiting room trying to submerge myself in a magazine when a woman of my age was escorted through the inner door by a dental nurse. It’s strange, isn’t it, how quickly you cotton on to the fact that something is not entirely right with a person by how others talk to them. In this case the nurse was soothing and chirpy, spoke slowly and loudly. The woman in question just beamed, her smile widening even more when the large man who had until then been sitting in a corner rose and moved towards her. It was as if her whole face was lit from within, her beautiful eyes hanging off him.

The man smiled at her, discussed things with the nurse and placed the woman close by his side while he paid and arranged for a new visit. All the time the woman smiled – somewhat vacantly. As they turned to leave, he took her by the arm and said “come now, dearie, let’s find your jacket, shall we?”. His hold was so gentle, his voice was so soft, and without having an idea of if I’m right or not, I immediately conjured up an image of a couple that went way back, a happy couple until something happened to her, robbing her of several central elements to her personality – but he still loves her, maybe more of because of what she was than what she is now…

Rembrandt… look at those hands!

Whatever the case, the woman nodded and followed him obediently. He helped her into the jacket, hands lingering over her arms, her shoulders. All the while he kept on talking to her, explaining what he was doing, and she just smiled and smiled. Whether or not he loved her or not, it was evident to anyone not blind that the woman adored him, and from the way his fingers followed the contours of her back once she was adequately swathed in her (far too big) jacket I’d bet he loves her too. Me, I was mainly entranced by how gentle his touch was. Every single one of her moves he dictated with his fingers, all the way from the coat hanger to the door, and it was like watching a butterfly caress a rose, light flutters of square, competent digits that had her leaning back against his hand, that glorious smile of hers widening even more.

Well, after that rather beautiful experience I floated to my feet when the dentist called my name, sort of hovered in his wake all the way to his room and the waiting dentist’s chair – upon which all the happy, gooey feeling left me in a rush. My dentist chuckled, indicated I should sit and then followed some minutes of clenched fists, constricted breathing and cold sweat in elbow creases – all of it very ridiculous, as my dentist is also possessed of gentle, careful hands that go about their business with as little discomfort as possible.

To distract me, my dentist tends to talk politics or philosophy or cooking as he works, now and then stopping to ask my opinion. As it’s difficult to say much more than “aaaa” with a drill and a suction hose in your mouth, you can well imagine just how one-sided these conversations are, but I must say I learn a lot, having been gifted with a dentist whose intellectual interests expand very far beyond dental health. This time he expounded on the sad state of the schooling system (and let’s not go there – not in this post) while he repaired my cracked filling. His warm hands would now and then correct the angle of my jaw, adjust the bib and sooner than I’d expected he was done. Phew. I gulped a couple of deep breaths to re-oxygenate my blood and sat up.
“Hang on,” he said as I stood, “you have something…” He reached forward and wiped something off my cheek, and once again I was struck by how sometimes big men have fingers as lightweight as gossamer.

Men are capable of the most fantastic gentleness – maybe even more fantastic because it can, at times, be in such contrast to their rather impressive physiques. My eldest son is my own personal favourite hunk, and I must say he comes across as all muscle, more muscle and even more muscle. But when he wraps his arms around me and gives me a hug, or when he rubs his bearded cheek against mine, it is the warmth and softness of his hold/touch that resonates with me.

Murillo, St John and a lamb

It also throws me back to when he was a little boy, all long, uncoordinated limbs that would in passing fly out and land smack in the middle of one of his brothers’ face (mostly unintentional. Now and then, more than intentional…) causing one child to cry while the eldest crouched down to hug and soothe, saying he was so sorry. His hands would wipe at tears, try to re-set the dislocated elbow or sprained foot or bleeding lip, all the while moving over his brother’s skin with the utmost gentleness. He has the same approach to babies and dogs, and cats and – I hope, not being in a position to double check – women. His brothers (and his wonderful father) are the same; big strong boys with voices that went husky long before adolescence and hands that are gentle and soothing, strong and warm but always, always gentle.

Yes, I know that men are over-represented in the violent crime statistics all over the world. Men lash out, they punch and stab, and someone lies gasping at their feet. But that’s not ALL men – in fact, it is but a fraction of a percent (if that) of all men. And anyway, this post is about the men whose touch is like the kiss of a firefly on a sore joint, whose fingers draw patterns over exposed skin, who lay a warm, callused palm on your leg and squeeze to tell you that they’re there should you need them. It is about all those fathers who lead by example, who take the time to teach their sons how important it is to never use their greater strength to intimidate or hurt.

More Murillo – I like him!

To all the wonderful men that help their women through their days and lives, to the men that lift their children and hoist them in the air, arms held out to catch them as they come hurtling back down, this is for you. To the men who cradle their babies as if they were made of glass, to the men who blow on scraped knees, who place a hand at the waist of their woman and envelop them in a slow dance, to the men who sits their weeping child in their lap and patiently listens and cuddles, this is for you. And especially, of course, this is for him, the man in my life, whose fingers always widen to braid themselves round mine when we go for a walk.

Oh; and hey, this is for my excellent dentist as well!

In Memoriam

I like wandering round in churches, and on a recent visit to the Church of Holy Trinity in Kristianstad, I spent my time perusing the gravestones that line the walls of the church.

The church was built in the early seventeenth century, and as was the custom rich people were often buried directly under the church floor – assuming they paid for the privilege, of course. The problem in this particular church is that it is built more or less directly on rock, i.e. the graves became per necessity very shallow. As a consequence, the odour of decaying bodies very quickly became an issue – especially in summer – and the church was obliged to open all its doors prior to any services so as to air the interior. Still, well into the 19th century the hoity toity dead were buried inside the church, no doubt quite the tangible reminder to the people attending church of just how ephemeral life on earth is… I suppose the congregation was much relieved when it was decided to discontinue with this practise.

Old churches need to be renovated now and then, even this particular church. During one such renovation, the old graves under the floor were empties, whatever bodily parts remained thrown into a communal grave and the gravestones were instead placed along the church walls – inside and outside. Most of the inscriptions are illegible, but here and there is a tastefully executed skeleton holding a scythe, and  two stones have engraved images of the man and woman once buried beneath them, preserved for posteriority in all their worldly splendour. These people were once members of the ruling elite – now they are but dust and splintered bones, lying helter skelter in a communal grave. I wonder what they’d think about that ?

On one wall hangs a beautiful epitaph, donated to the church by a grieving widow. Her husband, Mads Lavesen, had recently died at the age of 42, and the epitaph was a commemoration of his life – or rather their life together. They’d been married for 15 years and 3 weeks and had during that time produced 11 children, five of which were already dead. Poignantly, all the children are depicted on the epitaph – the live ones in sober black, the dead in shimmering pinks and with flower wreaths on their heads. The inscription ends in hope as the widow states that she expects to be reunited with both her husband and all her children after the Resurrection.

