Mr muscle

“I’m weight training” he calls out from his study as I enter the flat. I laugh and tell him that’s good; he could do with a bit of exercise. “I know, my arms are turning to mush, it’s embarrassing… not what they used to be”, he jokes back. I carry the shopping bags into the kitchen and put them down by the sink, trying to avoid stepping on the cat as she winds in and out between my legs, hoping for a mid-afternoon snack.

“Richard asked me to look through this very interesting collection, it’s from a friend of his father’s… her husband recently passed away, and she has no idea what to do with it. It’s mostly England… I’ve only glanced at it really, but it looks very promising.” My father continues his monologue while I put away the shopping; his voice light and happy. I put a few of his favourite sweets; chocolate covered coconut, on a plate and bring them to the study. He looks up at me with a smile, his glasses balancing on the very tip of his nose, and then he sees the chocolate. “Oh, you are a good and thoughtful daughter” he says with a grin and motions for me to come closer so that he can kiss me on the cheek.

My father is a stamp collector, and hasn’t actually done any weight training in years (although in his youth he was very athletic and once cycled 150 km just to see a football match, and then back again at the end of the game). But he only lifts stamps now.

I suppose stamp collection is a hobby of the past, but it is one that suits my father’s temperament and personality particularly well. He’s a shy man, he’s always been very hard on himself and he has lived most of his life with a sometimes crippling sense of social inadequacy. Stamp collection has served as something of an anchor; it has given him both stability and peace, but just as importantly it has also provided him with a social scene where he has always felt completely at ease.

Being a collector is a fundamental part of my father’s identity and the security it has given him has always extended to me and my mother, and at no time was this more apparent to me than when I was a child. I have an abundance of wonderful evening memories from my childhood when I would be lying in my bed at night, just about to drift off to sleep. The light would be on in the study, and I could see his shadow bending over the desk as he searched through reference books, looking for that all-important connection between a particular stamp and a particular post mark.

Happiness

When my mother turned 40 she gave my father an ultimatum: "either I want to get a job or I want another baby". And so I was born when my mother was 41 and my father almost 43. Thank you pappa for being an old-fashioned guy.

Growing up my parents were older than my best friend's grandmother, but it never really bothered me, they made up for it by being far more relaxed and chilled-out than all my friends' parents combined.

But now, well now they're old. My dad will be 81 in December and my mother 80 next February. And their bodies are starting to fail. And the last four visits (they live in Sweden and I don't get to see them very often) have been coupled with either one of them being seriously ill. Until this one that is.

I have just returned back to the UK from a brief but glorious visit, and I feel... happy, relieved, grateful and calm... Having last seen my father in March, when he weighed no more than 130 lbs following surgery (not much for a guy over 6 feet), to see him now, back to his usual lively, goofy self, seemed almost like a miracle. And I revelled in their company, the conversations we had. Really inhaled them, storing them deep deep inside, memories that I can draw from in the future.

mmmm... it's good to be back.

There once was a well-known politician named Blair...

On this Love Thursday it's all directed towards my father, who, as I mentioned yesterday, has made an almost complete recovery from his surgery six weeks ago. I love this photo of him, although I find it almost impossible to comprehend that it's actually him standing there. And isn't it amazing to think that the photograph is nearly 80 years old?

Waiting for me when I returned from Istanbul on Tuesday evening, was a little note from him, along with a limerick he'd composed. For as long as I can remember he's been writing limericks, but they have naturally always been in Swedish, so that he's decided to start writing in English at the ripe old age of 80 just blows me away.

Here it is, in his own words:

There was a well-known politician in Great Britain named Blair,
who had a nice-looking face and [a] beautiful hair,
but, Mr Blair, that isn't enough,
a modern leader has to be tough,
and of course, above all, against everyone fair

He signs off with the following: By the way I am 80 years old and have never seen an English 5 pound note. How about that? Is that a hint that he'd like to see it published I wonder?

SPC - hiding, feeling grumpy

Mothers and daughters, what is it with this relationship that is so difficult, so fraught with tension? My father had surgery last Wednesday and what was expected to be a simple procedure turned complicated and he was very unwell. I decided I needed to be here in Sweden, both for him and my mother, and for myself. So I jumped on the next flight filled with romantic visions of my mother and I sitting at the kitchen table, really talking, drinking wine, becoming closer, while my father grew stronger and stronger in the hospital.

