Engravings
I think of a toy airplane made of thin sheet metal
at Jogersta in 1957;
an airplane that the summer boy,
placed with us by the municipal authorities
for the summer,
tries to slip into his suitcase,
thinking he is going home
to his mother,
when in fact he is being sent to an orphanage.
I hit him.
I see Sune, my Shams,
in Östra Bergen in 1967,
holy holy holy,
and the truths are shuffled like playing cards
appearing in the randomness of the game.
The eye catches a scene
in the changing cloudiness
of the past,
with a bewildering scenery of landmarks,
like Dylan Thomas's Stations of the Breath:
Twenty-meter-tall,
moose-like or giraffe-like,
large-blotched,
large-spotted creatures
with long legs
come along the road at Örstig
in the early 1950s, and I become frightened,
out on the country road toward Örstigsnäs and Strandstuguviken,
just beyond our garden, beyond the fence:
the little boy's dream,
or a lingering memory from the age of the bards?
A glider has made an emergency landing
in the meadow beside the road,
on a warm summer day,
leaning with one wing down in the grass,
the other pointing diagonally upward.
The two pilots walk around the aircraft
in white flying suits and hoods.
The sun glitters
on the glider's wings
and its raised canopy.
We are driving to Grandma's
in Flen,
but who is driving?
Grandma Hanna calls me Engvar.
She spells my name that way
on a birthday card
that we keep for many years,
until it disappears.
Dad comes over to my green child's bed,
handed down from my older siblings,
holding out a green princess cake,
a broad smile across his face.
It is my sixth birthday,
February 13, 1955,
at Kvisätter in Björkvik.
Mom is standing beside him.
The soldiers from the great military exercise
gather around the kitchen table
at Kvisätter
during the winter of 1954–55,
when my parents invite them in for coffee.
They leave behind
the burlap sacks filled with dark loaves of bread.
Two tanks rumble down in the yard.
I am in the room
with strep throat.
Paratroopers
in white coveralls
drift down from the sky
over the snow-covered fields.
It is summer
at Kvisätter,
the summer of 1954,
and I take a sandwich
that Mom has made for me
and walk out
into the grain field,
alive with insects and butterflies,
toward a little island in the field,
a patch of land
with a great boulder and a few trees,
where I climb onto the boulder
and sit there
eating my sandwich.
My lips itch
from the spiced cheese.
My friend Roland,
from Branthäll,
comes to visit me
at Örstig in 1953.
We crush Mom's sweet wheat buns
into our coffee
and eat them with spoons
at the kitchen table by the window.
In the kitchen
there is a green coffee grinder
where Mom grinds the coffee beans.
I ski home
through the Kolmården forest
from my classmate Totten
at Visätter
in the late 1950s.
A red light burns
between the tree trunks
ahead of me.
I think the forest is on fire,
and my heart pounds wildly
as I push myself toward it.
But when the Kiladalen valley
opens beneath me,
I see
that it is only the sunset.
Relieved,
I glide down Brinkerna.
Dad gives me a ride
on his moped
to the People's House
in Björkvik,
and I see my first film,
the first moving pictures
I have ever seen.
It is a Disney film.
I am five years old.
It is 1954.
I get to go with Sally Classon,
the farmer's wife
at Kvisätter,
to collect eggs
from the henhouse.
Sally is very fond of me,
and it feels like a special privilege
to go with her
and gather the eggs.
I am five
or six years old.
They pull crayfish
from the stream
at Kvisätter.
I look at them
in the bucket.
My brother Rolf
(fifteen years older than I am)
and I
are skiing in the woods
at Kvisätter
after the great military exercise
of 1954–55.
We ski over a tripwire
that explodes
with a tremendous bang.
One of the farmer Classon's sons
at Kvisätter
is my age.
We sit by the roadside
counting the cars
that pass
toward Glindran
or Bjärsätter.
Traffic is sparse
in 1954–55.
We are visiting Märta and Sven
(Mom's sister and her husband),
and their daughter Maud,
my cousin,
in Oxelösund.
At the dinner table
Sven tells me
that I should eat
using both knife and fork,
something I have not learned.
That is the only thing
I remember about Sven.
I receive
a religious book
with yellow covers
and many illustrations,
including one
of a girl
riding her bicycle
down a hill
through the darkness.
She feels a hand
on her shoulder
slowing her down
and saving her
from danger.
We visit Aunt Hilma
in Mariefred.
She is always
beautifully
and impeccably dressed,
wearing elegant,
understated jewelry.
She tells me
I must not call her
"Aunt,"
only Hilma.
At Aunt Hilma's place
at Kalkudden,
outside Mariefred,
everything is lush
and damp.
The wild garden,
more like
an abandoned,
overgrown park,
is full of snails
with beautiful shells.