It breathes trust and faith, this little piece of art. Trust in the afterlife, faith in that God will take care of her and her numerous family. As I stand before it, I experience a feeling of sadness – not for her, the woman who has depicted herself holding hands with her husband and surrounded by all the children she has given birth to, but for us, the people of today, who to a large extent have been raised to believe in Science rather than God, who have lost touch with the faith that was such a fundamental part of our ancestors’ lives and who, as a consequence, have nothing to hold on to as life approaches its natural end.

I am not about to launch myself into a discussion about faith – mainly because I perceive this to be of a very private issue. But at times I do reflect that in this brave new world of ours it is difficult to openly profess a religious inclination, as that is the equivalent of leaving yourself open to ridicule. Today – at least where I live – atheism seems to be the thing. People cite scientific truths as examples of why God doesn’t exist, the miracles that populate our world are deconstructed into biology and chemistry or physics.

Frankly, I don’t care if people believe in God or not. But I am worried that when we break down our world into formulas and genetic patterns, when we believe ourselves to have the right to patent plants that have been around as long as we have, when we think it is okay to tinker with DNA, we might be corrupting an invisible pattern. Also, once you can explain a sunset in terms of radiation and spectra, will you still be capable of savouring the sheer beauty of it? Doesn’t deconstruction per definition take away some of the awe? Look at a hawk as it plunges through the air; some of us will crane our heads back, entranced by this embodiment of perfect design. Others will start talking about hollow bones and wing span, about the forces required to keep the lightweight bird airborne. Yes, interesting to know – as long as we remember that knowing the HOW does not necessarily answer the WHY. After all, just because we understand how it flies doesn’t mean we understand why it’s there to begin with.

Back to death, that final equalizer that all of us will at some point experience. (Unless you’re hoping to become a vampire or some other form of immortal. It makes me shiver inside to consider  eternal life. Being around for ever probably takes a lot of shine out of it, don’t you think?) As one grows older, there comes a point in life when you realise there’s less life ahead of you than behind you. That’s when existential issues become relevant – and personal. This is also when believing in an afterlife is a huge comfort, because it makes us (me at least) feel so inconsequential to accept death as being the end. After all, there’s so much more to us than skin and bones, we’re all much more than the sum total of our kilos. All the knowledge, all those experiences we’ve accumulated along the way, do they simply vanish into thin air when we die? I guess the rational answer to that question is yes – well, assuming things DO end when our heart stops beating.

When I wander through churches and graveyards, when I peer at fading engravings and read my way through epitaphs and quotations from the Bible, I can’t help but feeling a bit jealous of the certainty with which our forebears faced death. To most of them it was a given truth that life – or rather existence – continued in some form or other after death. Some must have shivered in fear as they contemplated an eternity in hell. Others must have swallowed and hoped their stay in Purgatory would be short. (As a little point of interest; Purgatory as a concept didn’t survive the reformation – Protestants don’t believe in time-restricted hell, it’s either all in or all out.) Many, many repented on their deathbed. (Yet again; not the Protestants as their beliefs don’t allow for last minute redemption. It does, however, allow for divine mercy, so even the blackest of souls could pray to God for forgiveness.)

Almost all hoped for peace and light in the hereafter, a blissful rest after the travails of earthly life. Because we mustn’t forget that was how it was – for most of our ancestors. Life was tough and merciless, it was hunger and cold, children dying away from you, husbands being crippled in warfare, beloved wives dying in childbirth with a child you would have preferred not to have – but you weren’t allowed to say that out loud. Compared to theirs, our lives are a walk in the park – maybe so much so that we forget life by its nature is transient.

Some years ago, I was discussing faith and death with an old lady whom I knew to have a very strong belief in God. She laughed when I asked her about a hereafter in a picture perfect landscape complete with green meadows, fluffy lambs and a constant supply of tea and cake.
“Not quite like that,” she said. She grew serious and leaned towards me. “I don’t worry overmuch about it. You see, I am sure I will be taken care of as I need it. What that means…” She shrugged. “… well, I’ll have to wait and see, right?” Now that’s what I call faith, a rock solid trust that someone will take care of you, no matter what.

Campanula rotondifolia – Scottish bluebell. Wikipedia Commons

My husband is far more prosaic. When I ask him about life after death he shakes his head and takes my hand.
“You know I don’t believe in that,” he says, and I begin to cry, because it feels so final somehow; the day one of us dies it’s “poof” and we will never sit together like we’re doing at the moment, drinking tea and talking. And I find that thought so utterly, utterly terrible.
He takes my hand and smiles. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself,” I snivel. And we won’t be holding hands either in the afterlife, will we? “You could at least say maybe,” I say, “you know, hedge your bets and say that you’re not sure, that MAYBE there’s life after death.”
“But I don’t…”
“I know,” I cut him off. I fiddle with my mug, feeling ridiculous for crying, feeling even more ridiculous for feeling so abandoned. It’s not as if he’s gone, is it? He’s sitting opposite me and holding my hand. He tightens his hold until I raise my face to his.
“A bluebell,” he says, “that’s what I want to be – once I’m dead. So every time you see one…” He leans forward to kiss my cheek. “… you’ll know I am there.”
“Huh,” I say – but feel strangely comforted. Besides, what’s to say he dies before me anyway?

I will never commission an epitaph like the one above. I will not write a text in which I express hopes to be reunited with my dear ones after death. But I hope – oh, yes I hope. And come to think of it, what better epitaph can anyone have than a flower the colour of summer skies, a flower that grows where nothing else survives, a flower that comes back year after year thereby reminding us that life does, in fact, go on.

When lightning strikes

Some days ago, a little boy here in Sweden died. Children do that now and then, however much we don’t want it to happen, but in this particular case the boy didn’t die due to an accident or to illness. No, he died due to being forgotten. After having spent the entire day strapped into his car seat he was lifeless, and no matter the efforts made to save his life, this little boy was beyond saving, dehydrated after a day in an overheated car. You see, his father forgot to drop him off at the day care centre on his way to work, and so the sleeping boy was left behind when his father rushed off to deal with the daily challenges of his job,

I can’t even begin to imagine the hell his father must be going through at present. To lose a child, in whatever manner, must be unbearable, but the pain must be exponentially worse when it’s your fault. There’s nothing we can do or say, nothing society can do, that comes close to the constant punishment this man will impose upon himself for the rest of his life. I feel so sorry for you; I feel sorry for your son, for your wife, but mostly for you, because how are you to survive in a world that must have gone a permanent black?

I guess this father was a pretty regular guy; work, family, some spare time, more work, maybe a house to maintain, kids to enjoy. work. Like most of us, he was juggling multiple balls. Like most of us, he dropped one. It’s just that most of us don’t drop balls quite as priceless as the life of our child. He forgot. Not only did he forget, but when he remembered – because he did remember, rushing back with his heart in his mouth – it was too late. He doesn’t deserve our recrimination, our finger-pointing. He deserves our pity.

The debate following upon this little boy’s death has centred round the question “how could this happen?”. Some are quick to tar the father as negligent. Some blame the staff at the day care centre for not calling to find out where the boy was. Some say cars should be fitted with an electronic device that would set off an alarm of a living being is trapped in it on a hot day. But most of the time it comes back to the parent; was he good enough, did he take his role as father seriously, and really, would this have happened if it was the mother driving the car?

