Rick´s News

As I have already mentioned in a number of my pieces, I travelled the world or some of it at least as a publisher´s representative. At the age of 24 I was the envy of my friends. Me with a diploma from the Institute of Linguists but otherwise no university education landing a job where universities and educational bookshops were at the forefront was strange if not incredible. Not only was I seeing the world but also meeting up with lecturers and professors in various university cities in Europe to discuss and promote the company´s latest publications. A further objective was to recruit presumptive authors although in this respect I was unsuccessful. 

Basically the job was visiting people teaching introductory courses, i.e larger numbers of students, in the subjects that could be matched with the company´s publications. Forwarding the correct complimentary copy could result in sales of several hundred books. The subjects involved were not many, primarily psychology, sociology, education and medicine yet enough for me to keep to the publication´s need to know sheet. Despite this one lecturer suggested I might apply for a teaching position at the University of Bergen on hearing how impressed I was with the city when arriving  on the ferry from Newcastle a few years earlier for a Scandinavian hitch hiking tour. Obviously I had represented the company well in that interview. 

Pride comes before a fall they say and it was only a few days later in Oslo that I became aware of how easily it is to put a foot wrong in this world and all down to good intentions. The subject was psychology and I was really excited because the lecturer I was interviewing indicated he was toying with the idea of writing a book he could use as teaching material or something like that, I don´t remember exactly. What I do remember is that he said something about it not being boring. My spontaneous reaction was about to confirm that my company would see this not only as a plus but more or less as a pre requisite for publication. I was only 24 but had thankfully lived long enough to realize not everything is as it seems and somebody stating what might be obvious to me might just be a little more elusive. I learnt two things that day; sometimes it pays to keep your mouth shut and that Edwin G. Boring was an American psychologist.

Well there you are then, the first of my metaphorical ships has executed a somewhat cumbersome 180° turn. Ship number two has signalled it will follow shortly whereas my Brexit ship has a serious navigational problem and is at present becalmed in the face of what looks to be a very fierce storm. In other words, one down, two to go! 

Of course I´m over the moon about Biden winning the election for president. Not least for very soon being able to follow American politics for at least four years without having to listen to the ramblings of an infantile, narcissistic lunatic cluttering up Twitter with his lies.

In my opinion a man like Trump ought to force us outside of our political comfort zone to rely instead on our own personal moral code and act accordingly. Obviously wishful thinking on my part considering the number of Americans who voted for Trump making the election a closer call than anticipated. That included Evangelicals not too fussy about his hobby of ”grabbing women by the pussy….when you´re a star they let you do it.” (his words not mine) That included Latino voters not too bothered about him separating Latin American refugee children from their parents and putting them in cages. That included ordinary working class Americans idolizing him despite his mocking handicapped people and dead soldiers as losers. That included Republican lawmakers not standing up for their country and the constitution when fully aware of this monstrosity of a president with dubious national and international connections . Not even when being aware that his futile efforts to delegitimize and overturn the election, will almost certainly result in the weakening of many people´s faith in democracy and a search for alternatives. 

The American Dream versus the American Nightmare. Trump may be gone by the 20th of January but the problem won´t be.

I think we have all had our fair share of years where unpleasant events or bad luck never cease to end. Since the Cold War and the Cuban missile crisis in 1962 I cannot remember experiencing a year where events beyond my control affected me so much. Even today I can still vividly remember the feeling of enormous relief when the Soviet vessels turned around mid Atlantic.  Ironically enough, apart from two cancelled holidays and some rather irritating social distancing routines, this year  could otherwise be seen as no worse than most other years. 

What is different though and in many ways similar to 1962 is the feeling of helplessness in the face of events.  A disease holding the world to ransom, with the pain and fear shared across the globe and the anonymity, the meaninglessness and the purposelessness of this virus adding to the anxiety. As if to twist the knife in the wound the world’s largest democracy, a country many people have a relation to and often look to as a guarantor of global stability, is caught in a surreal spider’s web of Trumpism. On a lesser scale you would see Brexit as the icing on the cake if you are that way inclined. 

All three have already been proven to be destructive yet not one of them is a spent force. On the contrary they each still possess the ability to ruin millions of people´s lives, acting individually or in symbiosis. At present there is a panacea being bandied about by the hopeful. A vaccine, an election and a deal. The frightening thing about the times we live in are that these solutions are not acceptable to all. In fact for different reasons e.g. stupidity or political cynanism, many do not see them as solutions. Stupidity is easier to live with, as putting your hand on a hot stove usually results in better behaviour. Political cynanism is the elephant in the room. Stupidity will of course come round eventually but by then it will be too late. 

