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...

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.

S ~ So Are You a Swede or an American?

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.

Side Note: The answer to my R post's anachronism question is that those pictures aren't from 1974! (Um, the year I've been writing about.) I'm not in a body cast, DataBoy is at least 4 or 5...Yes, they were bad pictures with shadows from my horrid photography skills and have extra pictures in the shot because they're from a Creative Memories album, but that wasn't what I was looking for. Now back to S.

***

So what citizenship do you have? Are you Swedish or American? When do you have to decide by? Um, I don't actually know. I'm a Swede because I was born there, and I'm an American because my parents registered me as “birth of American citizen abroad.” When it was time for my social security card, I got one no problem. I've always marked “US Citizen” on forms and no one has stopped me. I have a US passport.

What I do think is the truth (heard it rumored as kind-hearted people have asked me these questions and then TOLD me the answer) is that I have dual citizenship as far as Sweden is concerned, but that once I got my American passport, I officially chose America, who no longer recognizes the Swedish part of me. Makes the Swedes sound open-minded and accommodating, doesn't it?  (The Swede confirmed this info as accurate as far as he knew.)

I could of course find out the correct answer by consulting an immigration lawyer, but it doesn't matter that much to me.  I feel like I'm an American with a rich, Swedish heritage.  When I visit there, people look surprised to hear Swedish come out of my mouth.  I guess I dress like an American.  

One particular incident cracked me up because I was asking for directions (for the 4th on the same trip, with 6 month old Tranporter on my way to my cousin's house in a town about two hours away) and the guy said, "Where are you from???"  I guess someone so hopelessly lost and who didn't know ANY of the landmarks or roads or ramps or frontage roads he was referring to must be some alien.  And I was.

My last trip to Sweden was that one in 1997.  The Transporter got to meet Farmor.  She died before I knew I was pregnant with OYT.  Though Farmor and Farfar are both gone, the legacy they left me with carries on.  I teach my boys our Swedish heritage, and we celebrate holidays two ways.  I think they're proud to be part Swedish.  

A ~ Adventures in America

“Adventures in America” is my theme for this year's challenge. I'm an immigrant. Our family moved to the United States in 1974 when I was almost nine. It was a HUGE change culturally from my native Sweden, and the neighborhood we moved to couldn't have been more different than where we had been living.

I had to make a lot of changes in my thinking, expectations, actions, speech!, and in my over-all perception of who I was. I became a new person.

It was a very interesting first year, and not just because I spent four months of it in a body cast...

I think this series piggy-backs nicely on my theme from last year, which was “Postcards From Sweden.” In those posts I taught a Swedish word or two, included an appropriate picture, and a childhood memory.

This series will be similar, except you won't have to learn Swedish words! I know some of you enjoyed the childhood story part far more than the lesson...but I might throw them in to show you how imprecise English is, because I'm obnoxious that way. 

I hope you come back and read all my stories, and I'm not above a bribe. Last year I put all the comments from all the posts in order and had random number generator pick a winner. Andrea, who is now one of my Terrific Team of assistants won the $25 IKEA gift card. So visit daily! Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like if you had move across the ocean to another country in the middle of your perfect childhood?  It's an adventure...

Interested in the prelude?  How did we end up living in two countries?  The Swede, my Dad, wrote a three part series last week telling that story.  Check these out if you have time.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3


 P.S Today is Arlee Bird's birthday!  Founder of the A-Z Challenge, amazing leader and friend, here's a big shout out to THE ONE who is making all this fun happen.  Thanks, Arlee!  Now go visit him at Tossing It Out and leave him a greeting.  We hope to flood his blog, his inbox, his world with greetings from every A-Z participant!  If you're one of them - please don't forget to add something in your post about him today!

Another Culture: Part 2 The Swede and The Nutritionist

In preparation for my Challenge Series: Adventures in America, I've convinced The Swede, my Dad, to share the story of how he and my Mom, The Nutritionist, met, fell in love, moved to Sweden, then in the middle of our childhood, moved to America. It's great to have you here Dad. Thanks for taking the time to share your story with all of us.

ANOTHER CULTURE

by Leif Bilen

When the Arosa Sky of the Holland America Line docked in New York City on August 13, 1957, I was recovering from the Asian flu.  I was one of several hundred high school students who had crossed the Atlantic together. Many of us had spent a few days in bed with high fever and other symptoms. I was not allowed to disembark until local health officials had checked me out and cleared me for entrance into this country; not the greatest start of a year abroad, but it added to the adventure.

From New York City we headed to our final destinations. Along with several others, I was on a chartered Greyhound bus heading to the D.C. area. As the bus made its way to the Lincoln tunnel, I noticed the colorful yellow taxicabs that seemed to be all over the place. Back home all taxis were black and the drivers wore black uniforms. “No, this is not going to be a drab and boring country.”