OF COURSE IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED IF THE MOTHER WAS DRIVING THE CAR! Our gender doesn’t make us infallible, and the insinuation that just because we’re mothers, not fathers, we would never, ever forget is ludicrous. We live in the same world – at least last I checked. Men and women in our neck of the world have the same set of challenges to handle; work, kids, more work, house, chores, kids, kids, work. Oh, and let’s not forget that we must preferably keep fit, eat right and have an interesting hobby or two.

Take a step back and regard the rat race that goes for life these days; we are inundated with information, we work longer and longer hours, we are expected to be available, on line, 24/7. And at the same time we want to nurture our babies, we struggle to create a sense of home with home cooked meals, home baked cakes, Christmas traditions, summer traditions, everything traditions.

We roll meatballs while in a phone conference, we curse under our breath when the kids come home from school thrilled to bits because they’ve just gotten the part as the Giant Moth in the school production, because how are we to find the time to make the costume? The successful junior athlete is our pride and joy, but it is damned difficult to work his training schedule into the already too busy day, and hey, what happened to MY time, why am I constantly inundated in so much stuff? And yet, for all this, I believe each and every one of us would loudly state that the single most important thing in our life is our kids. And it is, but boy are these offspring time thieves, and we are so tired,  and the boss is so demanding,  and the economy is a constant worry, and, and, and… Of course we could all forget; we’re humans, not machines.

Men make wonderful parents. So do women. Mothers and fathers love their children, want the best for them, do their best for them. But all of us could forget – or waver in our attention. Children die all the time; through misadventure or illness, through war and famine. Some children are the victims of horrible abuse, but most of those dead children were loved – irrevocably – by their parents. A little boy is dead. His mother and father are devastated. Yes, it was his fault. He doesn’t need us to tell him so.

And in the night there is light

In recent years, we’ve heard a lot about light pollution, this being the encroachment of electrical light on the darkness of night. I don’t think anyone denies the benefit of artificial light – for those of us that live in the northern hemisphere, life would be very, very, very (you get the picture, right?) dark without electricity.

Lights seen from space, back in 1994-95. The lit up areas have expanded substantially since then

In comparison with our forefathers, we are blessed with a reliable source of light that makes life much more comfortable. Okay, so the reliability of electricity is not global. In many parts of the world, power cuts are the norm and people take it in their stride that sometimes the telly works, sometimes it doesn’t. “Inshallah” they say and shrug, because this electricity thing is in many ways as inexplicable as God.

Not so us, not so the pampered people of the north. A power cut is a catastrophe, and for weeks afterwards the media will debate just how to ensure enough redundancy in the system to make it work no matter what. That, of course, is an impossibility. One major storm, trees falling like domino tiles this way and that, and substations might be crushed, airborne wires may be broken. We don’t like these reminders about our own ineffectiveness, it does our ego no good to realise just how vulnerable we are when confronted with the powers of nature. Alternatively, one could argue that it does us a LOT of good to now and then be taken down a peg or two…

An Old Lady w Candles and a Young Boy – Peter Paul Rubens. This is what it used to be like, before T Edison and all that…

Whatever the case, I am addicted to electricity – we all are. Modern day life wouldn’t work without power to run our computers, our radios, our washing machines, our factories, our transportation systems, our heating. But now and then I DO turn my lamps off, I switch off the TV, stow the computer and light a candle instead. Doing this in the city is a futile exercise. Ambient light is all around, so even if everything is turned off in our apartment, we are still bathed in light. Streetlamps, neon signs, the neighbour’s TV – it all sends reflections our way. This, dear readers, is light pollution. It is the constant presence of light even during those hours when all should be dark, it is the permanent light that kills the beauty of a twilight, the wonder of a dawn. And let’s not get me started on the stars…

So this is a German factory in 1881, but it does exemplify all the things we need electricity for … (and then some, like hair dryers and computers)

Since some months back, we own a house set in the country. Real country. You must keep in mind that Sweden is a very large country with a relatively low number of inhabitants per square kilometre (20 people per square kilometre, to compare with 126 in Denmark, 231 in Germany or 246 in the UK ) So when we say “the country” we mean precisely that; very few houses, very much space between them and not a street lamp in sight. Okay, so there happens to be a street lamp on the road half a kilometre from our house, but I can assure you that very weak and orange light does not reach further than the nearby ditch.

The first night we slept there, it was mostly DARK. Dark enough that having to go to the toilet at night was an adventure resulting in stubbed toes and an aggravated dog (not my fault; I didn’t see his tail). The second night was an unclouded night, and I can’t recall when last I was so entranced. It was freezing cold, the frost crunched under our feet, but my husband and I stood outside, craned our heads back and gaped. There are so many stars out there – a carpet of zillions of bright dots. So many, in fact, that it was difficult to pick out the standard constellations against the three dimensional backdrop of stars, more stars, even more stars.

Some weeks later, we experienced the full moon. It silvered the ground, it dipped rocks and trees in an almost phosphorescent light. The hare that has made it over our fence froze in the light – one could almost think it a metal statue. The lake glittered like an antique mirror – the ones with glass made of mercury. And you know what? The light was quite sufficient for a night-time stroll, even if at times I hade the sensation that there were a lot of curious eyes out there, snouts that were raised at our passing to catch our scent.

Starry Night – Van Gogh

It is somewhat magic to experience these quiet nights, so full of light we no longer see – or even can see – in our cities and towns. Stars fade in the competition with neon signs. The moonbeam over the water is no lighter than the ray cast by the lantern that hangs from the harbour’s office.

Sometimes I worry that mankind will lose touch with the true miracles offered by our planet. Moonlight? Who cares, I can flip the switch and bathe my loft with light. Starlight? Pfff! Haven’t you seen the neat ceilings in the nightclubs? They’ve actually installed these little lamps that look JUST like stars (Eeeeeh… Not quite) A lake that lies like a glimmering expanse of glass? Yes, yes; but I have this floor to ceiling mirrored wall opposite my bed, now that’s what I call eye-catching!

We’ve been around for a long time as a species. Yes, both sharks and crocodiles are way older than us, but somehow I don’t think they do all that much contemplation. But humans do – we always have. One differentiating factor between us and the rest of the animal kingdom is that we can appreciate beauty. The caveman who happened upon a glorious sunset probably took as much pleasure from it as we do today. The farmer in the seventeenth century would lift his face to the sky and gape as stars fell like confetti when the Earth passed through the Leonids. And the moon – ah, the moon; how many generations have venerated this silver disk, how many men and women have stood beneath a crescent moon and felt unique and special as they kissed?

The Leonids, depiction of the 1833 meteorite rain

The night beyond our city borders is anything but dark; unless we venture out into it, we will never truly see the myriad points of light, the beauty of a naked tree silhouetted in the moonlight. We owe it to ourselves to experience this – we owe it to our kids to take them with us when we do.