Hilma's sons,
born in the 1930s,
practice target shooting
with air rifles
and arrows
fletched with feathers,
and I get to try.
The rifle feels
large
and awkward
in my hands.
At Jogersta,
in 1957,
I begin to experience
feelings of unreality.
Mom takes me
to our family doctor,
Dr. Paul Eriksson,
in Nyköping.
I tell him
that I feel
"gone."
He says,
"Not good,
not good."
No one understands
that it is migraine.
On one occasion
in the late 1950s,
Mom takes me
to a doctor,
who advises
that I should not sleep
with my arms
stretched above my head.
It has something to do
with feelings of discomfort,
perhaps related
to an irregular heartbeat.
A couple of times
in the late 1950s,
I am admitted
to the hospital
in Nyköping
because of "protein in the urine,"
some kind of inflammation
of the kidneys.
The ward
has tall windows
looking out
at great,
gnarled pine trees.
My sister
comes to visit me.
I become
a kind of natural
judge
or mediator
among the other children
in the ward,
who often ask
for my advice.
Mom has suffered
from stomach ulcers
and is sent
to the convalescent home
at Ökna
to recover.
While she is away,
Dad and I
are looked after
by a district nurse
in uniform,
who bakes
wonderful bread
filled with lingonberry jam.
We go
to visit Mom
at Ökna.
They have a rowboat
that the patients
can take out
onto the lake.
In the late 1950s,
Mom spends
several weeks
at St. Anna Mental Hospital
in Nyköping.
My sister tells me
that I must not ask Mom
what a cerebral hemorrhage is,
though it is not
anything like that.
We go
to visit Mom.
She is
on the other side
of the fence,
standing
out on the lawn.
It feels terrible.
I have ridden
on the back
of Mom's bicycle
into Nyköping.
We are below
Kråkberget.
A tremendous thunderstorm
breaks over us.
The rain falls
so heavily
that it is difficult
to breathe.
A woman
in a nearby house
invites us inside
for shelter,
then finds
some clothes
that fit me
and lets me
borrow them.
I turn eight,
in 1957,
and my brother Rolf
gives me
an Elvis Presley EP.
Besides "Tutti Frutti,"
it contains
"Tryin' to Get to You,"
"I Got a Woman,"
and
"One-Sided Love Affair."
My brother
is twenty-two.
Rolf also arranges
for me
to have
a radio-phonograph.
I turn ten
on February 13, 1959,
and receive
Elvis Presley's King Creole EP
from my sister's parents-in-law,
the Hammars,
who live
at Svärta Gård,
outside Nyköping.
Besides the title track,
the record contains
"New Orleans,"
"As Long As I Have You,"
and "Lover Doll."
In the late 1950s,
at Jogersta,
in Tuna Parish,
with the postal address
Jogersta, Enstaberga,
Mom occasionally gives me
one krona
to ride my bicycle
up to Tuna Motel
and buy
a one-krona chocolate bar.
Sometimes
I play Elvis Presley
on the jukebox there.
It costs
twenty-five öre
per song.
I often ride my bicycle
in circles
around the gravel lot
in front of the motel.
My classmate
Zenitha Detlofsson,
at Tuna School,
is exactly my age.
We are both born
on February 13, 1949.
When our class
holds a track-and-field meet
at the sports field
in Enstaberga,
in the third grade,
I win
for the boys,
and she wins
for the girls.
Each of us
receives
a small metal vase
as a prize.
One day,
when we are about
to bicycle home from school
and are standing
beside our bicycles,
Zenitha tells me
that she thought
I had played
so beautifully
in church.
I take recorder lessons
from a choleric music teacher
with a heart condition,
whom we are sternly warned
never to provoke,
for fear
that he might become
so angry
that he dies.
We recorder students
play
in Tuna Church.
I blush
at Zenitha's praise,
and my heart
swells a little
inside my chest.
Zenitha Detlofsson's parents
own
and run
Tuna Motel.
In 1959
or 1960,
I have learned
a little English
in the third grade,
and I begin approaching
tourists
driving along
Highway 1
who stop
at Tuna Motel.
I say,
"Name and address, please!"
That is how
I meet
a family
from Albuquerque,
New Mexico,
traveling
in a large American car
with U.S. license plates.
Their son
is my age
and comes with me
down into the Kiladalen valley,
to Jogersta.
We play Elvis
on my radio-phonograph.
By talking
to all the foreigners
I meet
at Tuna Motel,
I also gain
a number
of pen pals.
The list
soon grows rapidly
through pen-pal advertisements
in magazines,
bringing me,
among many others,
a whole cluster
of pen pals
on Mauritius.
In the summer of 1957,
between first
and second grade,
I learn
to swim breaststroke
at the Fada Dam.