Of course it's far more complicated than that. Without my dad here everything is somehow off balance. Despite her incredible experiences during the war; being forced to salute Hitler as he rode through the town, hiding in haystacks from the raping invading Russians, fleeing under dangerous conditions from east to west Germany, she has grown very conservative, very narrow-minded as she's aged. And as I listen to her talk I feel bile rising, smoke coming out of my ears, blood threatening to burst my arteries.

And sometimes I have to hide. Hide from her, but also from the guilt of wanting to hide. I come and sit quietly in this room; I try to breathe deep into my belly, I try to accept and love her, unconditionally.

And when she goes to bed at night and I hear her sing softly to herself I'm flooded with feelings of tenderness, and I'm able to let it all go. And tomorrow I know I will try again, I'll try harder to be accepting and understanding.

This photo has been manipulated using Typorganism. So far it's my favourite tool.

Sunday scribbings - journeys

My mother and I on the first trip to Germany, September 1972

The journey of my dreams… dreamlife, for me there is a strong connection between the two. The journey of my dreams would always involve a train; and I can think of nothing better than being gently rocked to sleep on a train, nowhere are my dreams more vivid. And as my dreams transport me to other worlds, to parallel universes; my body is simultaneously transported through an ever-changing landscape.

As I’m writing this I am rushing north through an increasingly wintry landscape on board a train bound for the town where I was born. And as much as I always cherish this particular journey, it isn’t the one of my dreams. The most dreamlike of journeys is not one but a series of trips I did with my mother as a child to visit my grandmother in Germany. We made the journey from Falun to Bonn every summer from the year I turned three until I eventually begged to be left at home some ten years later. The journey took 24 hours and was infused not only with vivid dreams; but with magic, exhilaration, a little bit of fear and a generous pinch of stress.

The most magical time would be in evening, by which time we’d reached Helsingborg, in the south of Sweden. Here the train would board the ferry to take us across the strait to Denmark. My mother and I would sit in the darkened cabin by the window, eating the most delicious sandwiches I can ever remember tasting; made almost twelve hours earlier, the bread would be slightly stale, the cheese sweaty and the salami pungent. They were glorious. My mother would drink coffee and I would get a Pepsi as a special treat. And we would sit there, watching the train being shuttled back and forth, listening to the familiar yet alien shrieks of the wheels against the rails as car by car was slowly moved up onto the ferry. There was something so comforting about the sounds of the men shouting, and once we were on board, the sudden cold, white light of the ferry and its incessant droning.

We usually left the safety of our train cabin so my mother could do some duty-free shopping. When I was young this seemed a tremendous adventure, leaving me both terrified and exhilarated. Once we’d climbed down from the train we’d have to squeeze between the train cars and try to locate the door that lead to safety. There, in the bowels of this big white beast, everything was loud and harsh and I would desperately cling to my mother.

Some hours later there was another, longer ferry crossing from Rodby to Puttgarden, but by then we were both deep asleep and neither of us would notice. But sometimes I'd wake in the night as we stopped at a station somewhere, and embraced by a feeling of absolute safety and protection I would sleepily peek out from behind the curtain and watch as people hurried back and forth along the platform.

In the morning when we woke we’d be in Germany. The conductor would eventually arrive to fold away our beds, but by then I would have already been up for hours, crouching on my bed by the window watching the countryside rush past.

We always had to change trains at Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, an enormous, bustling station curiously devoid of lifts or escalators to help us get us from one platform to another. My mother, being a woman after my own heart, always packed too many bags which she then had to lug up and down the impossibly steep steps, whilst simultaneously trying to keep an eye on me at various ages and various stages of awareness and cooperation. Being a stylish lady she naturally insisted on wearing high heels. Once we were safely onboard again, she’d find the smoking compartment and calm her nerves with a well-deserved cigarette. A few hours later we’d arrive in Bonn, and even though this would be where the summer holiday began in earnest, I couldn’t help but feel that the best part was already behind us.

Love Thursday - friends and bloggers and parents

Picnic in the woods like my parents used to do it 1987

There are many people I feel love towards today. First my lovely friend E who took me out on the town last night to see Buena Vista Social Club, perfect timing considering how low I was feeling about my dad (who was in hospital yesterday having surgery for an enlarged prostate). The music was fantastic and it cheered me up no end. By the end of the performance the entire audience was on their feet: swinging, clapping, stomping.