I am addicted to electrical light – as are we all. But I love the soft light of the fading stars, the glimmer of pink along the horizon that presages dawn. And as to the moon, I go outside and lift my arms towards it. So did our common ancestress on the African plains, so did the Roman vestals and the Celtic druids. Maybe they were on to something, maybe they were wise enough to keep in mind just how insignificant we are, and just how brief our alloted time on Earth is.

Generations come, generations go. Life is lit, life is extinguished. We are born and die, a nanosecond of existence on the relative scale of time. But the moon and the stars they remain – they will always remain.

Of dinosaurs and arrows – a reminiscence.

Having children is a good way of expanding your knowledge – sometimes into areas you never thought you were interested in. I guess most parents have suffered Dinosauritis in one degree or other, and even if giant reptiles are not my cup of tea, it is difficult not to be swept along when an enthusiastic five year old tugs at your hand and more or less howls with glee when we visit the dinosaur exhibits in the Museum of Natural History. After three boys I knew a lot about Velociraptors and Allosaurus and Tyrannosaurus Rex and Spinosaurus and… yes, there’s a pattern here; little boys couldn’t care less about the herbivores, it’s the meat-eaters that catch their interest.

Along the way, we’ve had endless discussions about why the dinosaurs became extinct, the development of the world’s continents and if we would survive standing face to face with a T-Rex. According to middle son(at the tender age of six) the T- Rex was no big deal; no, it was the Velociraptor that would get us and tear us into edible morsels. Which is when spoil sport mother (me) interjected that we really didn’t need to worry, as all dinosaurs were extinct anyway. Middle son’s face fell; he glowered at me before informing me – rather haughtily – that the dinosaurs were still around, in alarmingly high numbers. “Birds,” he said, “they’re descendants of the dinosaurs.” Hmm. Excuse me for not fainting in fear when confronted with a sparrow…

After the dinosaurs came – to my delight – the fascination with knights and medieaval life in general. This is where I came into my own, and my boys had the most extensive collection of home made helmets (I do FANTASTIC helmets, complete with visors and plumes), swords, shields, capes and whatnot. We played complex games in the garden, we discussed Saladin and Richard Lionheart, the Knights Templar and the best way to kill a man in full armour (armpit). The boys made their own bows and arrows, and as I was fortunate enough to grow up with a mother who never interfered in my childish games, I let them run wild. With consequences, one might say…

“Mamma?” Eldest son scraped his foot on the floor.
“Yeah?” I threw him a look over my shoulder and smiled. “In already? You just went outside.”
“Emm…” said eldest son, doing his foot thing again.
“What?” I said, alerted by the way he held his head. This boy had been a mite unlucky when it came to his siblings, his boisterous but affectionate games resulting in dislocated shoulders, sprained elbows and a collection of bruises – on them, not him.
“Well, I…”
“We were playing,” middle son put in. “He didn’t mean to. It was mostly my fault, because I moved into the way.”
“You moved into the way?”
Middle son nodded vigorously. “But I pulled it out – except I couldn’t get it all out.”
“Pulled what out?” I more or less leapt towards him.
“The arrow,” said middle son, tilting his face so I could see his eyes.
“The arrow?”
“I didn’t mean to,” said eldest son, looking devastated.
“It’s okay,” said middle son, patting his brother’s arm. I looked into his eye. The iris was decorated with several wooden splinters. Without stopping to think overmuch I pulled them out.
“There,” I said with a bright smile. “All done.”
Not quite. Middle son was operated two days later to get the remaining specks of wood out…

After the Middle Ages came the Roman Empire (backwards, I know) and then we had a number of years where it was all about Djingis Khan – or The Lord of the Rings. We’ve had summers spent on our back as we’ve studied the stars, we’ve discussed the universe and God and the inevitable end of things as we know them. (“But not yet, Mamma,” said middle son, “not until you and I are very dead, like in a million years or so.” Upon which only daughter burst into tears because she didn’t want things to end – no matter if it was a million years from now…)

The thing about children is that their intellectual forays are never linear. They don’t go from 1 to 2, sometimes they start at 3, jump to 17 and then return to 1. They watch a TV show about diamonds, mull it over for some days, and chances are you’ll find them in the garage, balancing bricks on a piece of coal. Why? To check if it’s true, that coal becomes diamond if enough pressure is brought to bear. As a side-effect, they also learn that bricks have to be stacked carefully not to fall, and that coal leaves nasty, dark stains on your white T-shirt.

“How do I know you’re my mother?” one child once asked me.
“Because I am,” I replied.
“Says you,” the child said.
“Why, you don’t believe me?”
The child did a rather elegant shrug. “I guess. But how do I know?”
“Because I know you’re mine,” I said. I didn’t feel like going into DNA and all that. Next day, the child returned from school looking triumphant.
“Now I know,” it said.
“Know what?”
“That you’re my mother.”
“You do? Well, that’s a relief.”
“It’s because of the earlobes,” the child said.
“The earlobes?” My fingers went to my ears. I don’t have any earlobes to talk of, while the child in question does.
“Yeah, mine are like dad’s, so that makes you my mother.”
I decided not to point out the weakness in that line of reasoning…

Children are good at priorities. Not the priorities we want them to have, because small kids rarely see the need to pick up their clothes (Why? They’re going to put them back on the next day) or their toys. And why is it so important to eat the carrots when the french fries taste so much better? Why is sugar not good for them? Why must they go to bed so early? Why, why, why… They don’t understand why I get so upset when they leave their muddy boots in the hallway – would I prefer for them to keep them on indoors? And how were they to know they couldn’t swim? After all, as an aggrieved, very wet son told me, puppies know how to swim without having to learn. I was still trying to get my heart under control after my life saving operation…

Nowadays my children are mostly adults. But they still challenge me on a daily basis, keeping me alert and on my toes. It used to be I taught them things. these days it is them teaching me… Hang on; maybe that’s the way it’s been all along – maybe it’s them that have fostered my growth rather than the other way around.

So here’s to my kids for loving me and making me laugh, for driving me to the edge of despair and beyond – and still making me laugh. For all the times when you’ve cuddled up close and told me you loved me, for all the bear hugs you give me now, when all of you over-top me. I look at you and burst with pride. And hey, you still make me laugh!

In praise of spring and the returning light

Welcome to Sweden, staunch home of the Lutheran church as is displayed by the relatively large number of religious red letter days in our calendar. Not that Swedes are particularly religious – not these days. Neither are we pagan, but some rituals are hard to kill, and no matter Anselm (our apostle) no matter the Reformation, the cathechisms, the strict Conventicle Acts, in Sweden some traditions simply can’t be stamped out.

Harking back to roots far more ancient than the Christian church, we still welcome spring in a most pagan manner, a throwback to the old feast of Beltane. In Sweden, this is celebrated the last day of April (we call it Valborg), and we light huge bonfires and sing songs that praise the advent of sun and warmth and the coming summer. Chances are the last day in April will be cold – even very cold. But the evenings are light – where I live twilight lingers to well beyond 21:00 p.m. – and all around are signs of returning life.