History is not repeating itself, it´s simply mutating. 

Next week on Tuesday the 3rd of November 2020 I am hoping the first ship will be turned around.

For a time as a child I had a couple of white mice housed in a beer crate turned on it´s side (we lived in a pub) and fitted with two panes of glass to easily let me see what was going on. I wonder whether the person who thought up ’Big Brother’  also had pet mice as a child?  Experience has taught me the benefits of focus so I won´t allow myself to be diverted by going down that road tittilating as it might be. 

Apart from the usual receptacles for water and food,  I had installed a small Hamster wheel designed to allow the inhabitants of my converted beer crate some exercise. I am firmly convinced that my little white friends saw not the benefits of exercise and I must conclude that the wild running in the wheel is most likely to be contributed to the effort on their part to imagining they were going somewhere e.g. leaving or as one might put it today, doing a Brexit. 

From an exercise point of view it was of course a successful ruse, from a mental health angle, I´m not so sure. More than half a century has passed since then and had I been able to see into the future I would certainly have named my master of the house mouse, Boris.

Like my furry friend PM Johnson has been frantically running in his own personal Hamster wheel and getting absolutely nowhere with the world looking on in amazement. 

Since the electorate left the country holding the Brexit baby, conceived after NHS sweet, we hold all the cards talk and a malfunctioning advisory condom, the country has been in turmoil. Two Prime Ministers, two elections, a couple of opposition party leaders later and Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson is now in charge and reminiscent of my white mice, not getting anywhere. The promise of an ”oven ready” deal guaranteeing an orderly Brexit bestowed on him a much sought after premiership and an 80 seat majority in the House of Commons at the last election. 

Brexit with a side order of Corona is the kind of stuff that requires politicians with the mettle of Churchill. The same stuff however is in the process of breaking the man who would so much like to be a new Churchill but is sadly lacking in most of what is required. Nobody knows what the outcome at the end of the transition period will be for the UK but anybody with a bit of sense realizes that it is a choice between economic devastation and humble pie. The lesser of the one brings on more of the other.  No 80 seat majority in the House of Commons will change that.

I can’t remember the names of my two mice but I do remember that one morning I looked into the crate to see a large number of tiny pink baby mice. Obviously my master of the house mouse had found time off from his important business in the Hamster wheel. Eventually my mother insisted I evict my room companions, crate and all. She couldn´t stand the smell any longer.

There is a great deal of speculation in the midst of the global Corona crisis as to how much our world and the way we see ourselves will change at the other end of the pandemic tunnel. Hopes are high on there being favourable political spin offs affecting anything from the environment with a greater understanding that we share the same planet to more dialogue and less sabre rattling. I think it would be quite safe to say that there will be no reset button when all this is over, the rest remains to be seen.

As I mentioned earlier the immediate changes to our lives were subtle rather than dramatic. Nonetheless realizing that weekend family gatherings would now have to be consigned to the outdoors and whittled down to fair weather day visits brought on a crazy idea that suddenly morphed into reality. If an over 70 and his shielder spouse are deprived the hospitality of their children´s and grandchildren´s homes why not BYO, an often seen acronym in Australian restaurants lacking a license to sell alcohol. Bring Your Own!  In our case BYO home. Driving home from Köping where our youngest daughter lives takes about 40 minutes and in this time we processed the BYO idea that had popped up earlier in the day. 

Caravans and mobile homes were soon rejected as too cramped and of limited use as a family asset in the long term.  Before reaching home we were in complete agreement that a typical Swedish ”stuga” (hut) at the bottom of the garden would see us through the Corona summer and who knows for how long afterwards? 

From then on it all went very quickly. Planning permission was not required due to the rural location but Swedish law is rather pernickety when it comes to exploiting land within 100 metres of open water, in this case a small river running past the property. We refrained from starting our beat the virus building project until after receiving dispensation from the local council´s building committee but after detailed research of earlier and similar committe decisions we did actually order our building kit in anticipation of a positive reply. 

On the 18th June the lorry from Sorsele arrived, carrying the timber and all the other bits and pieces required, on the same day our dispensation request was granted. Work began just after the Midsummer weekend and although a considerable amount of work was carried out on a family basis including the children, our son in law must be given the  credit for the carpentry and technical solutions.

Nestled in between a river on the one side a swimming pool on the other with a large verandah facing onto open farmland  our ”BYO stuga” was completed on the 4th August. A wonderfully warm and sunny August complete with family barbecues will be an August 2020 not easily forgotten.