I also feel completely blown away by all the kind thoughts left on my blog yesterday. It makes me feel all warm inside knowing that there is such a large community of wonderful and caring bloggers out there who take the time out to send some good vibes when they are so desperately needed. Thank you so much Amy, Gattina, La Cubana Gringa, Mar, Blue Jude, Beckie, Brian, Dragonheart, Bearette, Harley, Cats-goats-quotes, Kelly, Sacred Suzie, Jamie, Nicole, Caro, Tricotine, Vanessa, Mrs Lifecruiser, Claire, Bex, KG, Gel (emerald eyes), Edvard Moonke and Sharon.

I spoke to my dad this morning and he sounded terrible. The operation was successful but it took fours hours, he lost four litres of blood (and so had to have blood transfusions) and then there were complications afterwards, which meant that they had to operate again. His poor 80-year old body is pretty battered and he is in a lot of pain. I cried buckets after we hung up. It feels terrible to be so far away when he is so unwell, and I want to be there for my mom too. So my darling has convinced me to go and see them. Which I am. I have booked a ticket today, and I'm leaving on Saturday. I can't wait...

Wordless Wednesday - my dad and I

This is one of my absolute favourite photos from my childhood. It's me and my dad in front of the Christmas tree, and as you can see from his lovely hairdo (OK, I know he doesn't have much hair), goofy tie and ridiculous suspenders it's sometime in the 70s. I'm wearing my favourite pink dress with starfish.

As I'm writing this my dad is in hospital having surgery for the condition that is the bane of many older men, an enlarged prostate. Not much fun to read about perhaps, but it certainly hasn't been much fun for him for the last six months either.

My dad turned 80 in December and being of that older, stubborn generation he is not the easiest man to talk to, which leaves me feeling quite useless and helpless at times like these. I want to tell him that I'm thinking about him and that I love him, but he's never been very comfortable with receiving those kinds of words. So what I'll probably do instead is send him an extra jumbo-sized Toblerone. He'll know what that means. And in the meantime beam over as many positive vibes and thoughts to him as I possibly can. Maybe you will help me...

Photo hunters - soft

Soft. It’s not exactly the word I would use to describe my mother or my relationship with her. We have never been very close, but it hasn’t been a particularly strained relationship either. I’ve often felt that she lacks some fundamental “mumsiness”, and as a result we’ve always been quite detached with each other. She told me once that when I decided to move to Canada at the age of 19 she had to make a choice, either worry herself sick every day, or switch off and let me go. And she switched off. Although I’m certain she did that long before then. I have often felt disappointed in her disinterest in my life and there have been long periods when I have been very angry with her for that.

But as she ages I have found myself softening towards her. I have been able to let go of expectations and instead started accepting her for who she is. She grew up in what was East Germany during the war, and I’m sure her experiences from that time go a fair way towards explaining her detachment. The stories she tells, with flourish and phenomenal attention to detail, are both spell-binding and horrifying, and we made a silent agreement some years ago to remain in that era, rather than talk about us and now. And as we moved onto safer ground, our relationship improved tremendously.

The real turning point probably came when she had to have hip replacement surgery a few years ago. Thanks to a very understanding boss I was able to go back to Sweden and spend 10 days with her following her operation, and helping out around the house, making sure she did her exercises brought us much closer. And when she was diagnosed with kidney cancer last spring, I was again able to go back, this time for three weeks.

After stubbornly refusing to think of her as anything other than my mother all my life, here I found myself face to face with her ill and ageing body and it didn’t scare me. In fact I welcomed the role reversal and it felt right that I should now look after her. It also felt important to acknowledge and accept that both she and my father are by now quite old. Thankfully my mother made a complete recovery and although we will never have an open relationship, I treasure the mutual understanding and appreciation that has developed in recent years.

My mother turns 79 today. Happy birthday mamma.

In the photograph my mother is in her early fifties, I remember how much I loved that fur coat she’s wearing. I loved its softness and how it smelled.

A new savings account

My father on his 80th birthday in December 2006

When I was born my parents were already in their 40s, which is perhaps not such a big deal these days but was quite unusual in the 60s. As I was growing up I always liked that they were older, despite the fact that they were neither hip nor cool. But they were chilled out, they were always around, and they always welcomed my friends to come over. I never had a reason to be embarrassed.