View over “our” lake, 20:55 April 29

The birches are decorated with minuscule leaves of brightest green, the shrubs shift into an emerald haze, and everywhere tits and blackbirds and lapwings and larks and … well, birds in general – call and hoot that spring is here and so are they. In the woods anemones poke their heads of brightest white through drifts of russet coloured leaves, the lake shores are here and there still edged with ice, but a couple of swans sail by on the deep blue of the open waters.

I’m here! Windflowers (or anemones) brightening my day

Over by the bonfire the songs have acquired a riotous tone as sausages burn to crisp over the open flames. Couples snog, or hold hands, or hug each other close, and the air is filled with the impressive sound of the male choirs singing in spring. That’s what we call it; “Singing in spring”.

We have books full of these spring songs, all about the melting drifts of snow, the return of the sun, of warmth, of hope that soon the ground break out in full flower. Songs that rather unabashedly praise that first deity of human life; the sun.

Beltane was a major feast day for the Celts – a fire feast, and as described above that tradition lives on up here in the north. Having said that, as far as I know there weren’t all that many Celts up here, but seeing as they were a trading people I assume their cultural influence was massive – plus feasts such as Beltane, Samhain, Midsummer are probably rooted in an even murkier past.

The advent of spring was of utmost importance for our ancestors. Today, 3-7% of the population in the developed world are farmers, producing huge excesses of food they can sell to the rest of us. (Plus we import; tons and tons do we import. Consider the chilling thought that all these developing countries that presently source our food were to say “no, we don’t want to”. What are we to do? Go back to living off Mother Nature? As if we can – we’ve forgotten how!) A century ago, roughly 50-60% of the population had their outcome from the agricultural sector. Before the Industrial Revolution, 80% depended on the land – and what little surplus they produced was sold to acquire necessities such as an iron plough, or salt. For them, spring was the difference between life and death, and a spring as dry and cold as the one we’ve experienced this year would have led to starvation – and death.

In celebration of this glorious day, this period of purple  twilights that fill me with restless joy I am going to take a page from my ancestor’s books and spend the day planting. Lucky for me, I don’t have to plant potatoes (back breaking labour when it was done by hand) or wheat. No, I’m going to plant flowers!

So many wonderful plants! I am that much poorer, the Nursery Garden that much richer – or is it the other way around?

Come evening I will stand by the bonfire (it’s just me and my husband here, so it will be a very private bonfire) and sing. My husband will probably at most hum, which is a good thing as he can’t hold a tune to save his life. But I will stand on our jetty, open my arms wide to the returning light and praise the sun. Life is a miracle, an eternal cycle of dark and light. It behoves us to at times remember just how blessed we are to live on this green planet of ours. It behoves us to keep in mind that we are but the caretakers of a delicate sphere of life, as ephemeral in time and space as a soap bubble.

Our jetty. Imagine me standing with my arms held high and wide, warbling something melodious to the night air. And yes, i will be very warmly dressed,

I’d like to end this post with one of my favourite poems – an ode of joy and gratitude for the world that surrounds us, in this case directed to God, but it could just as well be directed to Mother Nature. I don’t know why it always springs to the forefront of my head this season of the year, maybe it’s the sheer exuberance in it that speaks to me.

Glory be to God for dappled things - 
For skies of coupled-colour like a brinded cow;
For rose moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced; fold, fallow and plough;
And all trades; their gear and tackle and trim

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 – 89)

Happy Beltane, everyone! May the day be long and bright, may the sun warm your skin, may a soft breeze caress your cheek.

Of treason and its consequences

In a little town in southern Sweden stands a magnificent baroque church, the Church of Holy Trinity, inaugurated in the early seventeenth century. At the time, the present somnolent town of Kristianstad was a bustling metropolis (in relative terms) a centre of administration in the Danish kingdom. Yup; Danish. When the church was built, most of southern Sweden belonged to Denmark, but over the coming decades things were to change, the map of Scandinavia being redrawn to leave Denmark much smaller and Sweden that much larger.

Holy Trinity Church in Kristianstad (photo by D Castor)

In the church, plaques in old Danish jostle with those in old Swedish, and the church is also the final resting place of Hedevig, daughter of Christian IV of Denmark, and her husvand, Ebbe Ulfeldt. Most Danish people shudder upon hearing the name Ulfeldt, synonymous to them with betrayal and treason – a bit like Benedict Arnold for modern day Americans.

While Ebbe was no paragon of virtues – among his vices was his tendency to abuse his wife – it isn’t the man whose remains lie rattling under the church floor in Kristianstad who deserves the title “greatest Danish traitor ever” no, that honour goes to Corfitz Ulfeldt. (Despite the same surname the two men were not closely related.)

Corfitz Ulfeldt

Corfitz and Ebbe both lived in the seventeenth century, and apart from their common surname they were also brothers-in-law, both of them married to daughters of the king, Christian IV. Both occupied important positions (although Corfitz would have been hard put not to laugh had anyone compared him, the Stewart of the Realm, with insignificant Ebbe who was stuck in the backwaters of Kristianstad), both would at one point change allegiance from Denmark to Sweden – the equivalent of men loyal to Robert Bruce setting spurs to their horses to offer their services to England. But where Ebbe had a wife who despised him, Corfitz was blessed with Leonora Christina, a spouse so loyal she reaches almost biblical proportions.

Leonora Christina and her siblings were born out of the morganatic marriage between Christian IV and Kirsten Munk. (A morganatic marriage is a marriage where the issue have no succession rights, typically between a male member of the royal family or high nobility and a woman of lower rank.) While Christian IV would go on to divorce Kirsten for infidelity, he retained a special fondness for Leonora Cristina, and it seems she was as fiercely devoted to her father as she was to her husband.

Of course, there were no expectations of a love match when fifteen year old Leonora Christina was wed to Corfitz Ulfeldt. No, this was the king rewarding his favourite councillor and what better way to do so than to give the man a wife close to twenty years his junior? Whatever the case, Leonora Christina seem to have been totally stricken. Corfitz less so, as is proved by his behaviour in their latter years. However, to give the man his due, the marriage was perceived as happy by their contemporaries.

Corfitz and his wife

At the time of their marriage Corfitz was the brightest star in the Danish court, Well-educated, well-travelled, accomplished in all matters a nobleman should be accomplished in, he was also a skilled manipulator and convinced he was the best thing since sliced bread. (This well before there being any sliced bread, thereby showing you just how self-inflated dear Corfitz was.)

Eight years into their marriage, Corfitz was no longer quite as admired. He hadn’t exactly distinguished himself in the recent war with Sweden and when the king died so did Corfitz’ principal ally. The new king, Fredrik III, was less than enamoured of Corfitz and his wife, both of whom he considered to be rather too full of themselves. Fredrik intended to rule without Corfitz, and as to Leonora Christine her malicious wit and lack of tact had made her persona-non-grata at the new queen’s court. To further strain the Ulfeldts’ relationship with the new royals was the accusation that Corfitz’ mistress Dina Vinhofvers had attempted to poison the new king and queen at Corfitz’ behest.

