Saturday and Sunday July 1 and 2, respectively
Either write something worth reading
Benjamin Franklin
or do something worth writing.
Saturday was my first day off and let me tell you, it was gosh darn magical.
Waking up next to someone and waiting for them to wake up next to you is a special kind of delight. But like, have you ever woken up because you just did, and not because of your alarm? Then lazily laid in bed, all warm and cozy, watching some funny video on Instagram your sister sent you during the night?
It’s a simple delight but hey, I’m a simple girl.
I went downstairs to make crepes, and found an apple crumble pie in the kitchen, baked and ready to be eaten. The ghost-presence of Ellie had made a pie, and it was so good I could have cried. She even used the fresh rhubarb I’d accidentally picked in the berry bush garden the day before. Whoops, but ultimately not sorry, because like I said, rhubarb in pie slaps like no other.
Spent the day doing much-needed laundry and hanging out indoors since the rain was going steady. Biked to the dollar store in the rain, now that I knew the secret route to downtown. Got thoroughly soaked and looked homeless, but found it to be a the poor man’s Ikea, full of labyrinthine aisles and random house items I that look so shiny. Got me bottle of mascara that is the cheapest, wateriest under the sun, but it gets the job done, as long as it’s not in the rain or outside for more than 3 hours.
Sunday was a folk festival. I woke up late, stressing that I had so much backlogged writing. Hanging out with the newfound family was so nice, but time has its price. Goofing off the night before, I had not gotten anything done I needed to, and boy was I feeling the crunch in time crunch. So I had resigned myself to staying at the house to catch up on the work. Olle came in, telling me he and the boys were headed to the folk festival, and if I was joining. I gave him the brief version of me being stressed about deadlines. He too had a deadline grading papers, and if it weren’t for the boys wanting to go, he would be at home chilling, too. There were some volunteers who liked working, but didn’t go out and do or see much else than the farmhouse. Honestly, if you’re planning on buckling down and getting work done, this is the best place for that. Not close to town without either a bike ride or a car drive, it’s ideal for focusing on personal projects. Francesco is in a similar boat, taking his hours off to work on his university thesis for graduation, Victor taking his free time to work his digital job. For me, a girl in search of stories and adventure, it’s a nice in between: I can go to town or even lakes as I’ve heard Ellie does, and have to private room for alone space to write. What’s more, I chose this farm because it was accessible to Stockholm, and for my volunteered work would be provided food and shelter for a few weeks while waiting for Ana. Or not, as her plans were changing. Enjoying the countryside and experiencing local events was a bonus, though not my first focus.
I turned down the offer to attend, choosing to work instead. I brought my laptop downstairs, ready to work for hours on end and find peace in productivity.
Except. . .
Except there wasn’t. Productivity, sure. I was productive and finished a poetry submission to a digital writing group, as well as an article for my own blog. I hadn’t updated a short story in a while, and working on that on a quiet and cozy Sunday evening was something I looked forward to in the business of a week. But when the time came to upload, the wifi was having some serious issues. I could keep using my laptop’s generic app wordpad just fine and continue just fine.
Like I said, the productivity wasn’t lacking. It’s the peace that was the problem.
There I was, wanting to be accountable and work in my spare time like a good little aspiring author. And I had all the trappings for it: solitude, a workspace, hot herbal tea. Heck, even a cat or two on the premises for a feline Hemingway or Eliot would have approved of. So why did I feel so out of sorts?
Why did I feel I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to do??
That feeling wouldn’t go away, no matter how fast I typed, or how much I reminded myself I was past deadline, if even a personal one. If I couldn’t be accountable to myself on this solo venture, who would I be accountable to? That all made sense. And it was my day off, I could do as I pleased. Earlier I’d seen Ellie zip out the front door, cycling to another lake out on her lonesome. All of these reasons made sense, but they didn’t taste like reasons, they tasted like excuses.
There was saying I’d seen at Barnes & Noble. It was on one of those cute desk trinket things nobody really uses, but are hella cute, and make you think you might use it just because it’s cute. Didn’t buy it, obs, but the quote on it has stuck with me:
Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.
I had two options: stay and write. Or go to Swedish folk festival in freaking Sweden.
Within two seconds, it was all but clear what I had to do.
. . . . .