It only took a few weeks in the Spring of 2020 to transform me from a world traveller of continents and oceans to an over 70 year old male of the species commonly referred to in Sweden as a risk group. It´s not that you wouldn´t recognize me on the street but gone are the days when I would be wearing a sun hat, brandishing a ticket to some far away place and navigating a suitcase pragmatically marked for easy recognition amongst its kind. Today any chance encounter would more likely than not be on one of our daily walks or on one of our weekly visits to collect our pre-ordered groceries from the supermarket. Strategically placed steel lockers and a computer screen in their midst allow us to enter our telephone number and the screen will reply by revealing which locker/s to open. After collecting our bags a short ceremony of disinfectant handwashing will follow. Thus our weekly shopping has been transformed from leisurely browsing in the shops to a more direct approach of ordering what is needed via the internet. Not exactly soul destroying in itself just boring. Picking up the goods is usualy done without a hitch and anybody coming too close usually responds to a not to be mistaken look saying,  ”keep your distance.”  There is a whiff of the wild animal in this type of behaviour, an attitude often accompanied by furtive or at times even fearful looks. I think most people have experienced the anxiety of walking on dimly lit streets late at night with dangers unseen possibly lurking in the shadows. These dimly lit streets with their attributes have now taken over our daily lives with an equal amount of anxiety.

Shopping other than groceries has nudged us even further onto the internet coupled to a home delivery which is fine in most cases. There are a number of shops that also offer a ”sit in the car and we will come out with the goods you ordered on the internet.” Tremendous service, heightening our awareness of what it must have been like being a leper in the Middle Ages. An alternative to all of the above shopping is kindly asking one´s daughters to purchase this or that item. From feeling like a leper the mood changes to decrepit old man/woman at their last gasp. The daughter shopping also entails now buying beer and other delicacies in a Swedish state licquor store. The prices there are enough to encourage anyone to become teetotal (which is the big idea) or like me spend a delightful long weekend somewhere in Schleswig Holstein and fill the car with booze on the way back, an option at present not available. 

All in all, despite a variety of recommendations by the health authorities life has gone on if not as before but to some degree of normality for those under 70. Businesses, schools, restaurants and shops have remained open albeit with varying degrees of social distancing. Tables apart, no serving at the bar, designated queue spots and anybody able to work from home does so. Wearing masks has really not caught on here, mainly I believe because the Swedish state epidemiologist Anders Tegnell points to the absence of scientific research proving their overall ability to protect against virus infection. He says there are other more important measures that can be undertaken to avoid becoming ill. Tegnell’s mantra over the past months has been the same. ”Keep your distance, stay at home if you are ill or have the slightest symptom of a cold coming on and if you are over 70 just stay at home alone or whoever you live with.  In other words there has been no lockdown which apart from criticism that this has endangered people´s lives it also has the effect that some people are not taking the pandemic seriously enough, especially young people. This negligent attitude is exacerbated by encouraging data showing a considerable downturn in Corona related deaths and Corona infections in Sweden. Many people now feel that the virus has been defeated and are dropping their guard. Having closely followed British politics over the last couple of years I can safely say that there are a large number of very stupid people out there.  I hate to disappoint any red, white and blue patriots but must add that even in this respect Brits are not exceptional.

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.

Events trigger memories. Remembering exact dates though, without a diary notification or some other documentary evidence, is both difficult and often enough unnecessary when it comes to private matters. It´s when you can look them up in a history book or as I did just now Google a date that you become aware of having been more than just a contemporary onlooker of historic events. In the future the present Corona crisis will no doubt be bestowing that particular feeling on a vastly larger number of people than in most previous scenarios. For me the present crisis reminded me of my first lockdown experience albeit a limited one but no less ominous.

Arriving from Israel I landed in Athens on Saturday the 17th November to partake in an international school book exhibition at the Hilton hotel. The trip to Athens including my taxi ride to the hotel was uneventful and I was looking forward to a pleasant stroll in the city and a meal in a local restaurant. From my hotel room overlooking a neighbouring roof top I noticed what looked like the silhouette of a man carrying a rifle. An embassy guard maybe, then I thought no more of it. 

On my way out of the hotel one of the staff came up to me and suggested that I should perhaps not go out. His English was either not very good or he was frightened of saying too much because all he managed to stutter out was, ”no go out, students very bad” Today I realize that it probably wasn´t bad English that was the cause of his stunted warning it was more likely a careful effort to warn me without making what could be construed as a political statement in a country ruled by a military junta. 

Even today at 73 and most certainly at the age of 26 there are very few serious problems that spring to mind at the mention of the word students.  You understand of course that I didn´t heed his warning and walked out into the Athens´night. 