1n 1651 Ulfeldt and his wife saw fit to leave Copenhagen, and then followed a number of incomprehensible (from a Danish perspective) actions whereby Corfitz liased with the Swedish king to trounce the Danish forces in southern Sweden, forcing one of the most humiliating capitulations in Danish history. Corfitz was now a rising star in Sweden, but ever the malcontent he grumbled that his share of the cake was too small, his new fiefdom too paltry, and so he began conspiring against his new king. In 1659 Corfitz was condemned to death for treason in Sweden but was amnestied and returned to Copenhagen, there to attempt to heal the breach with his erstwhile king. That didn’t go very well. In fact, it didn’t go at all, and so Corfitz was thrown in prison.

Leonora Christina – a king’s daughter, but never a princess

Throughout this decade and more of changing fortunes, Leonora Christina was ever at her husband’s side. She dressed as a man when needed, lived through a number of dangerous incidents, among them being held at gunpoint. Fredrik III searched high and low for his former courtier and his half-sister, and there were a number of occasions when Corfitz and Leonora Christina had to flee head over heels to evade the persistent Danish troops. Personally, I think Leonora Christina rather enjoyed these adventurous years and the proximity they afforded with her husband. As to Corfitz, I guess he was so used to being adored and admired by his wife that he thought it quite normal that she should follow him through thick and thin – which included the severe imprisonment they faced upon their return to Denmark.

In 1661, after more than a year of harsh captivity, Fredrik released his prisoners in a spectacle that totally degraded Ulfeldt. Corfitz must have been either a very stupid or demented man, because instead of grovelling and achieving some sort of peaceful relationship with his sovereign he went on a little tour abroad and combined his sightseeing trip with conspiring against Fredrik – again. This time the king’s patience had run out. In July of 1663 Ulfeldt was impeached as a traitor, his property and lands were confiscated and Corfitz was condemned to be beheaded and quartered. Corfitz succeeded in fleeing the country. He was never to see his wife again, nor does he seem to have made all that much of an effort to do so. He certainly doesn’t seem to have cared all that much about how his actions might impinge on her life…

So what of Leonora Christina? Loyal as ever, in 1663 she set out for England and Charles II, requesting that he repay the loans she and her husband had given him while he was a penurious exile. Charles smiled, invited her to his court and promptly turned her over to the Danes, thereby strengthening his relationship with the ruling Danish king and saving himself a sizeable amount of money.

Leonora Christina was yet again held as a prisoner. Despite being questioned repeatedly she refused to admit her husband guilty of any crimes. She was promised her husband’s pardon if she agreed to sign away the last of her properties to the king, leaving her – and her children – destitute. She never hesitated, signing away everything to save her man. It was a ruse, of course, the king had no intention of ever pardoning Corfitz. Instead, a shocked Leonora Christina was taken to watch the burning of her husband. No one told her it was an effigy, no one saw fit to tell her Corfitz had fled Denmark.

In 1664, Corfitz died abroad. By then, Leonora Christina was living in squalor as a prisoner in the Blå Torn, the tower in which she was to spend the coming two decades of her life. She was never accused of a crime, she was never given a trial. Instead, she was locked away and it is said the conditions in which she were held for the first few years were appalling. (Think rats and damp, think cruel wardens and mouldy food, think clothes turning to rags, think dark – always dark – and cold)  Only upon the death of Fredrik III were there some slight improvements, his son being somewhat more lenient towards his dashing half-aunt. Leonora Christina spent her years in prison writing Jammers Minde (A Memory of Lament) in which she detailed her life – in particular her years as a royal prisoner.

The Blå Torn (Blue Tower) in which Leonora Christina was held prisoner.

Today, most historians agree that Corfitz Ulfeldt was a flawed character, a borderline megalomaniac who became drunk on power. Leonora Christina has the benefit of being able to address us directly through her written memoir, but the balanced woman we meet in those pages is probably very different from the royal adventuress who followed her husband into exile and treason, who defied convention and ties of family loyalty – for him. I hope she thought he was worth it. Sadly, I don’t think she did.

The Church of Holy Trinity in Kristianstad is considered one of the most beautiful baroque churches in the world. It is also a reminder of the fact that not so long ago this part of Sweden belonged to Denmark. Before Corfitz, that is. Before him and his besotted wife who gladly bankrolled the Swedish campaign to once and for all oust the Danes from the Scandinavian peninsula.

Que será, será

“When I was just a little girl…” I desperately wanted to be a boy.

A pretty little girl (Carl Larsson)

Most of my friends were boys, my favourite pursuits were football and rugnby, and I just hated it when I had to do needlework at school. Or deportment classes. I don’t know if any of you, dear readers, have been subjected to deportment classes, but even now, at a distance of forty odd years, I shudder when I recall the two afternoons per week I spent with Mrs Miller.

Photo by A Diamond Fell from the Sky/Flickr

Even worse, I have had very little practical use for “getting out of a car while keeping your knees close together” or for “inclining your head in a gracious nod”. Sometimes I think Mrs Miller fantasized about one of “her” girls marrying into a royal family somewhere, hence the training in waving techniques, in how to curtsey with a book on your head and how to move up and down stairs in a dress with a train. So far into my life, I’ve never worn a dress with a train, far less clambered up and down stairs in one. The single good thing to come out of these classes is an ability to walk on high heels. Many women don’t know how to do that – and in general if you don’t you shouldn’t, as NOT knowing how to walk in heels results in a rather hilarious combination of legs, knees and hips that brings to mind camels in the desert.

While the girls were doing deportment, the boys were playing loud, physical games just outside the window, testament to how much more fun it was to be a boy. Or maybe there was something wrong with me, given that I never understood the point of having a Barbie. (My mother gave up on giving me dolls early on, as most ended up decapitated or thrown into a bush.)

Grindslanten – boys squabbling over a penny (A. Malmström)

And then, one day, I realised I no longer fit in with the boys. My chest hurt, my previously so fleet movements on the football field became that tad clumsier as I developed curves (far too many curves), and where before I held my own against any of the lads, suddenly they were stronger and taller than me. A rude awakening one might say …

This was also the point in time when I gave up on time travelling, this despite a series of creative experiments involving lit candles in my wardrobe, backward declamation of German poetry (Why I thought that would help is a mystery. I don’t even speak German, but apparently I believed Goethe was just the thing to breach the walls of time – think “Faust”)  and the consumption of a potent potion consisting mainly of raw eggs, lime juice and half a flask of tabasco sauce. Don’t ask; I was an imaginative child, and this “hair of the dog” recipe seemed just the thing. Which, it turns out, it wasn’t. No matter potions and singed hair, no matter soot stains in my closet and hours spent practising the “ach-laut” before the mirror, the ground below did not tremble and break open, sucking me in to spit me out elsewhere. So, there I was having to cope with the sad fact that I was stuck being a girl – a girl with budding breasts no less – and in this oh, so boring day and age.