We first practice
the movements on dry land,
on the ground
strewn with pine cones
and pine needles,
crossed everywhere
by tree roots.
I earn
my swimming proficiency badge.
Up at Fadadammen,
my classmate Siw
comes swimming.
I see her head
above the surface
as she approaches.
One day
in 1957,
when I come home
from school,
my parents
have acquired
a dog,
a Norwegian Elkhound.
She is lying
on a rag rug
on the kitchen floor.
I hurry over
to pet her,
but Kim
has only just arrived
and is frightened.
She growls,
and I immediately
back away.
Kim is lying
by the bridge
over the Kila River,
at Jogersta,
sick.
I fetch my parents,
and we carry her home.
My sister
is visiting,
so she drives
Mom,
Kim,
and me
to a veterinarian
in Nyköping
in her old
Volvo PV 444.
He says
that Kim
has been bitten
by a European adder.
She recovers
quite quickly.
Sometime
around 1959
or 1960,
Kim
shows aggression
toward the neighbor
Wretling's kittens,
and toward
some of their children,
perhaps
the twin girls
Britt-Inger
and Ann-Kristin.
As a result,
Kim has to wear
a muzzle
for a while.
There is even talk
of putting her down,
which frightens me deeply.
To make sure
nothing happens to her,
I always have her
sleep with me
at night
in my upstairs bedroom,
which my parents rent
for me
on the second floor
of an old house
farther down the farm.
At Jogersta,
in the late 1950s
and into 1960,
I run
across the harvested fields
between the farm
and the Kila River,
launching plastic airplanes
with heavy rubber bands
mounted
on plastic handles,
especially
one model
of an American aircraft
called the Super Sabre.
It has
an air intake
in the nose,
making the airplane
whistle
through the air.
In the clay fields
above the Kila River,
at Jogersta,
there are countless smooth,
saucer-shaped
or lens-shaped stones,
actually fossilized clay,
called mallrikar.
They range in size
from about
half an inch
to four inches across.
During one of the first winters
at Jogersta,
1957–58,
I often ride my bob
down Brinkerna,
the name given
to the hillside
descending from the Kolmården forests
toward the Kiladalen valley,
where a forest road
winds down
to the bridge
over the Kila River.
My bob
is a sled on runners,
without a steering wheel.
I lie on my stomach
on the wooden sled,
steering
with my hands
on the curved front ends
of the runners,
which join together
into a single piece,
making the sled
easy to control
and very stable.
Some slightly older boys
compliment me
on my daring.
At Örstig,
in 1952 or 1953,
I get to ride
with my brother Rolf
and our cousin
Ivan Björnberg
(the son of Ernst and Elna)
in Ivan's Citroën,
which has
broad running boards.
There are open holes
in the floor,
so I can see
the ground
rushing past beneath us.
We drive
from Linudden
toward Örstig.
In the late 1950s,
Mom sometimes takes me
to the music store
on Bagaregatan
in Nyköping,
where I choose records
by listening
through the yellow
ebonite headphones.
Most often,
I choose Elvis Presley.
At Kvisätter,
in Björkvik,
during 1954–55,
Mom attends
a well-attended
accordion course
at the People's House.
Sometimes
Mom bicycles
all the way
from Kvisätter,
with me
on the luggage rack,
to visit her brother Ernst,
his wife Elna,
and their son Ivan,
who live
in one of the large,
yellow wooden apartment rows
near the Sunlight soap factory
in Nyköping.
There is only
an outdoor privy
in the courtyard.
It is a journey
of about twenty-five miles,
and then
twenty-five miles
back again.
Ivan,
about fifteen years
older than I am,
plays boogie-woogie
for me
on his record player.
Elna bakes
wonderful sweet rolls.
Out at Örstig,
on the sloping grassy hillside,
Aunt Elna,
wearing a sturdy leather cap,
teaches me
to ski
during the winter
of 1953–54,
when I am
five years old.
When we move
from Örstig
to Kvisätter
in Björkvik,
in 1954,
Mom and I
sit
in the cab
of the moving truck.
My friends
run alongside
for a while,
waving goodbye.
At Örstig,
there is an icehouse
in a hollow
behind our house,
in the dimness
of the spruce forest,
along the forest road
toward Syltbäcken.
In the icehouse,
insulated with sawdust,
blocks of ice
are stored
throughout the summer,
deep inside,
beneath the shade
of the towering spruces.
Wood sorrel
grows
in the forest
around the icehouse,
and I often
chew its leaves.
I am there
when the Hallberg boys
cut blocks of ice
out on Nyköping Bay
and haul them ashore
by sled
behind a horse.
At home,
we have
a white wooden icebox.
At Örstig,
in 1953,
Mom and Dad
are going away
for a week's vacation,
and I am to stay
with Aunt Asta
at Syltbäcken.
