Three years ago, this anthology, “Att förlora en far” (Losing a Father), was published. I’ve learned from the author and lecturer Malin Tyberg, who published the book, that it continues to do well and is being read.
I wrote about my dad in it. Read it. I’ve also written this about my father.
Dad would have been 110 years old today.
I found this picture of him in the attic. It was taken at home in Liljas Hol in Dala-Järna. Taken in what we called the “parlour.” It was always cold in there because we saved on electricity by turning off the heat. The furniture was uncomfortable. The rugs on the floor were too. This was the room where you would offer visitors coffee and homemade cinnamon buns, along with a number of varieties of puff pastry cakes. And it was in the parlour that you put on a suit to have a studio portrait taken.
You can tell Dad wasn’t used to wearing a suit. He’s forgotten to fasten the bottom button. The tie knot is no masterpiece. He was probably more at home in his bricklayer’s clothes. In fact, almost all my memories of him are of him either mowing the lawn at home, laying bricks, or tinkering around the farm. Or driving off in that red Saab to visit friends. And have a beer.
Dad was good at drawing and painting, especially kurbits [a traditional Swedish folk art style]. He also read poetry. After his sudden death in 1973, I found “The Tales of Ensign Stål” on his nightstand—a work that celebrates the nation-state, written by the Finnish national poet, Johan Ludvig Runeberg. I had also seen a book of poems by Nils Ferlin, a poet who enjoyed late nights and liquor.
I also remember that Dad used to play the socialist Internationale. On a wobbly record. He would stand at attention. In the parlour. He was a Social Democrat and was particularly fond of Per Albin Hansson (Swedish Prime Minister during the War), if I remember correctly.
I was eleven when he died, so I remember very little about my father. Today, I wish we had truly had more time together. I don’t really know anything about my father. But I miss him. Mostly, he was in Stockholm working on construction sites, the “Blå tornet” (Blue Tower) among others. I also have a vague memory that he judged people based on how hard they worked. Lazy people had low status in his eyes.
I also remember that on the few occasions he was home in Dala-Järna, he would sit in the basement. After his death, we found 50 litres of homemade moonshine. Alcohol ruined my father’s life. He probably wanted a different life than the one he got. He grew up in poverty: 12 siblings and parents in a small cottage. A few emigrated to the USA. Dad wasn’t the only one of the siblings who developed problems with alcohol.
He was intelligent, my dad, but he had to leave school when he was barely a teenager. Instead, his existence became the construction site. With all due respect, not the most intellectually stimulating place to be. The level of conversation was blunt.
Life didn’t turn out as he had imagined. Yet, he grew up in a time when the gap between the poor and the rich was shrinking. Opportunities were increasing. I know that if I had been born, say, 10-20 years earlier, I wouldn’t have gotten to live this fantastic life, due to my background and the parents I had. Now, I think I discern that it’s starting again, this trend of growing disparities in society. I see it just in my “research” concerning health, exercise, aging, and food. There is a clear predominance of problems with obesity and related illnesses among people with low education and low income. It’s frightening. And what’s a little worrying is the social and genetic inheritance I’ve received!
The social inheritance brought with it a rather poor self-esteem—a feeling that you aren’t good enough as you are. Today, that problem is gone. I’ve seen and understood too much to worry about not being good enough. But for many years, it was a problem. Similarly, the reality is that when you grow up in the countryside, you carry your family’s history with you. You are judged based on who your parents are, who their parents were, and their reputation. I was Matte’s son. For better and for worse. In the big city, you escape that misery.
Today we know that your genes play a fairly large role in your life: 50% from Dad, 50% from Mom. From Dad, I got his poor hair growth. But unlike him, I don’t comb my side hair over my bald spot. I shave it all off. Because when it’s windy outside, it looks funny, to say the least, when all the hair is hanging on one side.
Now, Dad died when he was 65. But the combination of alcohol and asthma was probably the cause.
I’ve also learned that there are a hell of a lot of genes, many of them dormant. If you take care of yourself, train hard, eat right, and sleep fairly well, you can awaken other genes to life that neutralize the genetic ones. Not always, but often. That’s what science says now.
Dad didn’t take care of his health, but Mom did. Apart from the smoking that ended up killing her. Dad was 55 when he had me. I was his sixth child. I have a memory that he thought Mom spoiled me, that I didn’t show him respect, but instead was cheeky to him all the time. He was probably right.
Dad is probably around 40-45 here in the picture. He has lots of hair. He looks most like my sister Ywon. But I also see Eva in him. He looks pleased to be photographed. I mostly remember the difficult things about him, but I know from people I’ve met in later years that he had a wonderful sense of humour, an infectious laugh, and was a true storyteller.
Of course, I miss Dad. But I don’t suffer from it. I couldn’t have had a better life.