The Life of a Knight – alas not for me

I never asked my mother “will I be pretty, will I be rich?” as the song goes. There was no need for me to consult with her about my future. Now that being a medieval knight was out – although I did spend a number of nights thinking that if Joan of Arc could do it so could I – I decided to become a navy SEAL. Two major problems: I am not American, and at the time SEALs were always male. (This was before Demi Moore showed the world that a woman can do anything a guy can do – and more.) My mother sighed when I moped, reminding me that there were many good things  about being a girl – like one could have babies. Aaaaaagh!!! NOT the right thing to say, let me tell you, which considering the fact that I ended up having four kids – and loving every moment of it – is something of an irony.

This period of my life is when I began writing in earnest. My writing efforts of the time are stereotypical: brave tomboy dresses up as a boy, saves king/queen/duke/through a combination of deadly skill with the blade and courage. Now and then she dies – very sad – just as often she rides off into the sunset. In none of these early attempts is there as much as a whiff of romance, no, our heroine is above such ridiculous pastimes, concentrated as she is on saving the realm.

Things changed. When I was fourteen a handsome boy fell in love with me. Something of a nuisance at first, to have this tall boy shadow my every move on the beach, but flattering all the same. One evening we were down by the sea and he took my hand. It made me tingle all over. And when he kissed me I started to realise that maybe my mother was right, maybe being a girl had its upsides after all…

Since then I have come to the conclusion that it’s great being a woman – and my writing has more than a whiff or romance and love in it. But I have still not reconciled myself to the fact that I can’t time travel, and every now and then I open my poetry books to Der Erlkönig and start from the back “In seinen Armen das Kint war tot.” It still doesn’t work, but I hope – I still hope.

Der Erlkönig – an old postcard (M von Schwind)

Come see, come see, a virtual book fair for thee!

I find it somewhat amusing to see just how many authors of historical fiction are quite the savvy movers and shakers in the techie world of today.

Take dear Francine Howarth, who on her rather fabulous blog Romancing the Blog (and boy am I jealous of that snappy title) has taken the initiative to set up a Book Fair for historical fiction authors such as me – and more than forty others. PLEASE visit her blog and browse through the other participants. See it as an opportunity to hopscotch through history, because I can assure you the width of the books on offer is impressive!

Enough said about others, now I must – as per Francine – go into promotional mode and tell you about me!

This is my most recent published book, Like Chaff in the Wind. Every time I see the cover I smile and send a silent thanks to Olly at GB Print. Every time I read it, I find it quite unbearable until chapter 21 (halfway through more or less) because I can’t really stand it, that Alex and Matthew are apart, and … Jeez!

Book Blurb:

Matthew Graham committed the mistake of his life when he cut off his brother’s nose. In revenge, Luke Graham has Matthew abducted and transported to the Colony of Virginia, there to be sold as indentured labour – a death sentence more or less.
Matthew arrives in Virginia in May of 1661, and any hope he had of finding someone willing to listen to his tale of unlawful abduction is quickly extinguished. If anything, Matthew’s insistence that he is an innocent man singles him out for the heaviest tasks and with a sinking feeling he realises no one has survived the seven years of service – not on the plantation Suffolk Rose.

Fortunately, Matthew has a remarkable wife who has no intention of letting her husband suffer and die, and so Alex Graham sets off on a perilous sea journey to bring her husband home.
Alex is plagued by nightmares in which Matthew is reduced to a wheezing wreck by his ordeals. She prays for a miracle to carry her swiftly to his side, but fate has other plans and what should have been a two month crossing turns into a yearlong adventure from one side of the Atlantic to the other.
Will she find him in time? And if she does, will she be capable of paying the price required to buy him free?

Like Chaff in the Wind is the second book in The Graham Saga, the first being A Rip in the Veil. Set in the seventeenth century, my books are primarily a work of historical fiction, but my dear Alex is a modern woman who had the misfortune – or not, depending on how you see it – of nosediving through time to land singed and concussed at Matthew’s feet. In my opinion, there are worse fates in life, despite the fact that I put Alex and Matthew through quite the set of adventures – and it doesn’t stop with this book! More info about my books can be found on my website where you can also find a lot of extras.

A little excerpt from Like Chaff in the Wind:

Five unbearable days, and on the afternoon of the sixth day Matthew was so tired that he accidentally upended the whole sled, tipping the load of tobacco plants into the dirt. Jones flew at him.

“Fool! Look at what you’ve done!”

Matthew got to his feet, an effort involving far too many protesting muscles. His shoulders were permanently on fire, the harness had left broad, bleeding sores on his skin, and no matter how he tried to use his worn shirt as padding the sores deepened and widened, a constant, flaming pain.

“I’ll just load them back.” He bent to pick up an armful. His arms were clumsy with weariness, and it took far too long to reload the sled, with Jones an irate, vociferous spectator. Matthew leaned forward into the straps, bunching his thighs. Dear Lord! He couldn’t budge the load, the leather cutting even deeper into his lacerated skin. He tried again, and still the sled wouldn’t move. Matthew looked back across his shoulder to find Jones sitting on the sled.

“Go on,” Jones sneered, “get a move on.”

“You’re too heavy,” Matthew said, “you can walk.”

Jones raised a brow. “Of course I can. But now I want you to pull.”

Matthew felt his pulse begin to thud. Wafting curtains of red clouded his vision.

“I’m a man, aye? I’ll work as you tell me to, but you can move of your own accord, fat though you may be. I won’t be your yoked beast, I’m a man.” There was absolute silence around him, his companions staring at him with a mixture of admiration and exasperation.

Jones stood up and moved towards him. “That’s where you’re wrong, Graham. You’re no man, not here, not now. You’re a slave, a beast to be worked until you’re no use.” He looked at Matthew expectantly, his hand tightening on the handle of his crop.

Matthew knew he should back down, grovel and mumble but inside of him the fire grew, red hot rage at the man in front of him, at his traitorous brother and the injustice of it all.

“I told you. I’ve never done anything wrong. I’m a free man.”

Jones laughed. “Free? Then why are you still here? Why aren’t you on a ship back home?”

“You know why! I have no money.”

“And we own you, until you can pay yourself free, we own you.”

“Nay, no one owns me. I’m a free man.”

“And I tell you you’re but a slave,” Jones hissed.

Matthew punched him straight into the face, having the distinct pleasure of hearing the cartilage in Jones’ nose crack. That was really the last thing he observed clearly, then it was all hands and feet, and the stinging of the leather crop, and he heard Jones call men to him and Matthew had the shirt torn from his back, he was thrown face down onto the ground and then there was the snap of leather that came down time and time again on his bared skin. One of his arms was twisted up behind his back, and in his ear he heard Jones’ heavy breathing.

“So, what are you?”

“A free man,” Matthew gasped. The pressure on his arm was tearing at his tendons.

“What are you?”

Bend! Alex shrieked in his head, for God’s sake Matthew, bend. But he didn’t want to, he had to salvage some pride, and the pain in his shoulder increased to the point where he knew it would soon be dislocated.

