Double Butt-Bumpers, and Other Water Sports

It's a scorcher here today, 97 degrees.  It doesn't help that I have really special air-conditioning in my car. It works if I'm not accelerating. So I'm the crazy car pulling away from the light at supersonic speed, reaching cruising altitude, taking my foot off the gas, and THEN the fan blows again. Once I'm at speed, I can push ever so slightly on the gas, and the fan will keep blowing. However, I do most of my driving as a taxi-cab, so it isn't often I can really get the car cool. This totally reminds me of the (one) summer Farmor and Farfar came to visit from Sweden.

Up until the summer of 1976, they had always visited during the winter, but they wanted to try a summer in America. In Maryland. In the humidity. They didn't know what they were getting into. Sweden is a country where they count sun-days, as in, “The summer of '47 we had 16 sun-days.” As in the sun came out that day. A summer high is in the 70s.

It was a good thing that it was also the summer we got a family membership to a private swimming pool club nearby. We spent almost every day there. Farmor especially suffered from the heat. I remember giving up my seat in the front so that she could aim all the AC vents her way, but still, by the time we got to the pool, she'd be soaked. She'd get out of the car and declare, “Det är varmt I America!” It's warm in America. That is a saying we still use in our family. Farfar would reply, “Ja, något so collosalt!” Yes, so colossally! Can you imagine the climate change?

We did enjoy the pool. I learned to jump off the high dive. My sister and I invented double-butt bumpers. Bear with me here, use your imagination, and try to picture this. We hold hands, hold our breaths, we have our feet touching, and as we go under water, we try to bump our butts together. It's a trick with about a one in six chance of success. We tried forever before we ever hit our first one. Yes, this is weird. If you don't have a sister, or a brother, you probably won't ever understand where games like this come from.

We also learned to do somersaults underwater, how to swim the length of the pool in one breath, and how to stay cool during adult swim. We hated adult swim. We'd sit on the edge of the pool, like the good little girls we were (12 and 10) until the lifeguard starting flirting with the other lifeguard, and then we would lightning fast slide off the edge, dunk under water, and lickety split be back up on the edge picking our fingernails by the time they looked again. Only got caught once. “Sorry, I slipped.” “Don't “slip” again”.

It was a good summer, but the heat took it's toll on my beloved Grandparents. They didn't come back for a summer again, and we never had a pool membership again, but the phrase remains, “Det är varmt I America!” It sure was in Colorado today.

Do you like the heat, or are you heat phobic like me? Have you ever played ridiculous pool games with a sibling? Please tell...

How to Pack: Swedish Grandmother Style

I'm a pretty good packer. It doesn't matter if it's a quick weekend or a week's stay, I make it all fit in my rolling, fits-in-the-overhead-bins bag. It's the stand-by thing – don't take more than you can carry on. I think packing well is genetic, though, because no one will ever beat Farmor (Father's mother) at packing.

She didn't just pack, she “prov packade” which translates from Swedish to “try packing”, as in a full dry run. I think part of her (some may say overkill) method was due to their long trips to the US throughout my childhood. “Must fit as much as possible, I'm going to be gone a long time.” The other was that she spent all those trips carefully bringing us our heirloom china, one precious, carefully packed piece at a time.

To “prov packa” she'd get out everything she was going to be bringing, and then spend HOURS trying different ways to make it all fit her suitcases. Shoes always contained something breakable, inside a sock or stocking, rolled up, and shoved into the toe. A pair of underwear might fill the rest of the shoe. Shoes were nestle-wrapped in pajamas. Farfar's shirts were meticulously folded to preserve the careful ironing she'd done.

When she had it all the way she wanted it, she'd make notes, sometimes a quick sketch, before she put everything back. I think all this work that we might see as unnecessary also made her feel more in control. She had fibromyalgia and traveling was very hard on her body, as was the climate change to the US. Being prepared was something she did in every facet of her life, but it came out in spades when traveling.

She also knew the carry-on rules by heart. They were different back then (thanks a lot TSA...) and she took full advantage of all she was allowed. One of her carry-ons would contain precious china, meticulously wrapped. Her traveling purse was always the biggest she owned. More china. One was also allowed a small bag of reading material. She loved her magazines, and knew that I did too, and missed them, so she'd fill that “small bag” as full as she could. Of course one could carry on a coat. Pockets were full. Farfar was of course similarly outfitted.

I learned a lot from her. When I travel, my suitcase contains more than you would imagine could fit. Not quite Harry Potter walking into the small tent at the Quidditch World's Cup and discovering an entire apartment, but it's impressive.

I've also given up on the “big purse” idea and take a very large laptop bag (on wheels, thanks DataBoy for upgrading and giving me this treasure – it's Swiss Army – LOTS of pockets) instead. My very small purse is IN the laptop bag. Laptop bag fits easily under the seat in front of me.

I do enjoy traveling. I don't enjoy the rude travelers I so often encounter. But if you're well packed, once you reach your destination you can put that behind you and enjoy your vacation.

Do you do a trial run of packing? Have you ever heard of it before? What bothers you about traveling today? What's your favorite thing about traveling? Did your grandmother pass on some neat skills to you?

I ~ I Can't BELIEVE I Broke My Hip

These are the continuing adventures of a Swedish immigrant during her first year as an American. She boldly went where she'd never gone before...please come along on Adventures in America.

If you don't know why I'm lying in a hospital bed, in traction, go read yesterday's post.

They took lots of x-rays of me in traction, re-adjusted the traction (loads of fun...loads...) and then took more pictures. Left me in traction to see if THIS position would work. The plan was for me to lie there and HEAL while in traction. As in months. I was not a fan of this solution.

Meanwhile, Farmor and Farfar (Father's Mother, Father's Father and you really ought to know those by now...) had arrived for their long planned Christmas visit. My parents had decided not to tell them about the accident until they arrived, but when I wasn't at the airport, they immediately freaked out and insisted on being brought to the hospital before going to the house.

We had of course anticipated this, and I'd been sponge-bathed and dressed in regular pajamas, not the hospital gown, all to calm Farmor who was, shall we say, an emotional woman. She of course bawled while hugging me. Farfar? He hugged me hard and then turned away and left the room for a moment. Must have had something in his eye...

It was great to see them, traction didn't seem as horrible when Farmor was holding my hand and telling me stories. But they'd been traveling. No one was going to force-feed them ice-cream before taking them home, but I'd say a stop at the hospital to see your granddaughter broken and in traction would be worse than midnightvanilla.

After everyone left, it was bedtime. I'd never felt so alone in my entire life. I was in a biggish room with at least three other hospital beds, but I couldn't really see because I was sorta tied down in various places – to keep me positioned correctly for healing- and sitting up and looking around wasn't an option. So I stared at the ceiling and cried myself to sleep.

Soon (not soon enough) they decided traction wasn't going to work. I don't care if it would have worked MEDICALLY, but keeping this 9 year old tied to a bed for months would have made me literally insane. I think this incident is the root of my claustrophobia 

Instead, I got surgery, two pins, which I still have, but can't find, so just picture 4 inch bolts from the hardware store. Seriously. I stayed a few more days, now in a body cast which went from my chest to just my toes peeking out on the injured (right) side to above my knee on the left. There was a big metal pole from the left thigh to the right ankle. I think to keep the cast stable. Aunt Risky colored it like a candy cane.

I had great nurses as you can see. That didn't stop me from wanting to go home. Receiving a girl in a body cast takes some preparation, and living in one takes some...patience. This saga (Swedish for story, did you know that?) will continue at another letter...as I learned when I started watching commercial TV, “Stay tuned!”