Actually nothing happened, in fact I hardly remember my stroll or whether I had a meal in a restaurant or later at the hotel. The consequences for me of the student´s revolt on this day were yet to come.

From a publisher´s point of view I believe that the exhibition was considered a success perhaps more so in highlighting the importance of education against this intimidating backdrop of political suppression. The soldiers and tanks policing the streets had no direct effect on our daily exhibition whereas the nightly curfew on the other hand meant that for those of us staying at the hotel it was work all day and lockdown every evening. Learning that Athens´ airport had been closed added to the uncertainty as to where all this would end. 

Spending a restricted week in the Athens Hilton might be considered luxurious and limited enough to belittle the use of the word lockdown yet recent events surrounding Corona, with many people suffering a lockdown in their own homes, highlight an anxiety and a pain that is other than physical. Situations such as these show us with brutal clarity that the things we often take for granted such as the freedom to interact with our loved ones, our friends our neighbours are vital for our wellbeing. They show us we are creatures of habit and servants to expectations.

Towards the end of the week there were rumours that the airport would be open from Friday onwards and this had a great effect on the atmosphere at the closing banquet on Thursday evening. The relief was palpable and the food and wine never tasted so good.

The following morning I woke up early, unfortunately not early enough to get to the airport in time for my very early flight. Desperate attempts to get my taxi driver to drive faster were in vain and whether I was feeling sick at the thought of getting stuck in Athens should they, as was rumoured, shut the airport again or whether it was my body pointing out to me that there are limits to alcohol indulgence whatever the reason, did not preoccupy my mind at that moment.

Needless to say I wasn´t the only person at the airport in need of a new flight booking and after much ado and nail-biting I finally squeezed in onto a stopover flight from I believe Cairo to Copenhagen. 

Of course I missed my connecting flight to Gothenburg which would have left me ample time for the final flight to Karlstad. Luckily there was another connection which would have got me there in time but it was delayed, thus missing the last flight connection of the week to Karlstad. When the SAS lady pointed out to me the next flight to Karlstad was on Monday the idea of one extra night in a hotel morphed into 3 nights and just about robbed me of the little energy I had left.  

Obviously I only had myself to blame but the fact SAS had not kept to their timetable resulted in a courtesy of SAS taxi ride from Gothenburg to Karlstad, a total of 278km. On the way I negotiated a price with the taxi driver to take me the further 104km to our home just outside Ekshärad.

Late in the night the taxi´s tyres crunching on the snow was the only sound to be heard as we slowly drove the last kilometre to Stenåsen with snow clad pine trees standing to attention on either side of the road in a peaceful and wintery Värmland forest. I was not too tired to appreciate this and in retrospect probably the closest I will ever get to travelling in time.

The toilet paper is back on the shelves, not that I would have actually seen it as we now do our shopping on line and on a weekly basis drive over to our local supermarket to pick up the goods including as much toilet paper as we need.  Sign of things improving? Not the way I see it.  In fact I never saw the necessity of hoarding toilet paper of all things.  Some people are so stupid you wonder how they find their way home every day.  A Lockdown positive perhaps? 

It doesn´t stop with toilet paper. The latest from the White is the new mad House in the land of the nutters across the pond is that injecting or drinking Dettol or the like will do wonders for your health.  Should you find that a little uncomfortable the alternative on offer is to shine an ultraviolet beam up your backside.  The most frightening thing is not the Nutter in Chief giving this kind of medical advice but his medical advisers sitting in the same room and in front of the cameras and not reacting.  It´s not often I feel the urge to tell 331 Million people to shape up but you really have to do something about your NiC. 

Having said that there is a lot of support in right wing Dixie for Sweden and its ”lagom” approach to Covid 19. People in Dixie are more concerned about the economy than the virus. In contrast today´s conservative national newspaper Svenska Dagbladet is showing more concern about the Social Democrat government´s approach (resulting in a large increase in the polls) rather than the economy.  Garnished with a grim looking reporter in a beard. Who would have thought that? 

Fighting like ferrets in a sack, a good old Hollywood film fist fight or just children banging each other over the head with a plastic spade over who´s got the best virus policy, I don´t know and I despair. Life has become a reality show with the ”Corona Olympics” sucking people´s energy as they keep track of the latest ”results”

Being part of a so called risk group I have resigned myself to the fact that people like me will not see life return to normal, if ever I may add, for at least another year. That means we have to stay away from anything or anybody that could transmit this virus to us. For the rest of the population their best chances lie in living in a country that offers comprehensive medical care.  Lockdowns are like panic braking.  if you want to get there, drive sensibly.  This virus is not going away anytime soon.