“What are you?” Jones hissed again, throwing his considerable weight against Matthew’s trapped arm. Matthew groaned. Please! Alex cried, please, Matthew, for me. Don’t let him maim you for life, my love, please! In his fuddled state Matthew wasn’t sure if she was here for real or if it was a hallucination, but the despair in her voice rang through his head.

“I’m a slave,” Matthew mumbled, closing his eyes so that he might still see Alex, not the dirty red earth an inch from his nose.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m a slave,” Matthew mumbled again.

“Say it out loud.” Jones heaved Matthew to his feet. “Look at all the men before you and say it.” To his everlasting shame Matthew did as he was told.

“I am a slave,” he said, repeating it time and time again until Jones let him go to tumble to the ground.

He lay where he had fallen, and around him he heard the sound of people moving off, leaving him to lie unaided. No one dared to touch him, lest Jones should vent his anger on them as well, and Matthew found himself staring at his hand, so close to his face. He didn’t want to move. He no longer wanted to live.

“Please let me die, Sweetest Lord, just let me die.” He closed his eyes and in his mind he saw Hillview, he saw a wee lad running up the lane to meet him and there she was, laughing and crying at the same time, her skirts bunched high as she flew towards him and he knew that of course he couldn’t die. He owed it to Alex to stay alive; he owed it to himself.

Want to buy this book?

Try this link amazon.com

…or this amazon.co.uk

…or this troubador.co.uk

The next book in The Graham Saga, The Prodigal Son, will be released in June, 2013. Want a sneak preview? Click here!

 

Historical Book Fair bloggers

 

1.	Francine Howarth	15.	Derek Birks	29.	Suzy Witten
2.	Fenella J Miller	16.	Katherine Pym	30.	Kim Rendfeld
3.	Sue Millard	17.	Michael Wills	31.	Kevin John Grote
4.	Paula Lofting	18.	Sandra Ramos O’Briant	32.	Ginger Myrick
5.	Helen Hollick	19.	Elizabeth Caulfield Felt	33.	Linda Root
6.	Martin Lake	20.	J L Oakley	34.	Prue Batten
7.	Jane Godman	21.	Alison Stuart	35.	Pauline Montagna
8.	J.G. Harlond	22.	Maggi	36.	Sophie Schiller
9.	Melanie Robertson-King	23.	Suzi Love	37.	Judith Arnopp
10.	Nicole Hurley-Moore	24.	Jeanne Treat	38.	Anna Belfrage
11.	Anne Gallagher	25.	Chris Longmuir	39.	Jean Fullerton
12.	Margaret Skea	26.	Kiru Taye	40.	Elizabeth Hopkinson
13.	DM Denton	27.	Betty Cloer Wallace	41.	Michael Wills
14.	Deborah Swift	28.	Christina Phillips

In honour of those that went before

We have recently cleared a plot of land of trees. The plot is about 1500 square metres, of a size with a potato patch large enough to feed a family of six over the winter – just. In total, we have taken down 150 odd trees. Okay, we haven’t taken them down. A man with a huge machine came and took them down, leaving gigantic heaps of debris behind while he took the trunks away.This has made me think about the sheer effort required to clear land. They say that as late as the seventeenth century, most of Sweden was uncleared forests, and the same would be true for many of the countries in Northern Europe.

Thomas Gainsborough The Harvest Wagon – a somewhat bucolic presentation of life as a farmer…

For the settler attempting to carve out an existence in virgin forest, the uphill must have been huge. One man – okay, maybe two or three if you count the older sons – attempting to tame enough land to feed a family of six, seven, eight or whatever people. At his disposal were axes and saws. That’s it. No bulldozers, no heavy equipment, just his tools and his body. Until he had enough fields cleared, the family had to live off what they could find; nuts, wild berries, edible roots, the odd animal. In Finland – and northern Sweden – it was common to mix ground bark into the flour to make it last longer.

Of course, these our intrepid ancestors had little choice; it was settle new land or live out what life they had in servitude. In some cases, the choice was even more dire; emigrate or die, as was the case for the boatloads of Swedish, Polish, Norwegian, Irish, Dutch emigrants who set off to colonise the endless forests of the fledgling United States. Prior to becoming the United States, the former British Colonies in North America had attracted a number of settlers – some came to flee religious persecution, some came to reinvent themselves, quite a few were transported over against their will. Whatever their background, they would all at some point or other be faced with the enormity of creating a space of domesticity in forests that stood majestic around them.

I find this apt, as it depicts Swedish colonists in Delaware in the 17th century

To fell a tree is arduous work. To fell 150 trees must have been backbreaking labour, the end result being one meagre field. And yet they did, they cleared land, they wrenched recalcitrant roots out of the ground, they set ploughs to virgin soils and where once there were only trees there was man-high barley and golden wheat.

Some years ago I visited a city in Brazil called Curitiba. This modern, industrial city is set on the other side of the coastal range from Sao Paolo, on land that until recently (in relative terms) was impenetrable jungle/forest. It always amazes me that a prospective settler should stand by the shore, stare up at the forbidding mountains and decide that he was going to cross them and stake his claim on the other side. Talk about really, really liking a challenge!
In one of the parks surrounding Curitiba there sits a replica of a Ukrainian wooden church – every single detail carved out with precision. (The original church is in Mallet, a town 150 km distant from Curitiba) A home away from home, a place where the Ukrainians who braved the mountains between Sao Paolo and Curitiba, who chopped and fought the jungle into submission, could pretend themselves back home. Home… I can see the women sitting close together on the benches outside the church, their voices heavy with longing as they describe their lost homeland to each other. Their children play at their feet, listening with half an ear as their mothers wax lyrical about places the children will never see – nor feel any yearning for. The young already belong, the old never will – not entirely.

Today, we have a tendency to view the people of the past as much more ignorant than us, narrow-minded and restricted in their way of thinking. In many ways they were, but could any of us lift an axe to our shoulders and walk out into the woods, there to create a small but flourishing farm? Could any of us tease a livelihood from ground as hard as the rocks, where every square metre of soil had to be cleared of stone, of roots? Would we have had the bravery to pull up our roots and leave our home to start anew, knowing we would never, ever be able to go back?

Most of Sweden is still covered by endless forests. The wind sings in the trees, thousands upon thousands of lakes lap against shores that are as pristine now as they were a thousand years ago. In difference to the 17th century, the forests today are inter-spaced with a patchwork of golden, green or brown fields. Every single such field has cost someone years of toil, decades of stubborn work. Not because they hoped to improve their lot in life, but because they wished their children a brighter future than their own.

I stand before the 200 year old oak that graces one corner of our land. Below its spreading branches are the massive stone walls someone built back in 1648 or thereabouts. Mentally I tip my hat at this unknown, long dead man, at all who went before him, and all who came after, a long line of ancestors who have helped lay the foundations to the life I lead today.

 

I am the author of two published books set in the seventeenth century, A Rip in the Veil and Like Chaff in the Wind. For more info about me and my books, go to my website