Slander; an ongoing story

Lately I have found myself trying really hard not to remember my days as a student, from middle school through high school. I didn't mind my teachers, but I can't remember I, at any given time, was given extra attention, either. I did well in school, and the extra exercises just kept coming my way. I remember both my teachers and the extra work very well.

I thought I had friends, not many, but I thought at least a few liked me. Now that I am an adult I fully understand how mean the other kids were. Never in an obvious or physical manner,
even though I did get into a fist fight with a boy I thought was my best friend.

I remember being tough and calling him a silly name trying to punch him in his stomach, but when he couldn't see me anymore I cried.

Somehow I think the teachers knew, they just didn't know what to do. I never got into any 
trouble for standing up for myself, even in desperate ways.

One time we had a party at school for 5th and 6th grade. We were 18 students in total. Only two of us were an audience when the other 16 gave a performance miming with playback, to one BoneyM hit after another.

I remember middle school being confusing, and hard. My life was challenging to begin with, the talking behind my back, their planning parties in secret and then let me know in detail after, the grown ups' indiscressions... it was all more convenient to ignore.

Some time in my late teens I tried to go see the worst rumormonger as much as possible, hoping it would limit her. It didn't. It got worse. On New Years Eve, she invited a lot of friends for dinner, and I was supposed to show up after they had finished eating. Unfortunately dinner wasn't finished on time, and I arrived in the middle of their dessert.I remember being blamed for ruining their meal. I just didn't know I wasn't really invited for the party.

There was this understanding between them to operate on the fine line between friendship and excluding me from the special events.

One time the conductor for the tensing choir introduced a new song. He played the song "Love of another kind" by Amy Grant, then asked who was brave enough to be lead singer. I was pushed forward, and I heard them giggle. So I decided not to make a scene, but to prove them wrong. And I did.

I have recordings, and know I am right when I say I did a good job.

Every day I am grateful we moved away and let our children grow up surrounded by nontoxic people. Even though it was work situation which caused the move, it was a blessing. I was so nervous thinking about my oldest son maybe should go to the same school I did, I often felt trapped, just like I did when growing up.

I can't remember anybody ever asking me if I was ok, if I felt sad, or if I needed anything. They never encouraged me... they weren't up front and told me not to bother them again, either. Guess they needed me to blame, perhaps. Or for conversation material.

As we all grew older and called ourselves adults, one should think the story would end. It didn't.

I was chairman of the board in a kindergarden, and had to tell one of the staff (who happened to own the facility) she could not arrange a party in the kindergarden serving alcohol, but she could arrange a party in her private basement (yes, same location) after working hours.

I felt like such an idiot after, when I was told I was petty and jealous, just because I was the only woman between 20 and 30 in the village not invited.

Eventually I stopped trying and just accepted they didn't want me there. I did both them and myself a huge favour getting out of there. Moving to a place with true people, who accept you are what you are, and you do what you do, and you are still worth getting to know.

I have a lot of issues, but I realize more and more how I am not the only one.

My friend (yes, I have a friend I trust) says it is funny we became such good friends, because during the first three years of our friendship I never shared anything personal with her. She didn't know anything significant about me, and that is what she took to in me, because that is what she is like too.

We both have issues from decades back.
So, getting older, mature and work for years and years in your field of profession as teacher, nurse, AD, secretary or.... or.... whatever profession you may think of, one should think the story ends, right?

It doesn't.

When I go to see my parents in the village where I grew up, nobody greets me or stop to chat or catch up. It's like the notion of exaggerated rumors and talking behind my back hovers over me like a dark cloud of guilty silence.

A couple of months ago, my husband received a message on messenger. The message was (translated): "Could you tell her we are having a reunion? 30 years since we completed secondary school. (The name of a different classmate) is arranging the event."

I thought I had forgiven and forgotten. But getting this message from my husband made it all come back to me. I have forgiven. Nobody asked my forgiveness, but to me it was important not to let hurt feelings run my life... and yet they do. The insecurity and hurt I remember from back then, rushed over me before he had even read the message through.