A Howard Johnson restaurant with its bright orange roof and iconic architecture caught my eye shortly after entering New Jersey. “Wow, I guess I am not in Europe anymore.” It was not the only one along the road. They were all over the place back then. In 2012 there were only two of them left; one in Maine and the other one in New York State. Yes, America’s tastes have changed, and in more areas than food for that matter.

My host family welcomed me with open arms and quickly made me feel at home. During the few weeks before the fall semester I was able to adjust to several things, although they didn’t really come as a huge surprise: a big family, a big house, a big yard, a big church, big cars and so on.

Other curiosities intrigued me. One morning when I walked into the kitchen, there was a man looking into the refrigerator. Then he walked out the back door and returned with some milk, eggs, and butter. The milkman had free access to the house, and it was up to him to determine what the household needed until his next visit. I was used to running to the store for my mother, when were out of something.

Another thing that told me a lot about in what kind of neighborhood we were living in was the fact that nobody seemed to worry about locking their cars while parked in the driveway.

I guess the real culture shock came when I started school. I had attended a medium sized downtown high school for boys. Here I was in a large coed high school on a sprawling campus with huge parking lots for the students who drove their own cars to school, which included Bob, my host brother, who drove me, Bonnie and two other girls. We also had our own stadium for football and other sports. I got used to it faster than I had expected and enjoyed it a lot.

I knew I would probably lose a year of school after returning to Sweden, so I signed up for some rather unique classes not available back home: driver education (1957 Chevy), public speaking, and typing. Although I was a senior, I took 11^th grade English and History, because they dealt with American literature and history. Since Bonnie was a year ahead of her peers, we ended up taking those classes together, and from time to time we helped each other with homework.

Other than that I stuck with the program and hung out with brother Bob and that included both of us playing on the soccer team. However there was little doubt that Bonnie was rather cute and pleasant.

Part 1

Part 3

Part 1 of The Swede and The Nutritionist:

In preparation for my Challenge Series: Adventures in America, I've convinced The Swede, my Dad, to share the story of how he and my Mom, The Nutritionist, met, fell in love, moved to Sweden, then in the middle of our childhood, moved to America. It's great to have you here Dad. Thanks for taking the time to share your story with all of us.

THE SWEDE AND THE NUTRITIONIST

by Leif Bilen

“Do you have indoor plumbing in Sweden?” “What sort of clothes do you wear over there?” “Are there many polar bears where you live?” Those were some of the questions I got from my fellow students at Montgomery Blair High School in Silver Spring, Maryland, as they tried to get to know their new exchange student.

This was during Eisenhower’s second term about half a year before the Soviets launched the first Sputnik. The internet and social media had not yet transformed communications to give us a better awareness of what goes on in other countries around the world. I probably had similar illusions about this country.

I had read The Last of the Mohicans, and I had tasted that curious soft drink called Coca Cola. Then in school I learned a bit more about the Big Country in the West and the more I learned the more interested I became.

When the opportunity for a year’s scholarship to an American high school presented itself, there was hardly any hesitation. I applied, and after a few months a letter advised me I was one of the fortunate ones. I was told I would be going to Silver Spring, Maryland. “Man, this is going to be great. How can I be blessed?”

I soon found out that my family had four children and a maid living with them. The father in the family was an eye doctor. “How am I going to fit in over there?” I was an only child and my dad was a cop, who had to do a lot of moonlighting to make ends meet.

Later, I learned that this was a back-up plan, because the first host, a pastor’s family in the same town had backed out at the last minute. Now, I realize how different my life would have been, if this change had not taken place.

I was both excited and nervous when I prepared to leave my familiar surroundings. As I started to receive letters from members of my new family, I began to calm down. They seemed so nice and genuine. I would be hanging out with a “brother” my age and his letters were very reassuring.

One letter from his 15 year old little sister, Bonnie, puzzled me though. She told me it would be nice, if I could bring along some Swedish dishes. I didn’t quite panic, but I started to wonder. “How are they going to fit in my suitcase? What if they break in transit?” After consulting a dictionary or two, I eventually figured out that she was talking about Swedish recipes, and had I known then what I know today, I would have made sure they didn’t lack nutrition. 

Part 2
Part 3

Swedish Christmas Part 2

This post is a sequel to Swedish Christmas Part 1.

Swedes celebrate Christmas for three days in a row. What kid wouldn't love that? My parents did a great job of each sharing their family's favorite traditions. What resulted was a wonderful and unique combination of celebrations. Now we've come to the next iteration of that plan. Our boys have the chance to celebrate Christmas with two sets of grandparents, in two ways, while each of those celebrations are in turn derived from what their parents, as in me and The Engineer, celebrated as children. Are you following? Today I'm going to share a bit about the Swedish version of santa – Jultomten. (Jul is Swedish for Christmas.)

