My acquaintanceship with Albin began one day in the Spring of 1973, Sweden had been my home for just over 2 years and in a month or so I was to be married. Learning Swedish had been a longer process than I had anticipated as most Swedes speak good English and when speaking to me preferred to practice their foreign language skills. I was more or less consigned to learning Swedish by eavesdropping other people´s conversations allthough Swedish subtitles in films and television series helped a great deal.By this time though I was quite at home both understanding and speaking Swedish. Even the news on the television no longer presented an obstacle. My first meeting with Albin abruptly reminded me of being too complacent in the comfort of one´s own bubble.
Opening the door to our ”farstu”, a small 2m x 2m self contained porch with its own roof allowing people to sit down on a small bench and take off their shoes before entering the house via the front door, I noticed a man walking up the drive. ”Hej,” I said (pronounced hey) to which he replied ”hej” followed by a string of words that had me convinced he was speaking another language. I gave him a wry smile retreated into the house and said to Gunilla ”there´s a man out here who just said hello and that was the last and only word I understood.” Soon realising that I was back to square one as far as my Swedish was concerned and that having a house in Värmland meant I would have to learn if not a new language at least a new dialect very different to the Swedish I was accustomed to. Actually I acclimatized fairly quickly discovering that my new found skills even included a better ability to understand Norwegian.
Albin and his wife Lilly were our closest neighours and despite the fact that we had very little in common we developed a friendly relationship that lasted many years and contributed to our feeling of being at home in Värmland. On one of our first visits we were ushered into their living room which gave the impression of never having been lived in, in fact a conclusion we came to a few years later when we were never invited in again. The clue lay in the room being called a ”finrum” or grand room, only for very special occasions such as births, marriages, wakes or the odd Stockholm couple on their first visit. Life was lived in Albin and Lilly’s kitchen and it was here sitting at the small table just large enough for 4 that Gunilla and I learnt to drink coffee. ”Kokkaffe” meaning coffee brewed directly in a kettle on a stove as opposed to coffee brewed in one of the many electrical contraptions that are nowadays almost universal. When I say the table had room for 4 I should add that Lilly never sat at the table but stood or sat on a small stool by the stove ready to serve Albin with whatever it was he wanted. It was the natural order of things for the master of the house ”husbonde” to be treated in this fashion and I suppose we only felt slightly uncomfortable when, putting a sugar lump into his mouth and drinking the coffee he had poured into his saucer he mildly scolded her for something not to his liking.
Albin was old enough to be my father and for a one time lumberjack-cum-smallholder he was surprisingly in tune to the outside world. Having said that I don´t think there were many days in his life that were spent outside of Värmland. I have a vague recollection of him talking of having visited Stockholm once. Politically we had no matching colours although conversations about the hardships of the 1920s and emigration from Sweden to the US was less dangerous ground for political discourse than contemporary party politics. For him Conservative politicians were a distant evil in Stockholm and he reserved a special dislike for members of the Centre party, a party favoured by farmers and landowners. This came as a surprise to us at first as Albin had a sizeable piece of land yet it fitted another piece to my jigsaw of Swedish life and politics. Most of Albin´s land was arable farmland which was no longer used for crops or livestock. Every year however he spent many hours using his scythe to keep his land from becoming overgrown. Considering his age at the time and the effort this took it was a mystery to us. A combination of habit and pride I suppose. The only crop that Albin planted was potatoes in a large patch in front of his house. I remember him complaining once that his ”jordäppel” (literally earth apples used in dialect as opposed to ”potatis”) were smaller than usual. When I suggested that crop rotation might help he reminded me in no uncertain terms that agriculture was not my forté and in fact that was the only time I ever saw him angry.
Potatoes and pork prepared in various ways were his staple diet which is why we had cooked a meal of smoked pork loin after inviting Albin and Lilly over for dinner thinking we were on safe ground. As Gunilla was serving the meal Albin said he wasn´t hungry because he had already eaten. Lilly explained he was worried that he might be served something he didn´t like and had had a helping of pork and potatoes before he left. You knew where you stood with Albin. His realism could be a little enervating at times like when at the height of midsummer when Värmland is at its most beautiful and our senses were tuned to the delights of Summer he might pass a comment to the tune of ”now we´re heading for winter” or ”now the days will be getting shorter.” I have no evidence of this but I am convinced he wore long johns for at least 10 months of the year.
Whilst we´re on the subject of pork, Albin and Lilly once offered us a half share in a pig they intended raising for slaughter. Lilly did most of the work looking after and feeding our piglet until it had grown large enough. On the big day Albin insisted that we come over to help, suggesting to Gunilla that this was important knowledge for a teacher. Our pig was led outside to where a huge tub had been placed in readiness. Next to the tub was a bucket and a chain. A local neighbour possessing the required expertise as well as a ”slaktmask” (literally slaughter worm) consisting of a spring loaded bolt ended our pig´s life at second attempt. The first attempt had resulted in an ineffectual ”click”, causing everybody to jump except the pig. As the metal bolt finally found its mark the journey from life to death was short and brutal. The pig slumped heavily to the ground, its throat was cut, its blood was collected in a bowl and poured into a bucket. Gunilla was instructed to stir the blood to prevent it coagulating. In hindsight it´s a wonder neither of us fainted. Before our pig was hung up ready for carving, it was placed in the tub over the chain and boiling hot water was poured over the dead animal into the tub. Then the chain was pulled to and fro under the carcass. I didn´t understand the reason for this and was told it was to remove as much hair as possible. A sort of last minute shave, so to speak. I don´t remember how long it was before the animal was carved up but it was later in the day and after packaging our share in plastic bags to put in our freezer that we walked home carrying our newly slaughtered and packaged pork in a large plastic container between us. The juicy pork chops for dinner that we had been looking forward to earlier in the day were passed over in favour of pancakes.