I can't say I felt invited. I felt as if he was told to inform me they were having a reunion.

He replied by sending her a message giving my contact information.

A few weeks ago, my husband received another message saying: "The reunion will be September 24. Enlist ASAP."

No information on to whom or how to give notice.

I still don't feel invited... perhaps even less now that I know they have my contact information.

There is no attempt to get in touch with me. There is no hint I will be welcome if I go.

If anything, it feels worse now, because this time they know what they do. This time there is no question about the deliberate thought behind their way of conduct: They chose to not contact me or really invite me, in spite they have no clue who I am, how I am or what I am today.

I will never know the extent of the stories and characteristics given of me. I can only speculate, but I know some, and that some is more than enough.

It's like a snowball impossible to slow down or crush, because it feeds off how words and stories catch the next even more scandalous one.


Then again: remember this is my side to the story. This is how my memory brings back thoughts on my past.

Maybe I was the terrible one, the one impossible to talk to or go on trips with.

Regardless my flaws: feelings can not be argued, because they are real. Your hurt and misery can not be disputed.

The nights I stayed awake, or cried myself to sleep, they happened.

And some day, maybe, I will be as strong about this as I am about everything else in life. I will do what I today do on behalf of others and confront them. Ask them what I did wrong.

But not this reunion.

This time I was caught off guard. I forgive, but won't forget. And I will be prepared and ready.

Maybe it turns out silence is the best defence and payback after all.
Or maybe I should just write about it.

When Computers Compute... Or Whatever They Do

Computers tend to frustrate me; a lot! Always has, right from my first encounter with a "New Brain".
I chose computer as elective subject in school in 1984.
My father got a terrible rash when I aired my wish for choosing crafts, miniature shooting, taking the certificate to ride a moped or another light subject. He stated "computers are the future!" And that was end of discussion.

So I hammered away on a keyboard I knew nothing about, in a language called Basic, which I knew nothing about, and my teacher barely knew even that.
What I remember from those classes is something like:
10 print "Bjorg is cool"
20 goto 10
run

Picture stolen from racketboy.com

I learned enough to help my cousin type in meters long lists of codes, in order to get games on his computer. Codes which, after error checks and completed typing, would be stored on cassettes after days of effort.
Then we had to load the cassettes into the computer every time we wanted to play a game.

Great things have happened within digital innovations since then. The mouse, the floppy discs, the discettes, internet, cd-rom, USB, the size, the weight, the graphics... you name it. It is hard to avoid computers and using them now.
Personal service and a friendly smile has been replaced by digits and keys.

Actually I know nothing about computers. My son accidentally broke the screen on his laptop (you can't tell by looking at it, you have to turn it on to see the image of a broken screen!?), and I have no idea what to look for in order to buy him the right one.

So I haven't gotten him a new one yet... rom, ram, processer, graphics... which is what and why and how is not very clear to me, simply because I normally take no interest.

Just for fun I went into a store and told the young man working there I wanted a red laptop. He turned slightly pale and asked what I was looking for?
-I just want a red laptop, I replied.
-But, surely you have some priorities on how you use it and what you use it for?
-No, it must be red!
Even though I felt a bit sorry for the poor guy, I wasn't going to tell him I already knew which laptop I wanted, and that I knew that was the only one they got in the colour red.
It was almost as if he hesitated to sell me a laptop, all together, he acted as if he was in distress. I am sure he needed a well deserved break after I left.

No, I know very little about computers, but just like the car: I am fairly ok at using it.

Internet has always been my friend, ever since 1992, when we got our first analog modem and listened to the terrible noise, for quite a few minutes, to get online.... and find nothing.
Back then it was almost as if we wanted to find something on the internet, we had to put it out there ourselves. And we did. No pictures, though, mind you.