As parents, The Engineer and I decided that we weren't going to tell our kids about Santa, The Tooth Fairy, The Easter Bunny, or The Great Pumpkin. Since we were already teaching them about Jesus, we didn't want Him to be lumped into the category of, “My parents said these people existed, but I now know that {insert fake holiday icon here} isn’t' real, then why am I to believe that Jesus is true? I mean, all the rest of that pack is pretend. Jesus must be, too.” We did our best to “let them in on the secret” since we didn't want them to go around spreading any “heresy”, or spilling the beans and in turn cause trouble for those kids who were taught differently. My boys were told not to share what we believe to be truth, and to just let those kids have their fun. I'm not so silly that I believe they never told anyone, but I do believe that what they took away from the whole situation is that their parents are truthful, and sometimes it's fun to pretend so we don't hurt anyone's feelings.

American kids grow up with Santa dressed in red and white, big white beard, sleigh, flying reindeer, and presents to everyone in one evening. Swedish kids of yesteryear grew up with santa looking more like the (completely annoying) Travelocity gnome. (I used to watch The Amazing Race and the worst product placement ever was making them carry around that &*^% gnome all over some country.) Swedish kids today are exposed to a Santa closely resembling the commercialized “American” version. I'm a history buff and was just fascinated with the story (which is most easily accessed at wikipedia) of the “evolution” of the Norse santa. Since I know all of you have time to spare this season, here's the link to Wikipedia if you care to explore. 

There's a lot more to tell, including The Swede's dad dressing up as tomten when I was a kid. However, I tend to get long-winded, so I'll pause the story here and share some of my favorite Swedish tomte decorations.  I inherited these from Farmor (“father's mother”) and am proud to display a piece of my heritage.

These little ones are hand-knit by my Farmor.  The guy jumping out of the candle holder is knitted and stuffed with scraps.  The short little guy is like a hat, and slipped over a cardboard toilet paper roll.  She made a lot of these, all to be donated to the church's yearly craft fair.  Remind me to post about that.  You crafty types might enjoy that.  The runner and the wall hanging you are seeing a piece of were made by my Farfar ("father's father")

This tomte is hand-made glass.  I have him hanging from my (hideous and I'm dying to replace) dining room chandelier as seen in the following picture.

This whimsical little fellow looks more like American santa.  A good transitional piece from history to what we have today.

This little girl is my favorite.  I have no idea how old she is, but she and her brother (who lives at Swissie's house) decorated Farmor's childhood home.

What Christmas objects are special to you?  Did you believe in santa as a child?  Did you tell your kids about santa?  I enjoyed the comments on my last Christmas post.  Always nice to hear how others celebrate.

Swedish Christmas, Part 1

We've been in full swing with traditional Christmas preparations around here this weekend, and I thought I'd share. We're a mix of Swedish and American traditions, so it's rather a hodge-podge sorta blend of his, mine, and ours. I love it. But don't worry, I'm not going to bore you (I hope) with too many details, but share a few things you might not know about since (I'm guessing) all of you aren't Swedish.

I think the most Swedish thing we do is our real Christmas tree. Unless things have changed in my home country since my 1974 emigration, no Swede has an artificial tree. (I even called The Swede to confirm this.) My Sissie and Mr. Clean head up into the mountains for trees for the whole family each year. I'm so grateful for this service, and eagerly await my delivered tree. We usually get a wonderful Charlie Brown tree of which we are very proud. This year though, they hit the jackpot because our tree is just absolutely gorgeous. I might show you a picture, but as of this minute, it's only half decorated.

The Engineer has, with a sigh of relief, yet great difficulty, delegated the placing of the lights to YellowBoy. This is no small passing of the torch. He's famous for using a ridiculous amount of lights to wrap each individual branch as he moves up the tree. Very slowly. We're talking 500+ lights on a seven foot tree and it takes FOREVER. Not kidding. Engineers don't idle well, and he's all engineer. Idle you say? How could putting up lights be idle? Yeah, you're asking the wrong person.

I've never been one for theme trees. You've seen them. Perfectly coordinated, balls, beads, garland, ribbons, etc. Not at my house. You'll find the Spiderman that Jake drew as a young child, precariously still hanging from a piece of yarn. The glitter-dosed popsicle stars with the school picture at the center. The stale marshmallow snowmen holding an “I love you, Mom!” sign. Yes, it's hard for me to have all the ornaments clustered in one place, with crooked lights, and the top half of the tree bare.  But my focus isn't on decorating, it's on my kids and the traditions they cherish. We had a great time listening to Christmas music and working together. As we get closer to celebrating our Savior's birth, I'll share more about Swedish Christmas. What are your family's favorite traditions?