I am angry
and sulking,
riding
on the back
of Mom's bicycle
through the forest.
I kick
and lash out
so that Mom
drops the bag of food
she has packed
for me.
A package of cocoa
bursts open,
and cocoa powder
spills out
onto the ground.
I feel terribly guilty
about it
for a long time.
Before I turn eleven,
in 1960,
at Jogersta,
I pester everyone
for a camera.
Eventually
I get one,
a box camera,
with the viewfinder
on top.
The first photograph
I take
is of Kim.
In the summer,
I place
a round wall mirror
outside
by the cellar entrance
and make
a self-portrait.
My brother Rolf,
and sometimes
my brother-in-law
Ingemar Hammar,
help me build
a model glider
of balsa wood
down in the cellar
at Jogersta,
surrounded
by pieces of balsa
and the smell of glue.
After a long time,
the glider
is finally finished.
Rolf and I
carry it out
to the field
near the house.
It crashes immediately
and breaks apart.
I am
deeply disappointed.
Rolf
gets annoyed
and thinks
I am ungrateful.
Whenever Rolf
and his wife Birgitta
(née Granqvist)
come to visit us
at Jogersta,
Birgitta always
gives me
a big hug.
I treasure it.
When we move
from Oxelösund
to Jogersta,
in Tuna,
in April 1957,
the other apartment
in the duplex
is occupied
by Bengt,
Sven-Arne,
and their parents.
Bengt
is a few years
older than I am,
and Sven-Arne
much older.
Sven-Arne
walks with a limp.
When they soon move away,
the Wretling family
arrives from northern Sweden:
the parents,
Birger and Saidy,
their son Kent,
and the twin daughters
Britt-Marie
and Ann-Kristin.
Kent
is a year or so
younger than I am.
He becomes
something of a companion,
though never
an equal
or a close friend.
The twin girls
are several years
younger
than Kent
and me.
When I am twelve,
in 1961,
I ride
my boy's bicycle
from Jogersta,
in Tuna,
to Söderköping
and back,
at least
sixty miles
altogether.
I climb
Ramunderberget,
buy
a large chocolate bar
down in town,
and ride home.
At the ferry crossing
over Bråviken,
between Kvarsebo
and the Östergötland shore,
I remain
aboard the ferry
for several crossings
on the way back,
until someone tells me
to get off.
I take
quite a few photographs
with my box camera,
among them
village churches
out on the plains.
It is sunny
and warm,
with the kind
of summer clouds
that belong
to childhood.
That same summer,
Mom follows me
on her moped,
and together
we make
the same trip
to Söderköping.
From the top
of Ramunderberget,
I photograph her
standing beside
the Göta Canal,
wearing
black slacks
and a white sweater.
On the way home,
I overexert myself
in the heat
and become
completely exhausted.
I have to lie down
and rest
in a bus shelter
near the ferry landing
on the Östergötland side.
Rolf comes
to meet us
in his car
to drive me home.
Mom has borrowed
a telephone
somewhere,
but by then
I feel well again
and ride
my bicycle
all the way home.
A third time,
our neighbor
Kent Wretling
comes along
on the ride
to Söderköping.
He has no desire
to make
such an ambitious trip,
but his father,
Birger,
makes him come.
Much later,
in 1975,
I ride
the same route
with my friend
Sture Östnäs:
I
on my
ten-speed Crescent
road bike,
Sture
on a
three-speed Crescent.
In the summer
of 1962,
at the age of thirteen,
I ride
from Jogersta
to Eskilstuna.
I camp
at a campground
there.
It is
at least
fifty miles away.
When I ride
into the campground,
someone on the staff
calls out
that you have to be
eighteen
to stay there.
I pretend
not to hear,
pitch my tent,
and nobody
stops me.
As soon
as I have learned
to ride a bicycle,
at the age of five,
in 1954,
when we live
at Örstig,
I set off
on my first expedition,
all the way
to the Oxelösund Road.
I am scolded
for having ridden
too far.
Mom
has been worried.
When I am
in second grade
at Tuna School,
toward the end
of 1957,
I play
the recorder
in Tuna Church
together
with a few
other pupils.
Mom
and my brother Rolf
are in the audience.
We still have
Märta Carnelius
as our teacher.
In third grade
we get
Elsa Carlsson,
angry
but kind.
One winter day,
in third grade,
during the winter
of 1958–59,
I am riding
my bob
down the hill
toward Nävekvarnsvägen,
where there is also
a country store.
I accidentally
leave the road
and crash
straight into
the corner
of a barn
at the bottom
of the hill.
I hurt
one of my shins
quite badly.
Miss Elsa Carlsson
walks home
with me.
Mom
meets us
up by
the mailboxes.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-07-30 at 11:54
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