Y ~ You Can't Go Home Again

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.

One thing that kept me going through all the stupid kickball rules I didn't understand, the body cast that itched and stank, the culture that didn't quite make sense, the friends I dearly missed, was knowing that summer of 1975 we were going home for a visit. Yes, a visit. Not home to stay.

The Swede had (and isn't it appropriate?) gotten a really good chance with Volvo and we (as in he and The Nutritionist discussing it and me eavesdropping) had decided that he shouldn't take the job if it was only going to be for 6 months. He would commit to several years (I remember it as 5, The Swede says it was unspecified, you choose sides) and we would stay in America longer. Hence the visit.

It was wonderful to be welcomed with open arms and free-flowing tears at the airport by Farmor and Farfar, and the Swedish tradition of flowers, most of the time hand-picked either from gardens or the side of the road. 

There are gorgeous wildflowers all over Sweden. Farfar liked to point them out to me and have me memorize them. I wasn't very good at it. Which bothered me, of course, because I like to be good at everything.

Oh the comfort of Farmor and Farfar's house, with its familiar smells, ticking grandfather clocks, gorgeous antiques, and beautiful garden. Farfar was a master at roses and on your birthday would pick you his very best rose to go on your birthday tray. There was a trellis which provided shade, and it was covered in viney-like climbing red roses.

I was anxious to play with my friends again. After all, we used to just go knock on a door and soon there would be a group and we would, “Hey Ferb, I know what where going to  do today.” (Pop culture reference: Phineas and Ferb, fabulous cartoon that we watch in 2013 as a family). After two days of coffee parties and visiting relatives, I was ready for FRIENDS.

One morning I was out in the front yard and heard kids' voices. My friends! This is going to be a great day! I followed the voices. Farmor and Farfar's house was on a u-shaped street with a green space in the middle, and a short hill led to a street which led to a path through the woods which led to our old house. I forgot about telling anyone where I was going and followed the voices. I didn't recognize any of them, but I attributed that to speaking English for a year.

I made it to the top of the hill and almost to the forest path when I caught up with them! “Hejsan! Vill ni leka med mig idag?” (Hi, do you want to play today?) They turned around. All the faces were strangers. I felt my stomach drop. “Vi känner inte dig! (We don't know you!) “Förlåt, jag trodde ni var andra kompisar.” (Sorry, I thought you were another group of friends.)

Turning around and walking down the hill I cried uncontrollably. Our year away was almost like time-travel. Things had changed so much. I had no idea where my group of friends were. I didn't have anyone to play with. Nothing in my life would ever be the same.