We were sitting on the grass – Francesco, Victor and I. Olle and I had just gotten back from singing with the choir in an old church. It was neat to see ad do, since Americans take the separation of church and state so hard, any public activity of singing in a church I feel would be unheard of. Regardless of their denominational beliefs, it was neat to see people coming together to celebrate their culture’s heritage, religion being a key part of it. My homegirl was also praising Jesus playing the accordion, and I was all about that jazz.
Olle’s brother was kind enough to hitch me a ride to the festival. At one point we had to stop because their car light popped out of its mechanical socket, and I shoved it back in, hearing Ake mention something about getting tape next time he was in town.
My first impression was that of familiarity. With the red and black traditional clothing, it was nothing I’d seen in person before. When the fiddling started up though, I realized the flouncey shirts, predilection for music, and general merriment reminded me of Hobbiton. I was smack dab in the middle of somebody’s 111st birthday, and everybody and their violins were invited.
Yep, you read the correctly – I said violins. Having a long-standing tradition in Scandinavian lore, violins are an integral part of their country’s musical heritage. One myth in particular sports a monster that lures potential dinner to his domain, entranced by the magic of his music. (Google the Norwegian film Ash-Lad for a solid example, as well as Espen Askeladden’s ingenious way out of that particular predicament.) According to my knowledgeable guides, there was a procession from the nearby historical church to the park that morning with numbers of violins. In fact, admission was free for anyone who brought an instrument. As a result, music of several songs in as many locations filled the air. At any given time, twenty violins were in your direct line of sight. One duo of boys were jamming out with a fiddle and tambourine under the shade of trees, oblivious to everything but rhythm and abandon.
We arrived at about 3:00pm and ended up staying until 10:00pm or so. It became chilly at one point, so we moved into a tavern that I am convinced was the Prancing Pony. The fiddlers in the corner and dance party stomping upstairs was all the more proof to my theory. As the taste of the cinnamon bun and Coca-Cola lingered as I sat watching the festival take place, I was glad I came. Sure I had deadlines, and those would come in uncountable numbers. But this? Right here, right now? That would never come again. I’d only have one shot at that.
I’m glad I didn’t blow it.
Highlights:
-Have decided the farmhouse where we volunteers live is like a PG-rated frathouse. With younger people staying here, we are left to our own devices to study or cook or hang out in our spare time, not unlike young coeds. I’m not so young, but am maybe like the older random college student that went back to school after a crap marriage got in the way the first time around and now I’m a mom with a dream to see through.
-Olle is quite the Renaissance Man. Dabbling in musical performance as well as several kinds of dance types, he was kind enough to ask me to dance and show me a step called the schoddis. Back in Texas, there was a similar dance I would do that my Texan-born parents taught me, which they also called the schoddis. That dance, as well as the fiddling style, is one of many European influences in what added to the conglomeration of American culture.
-Because I could see Francesco wanted to dance, I joined him at the Prancing Pony hoedown. We weren’t pro ourselves, but we could mimic the movements enough of the couples ahead of us in order to polska, waltz, or schoddis. Besides congested archways, a learning curve, and a roaming solo dude that mat have been homeless, we made a pretty good team. Leave it to the two Sicilians in the room to pair up together, our dark curly hair and Italian noses quite a pair in the ocean of Swedes. There was something nice, soothing even, about dancing as a community in a circular motion. It was easy to follow, sure, but like doing elliptical laps at an ice rink, you feel connected to the group as a whole.
-A sign over the entrance to the park had a saying in Old Swedish that Olle couldn’t translate, saying it didn’t make sense. Google translate stated it read “Now you must hunt to the ten.” Which yep, makes no sense at all. I thought back to my dilemma earlier. My head was making the right decision by staying home. But ultimately, it was the decision that didn’t make sense that was the best one for me, on I won’t regret. Funny how that works.
-Fell asleep on the car ride home. Pretty sure my mouth was open and I drooled a bit. I swear, those guys can’t take me anywhere.
Meals:
-At the festival, they sold Swedish pancakes. According to history/legend/bit-of-both, the Swedish ancestors (probably the bread-making variety of Vikings) would go out to farm or hunt for the day. Away from their homes, they would take a bit of pork and flour. So now, pork is fried in its own oil, then a simple batter of flour, water and maybe eggs are added. It’s served with the obligatory lingonberry jam on top, and my, that pancake did not disappoint. I will say Sweden has converted me to putting jam on basically anything, pork and cheese included.