But now they are quite old and their bodies are starting to let them down. My father has always been a very active and fit man and still, despite his age, walks or cycles wherever he needs to go. But when I spoke to him last night there was an emptiness in his voice I have never heard before. More worrying his voice was slurred and he seemed to struggle to form words. He sounded so down and I heard how I became almost hysterically cheerful, desperately trying to make him believe I hadn't noticed a difference in him. I was too terrified to ask any questions, and in the end we spoke for a few more minutes more before hanging up.

Afterwards I recalled a conversation we had only a few weeks ago. That conversation had left me feeling so happy that I wrote it down.

16 January 2007
So happy when pappa called today. I must remember his voice, it sounded so light, so happy. At one point in the conversation I had a sensation of time slowing right down, almost to a complete standstill. Maybe to remind me to be mindful of him, of the conversations we have. These moments will one day be important memories.

And so last night, after a few tears, I made a promise to myself to open up a pappa account and deposit into it memories I have of him, past and future conversations (particularly the good ones) and anything else that comes to mind. I need to save for the future.

56 years and still going strong

My parents are celebrating their 56^th wedding anniversary today. I spoke to them this morning and my father was complaining that he was hungry, and why did my mother have to watch that silly film on TV that she watches every year? My mother ignored him as usual. They bicker like that all the time, but I know that even after 56 years together there is real companionship and a deep love between them. They talk to each other all the time and often give each other hugs. I hope My Man and I can make it to 56 years as well (if I survive until I’m 90!).

Their story is quite unusual and wonderfully romantic. My mother was born and grew up in Wittenberg*, a small town in what for many years was East Germany. After the war ended she made a promise to herself to escape to somewhere safe, somewhere where she would never have to endure anything as horrible as a war again. From school she knew that Sweden was a neutral country and had not been directly involved in a war since the early 19^th century, and so in 1948 she wrote a letter to a radio show in Stockholm, which acted a bit like a dating service, bringing young people together from different countries.

My father was listening to the program and liked the sound of my mother’s letter, and since he had studied languages his German was quite good. And there it began. They exchanged letters for more than two years, and I believe that my father probably fell in love with her right away, being the romantic that he is. In fact my mother tells me that when they eventually met, in Hamburg in May of 1950, his first words were “let’s get engaged”, which they did. They went in to the nearest jewellery store and chose their rings, and put them on right then and there, in the shop. “I guess we should have waited”, my mother says, “but we had never been engaged before, so we didn’t know how it was done”. Afterwards they went out for lunch. My mother remembers they ate duck, my father thinks it was turkey.

But there were many twists and turns before that post-engagement lunch of duck or turkey. One of my favourite stories goes like this: in the autumn of 1949 my dad suddenly decided, whilst out mowing the lawn, that he wanted to visit my mother. And so he wrote a note and put it on the kitchen table and left. The note simply said “gone to Germany”. A week and a half later a letter arrived in Wittenberg, written by my paternal grandfather – in Swedish. With the help of a small dictionary my father had sent earlier, my mother and her father spent several days trying to decode the letter. “He had terrible handwriting”, my mother remembers. Eventually they realised that my father had gone missing and my grandfather wanted to know if he was with them?

He wasn’t, in fact by this time my father was back home in Sweden again, after having been arrested and subsequently deported by the Russians for trying to stroll across the border from West to East Germany.

In January 1950 my mother made the difficult decision to leave her family and make an attempt to cross the border. She was escorted in the middle of a moonless night to the beginning of a field from where she was left to manage alone. Of course it was dangerous; there were guards with guns and there were dogs. But the man who had escorted her earned his living from helping people flee, and at least there were no barbed wire to cross. And so she crawled across the field, dragging with her only a small bag with a little bit of money and some clothes.

Before eventually arriving in Sweden in late October that same year, my mother worked on a chicken farm, earning enough money to get a passport. And without knowing more than a few words of Swedish she travelled alone by train from Hamburg to Stockholm, where my father met her. They started planning for the wedding, practising their wedding vows over and over again so that she would get it right. “I was worried she would say no instead of yes”, my father jokes. But she said yes, and even though she was sad that no one from her family could be there on the big day, I think her joy and excitement is clearly visible in her face. My father's happiness just goes without saying.

*It was on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg that the theologian Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses in 1571, protesting against the indulgences of the church.