Today my entire life is, to some degree, connected to computers and internet. Hah, even the sky. My thoughts, my doings, my commitments, my finances... it's all there. And it is convenient most of the time.

Last week I was reminded to order milk at school for my kids, and I placed the order, paid and scheduled it.
Problem is, it is too advanced. It annoys me. Too many parties are taking advantage.
So many sites are so filled with contents it takes forever to download and access. The better internet I got, the less patience I notice I have. I get more impatience now than I did before.

And where did I store my work and pictures? I have a C:, a D:, an F:, then I have the mutual external hard drive and the "sky". Trying to keep up order is really a mastermind task.

For some time things got even more complicated, and false links sneaked in, even on my online bank.
I wrote customer service, telling them how disappointed I was to experience they offered prizes on their customers' surveys, which were actually expensive subscriptions I committed to, unless it was unsubscribed within 2 days.
They wrote me back and told me it was the toolbar on my computer, not them.

When I opened a page, another one would open as well, with a video of a man telling me how to make lots of money in no time and with no effort.
I didn't want any of it, and tried to clean my laptop from everything my virus control reacted to... and then some. Not quite sure what I removed, but I did remove something, just not the right thing.

Needless to say, I got very frustrated. Foul words and stomping my foot in annoyance did no good. I couldn't figure it out.

I have an online friend in London, who I early on adopted as my computer oracle. We were chatting and I poured out my distress, complaining about how frustrated I was, but no, I wanted to be stubborn and do it myself.... of course I gave in.
I gave him the code and password and soon I could see the mouse moving on my screen, clicking this and that, entering folders and files... it was scary. It was like a sci fi happening right before my very eyes. Not only did it happen, but suddenly I got this feeling of someone tampering with my private life. I have no secrets, but that somehow didn't matter much.

I told him how uncomfortable it was.
- I saw nothing, I just did the job.

I was so grateful when we checked the laptop after: no pop ups, no extra "informative" pages, no ads covering what I wanted to read... I didn't really care. Besides I know him well enough to trust him.

Then I saw it:
-But, but... when I enter the control panel to check on programs to uninstall, it's there! I have not been able to delete it! You didn't delete it!
Even when I wrote these comments I was thinking how cunning it was to take the opportunity to get access to my laptop and go through the most private I've got in my life: my files on my computer. Yes, I am shameful to admit the doubt sneaked in on me for a split second.

-It's not there, it's empty. There is nothing in there.
He is my computer oracle, after all, and I know he knows what he is talking about, but there was this brief moment of sadness when I thought about how everything I have learned about computers for the last 30+ years crumbled.
I have learned that computers is nothing but 0s and 1s, but every 0 and every 1 are significant, and suddenly a troublesome folder, which can't be removed, is of no significance. It is only there to annoy me and pretend to be a problem!

The next day I got Windows 10, which was sent to me because I had reserved it. All I had to do was to click on the link, and it downloaded, installed, configured apps, shut down and started up again my computer several times... by itself.

Computers are machines, which only do what we tell them to do. If I tell it to do the wrong thing, the wrong thing is done.
Now I struggle with the thought of what if the link had been a mock link, and someone took advantage of my trust in windows?

What's for free and as of now.

Life is a journey. It took me a while to understand that you can enjoy the ride, rather than being hasty and only set future goals.

When I was a kid and we went on a summer vacation, we never stopped unless we had to stop and wait for a ferry. Other than that we just charged on. We passed the beautiful sights tourists from all over the world come to Norway to see, in an impressive speed to get to the next ferry on time, and we never stopped to buy luscious strawberries and cherries.
I never learned to appreciate the journey. I loathed the trip; I just wanted to get there!
We owned an Austin Maxi, it was crowded with bags and other luggage, two adults, four kids and a dog... and the only aircondition was opening the windows. Not all the roads had asphalt... Often the Border Collie and I would lay in the rear window on the hat rack. In those days that was acceptable. A huge no no these days (thank heavens!).

One summer we went to Germany. Of all ironic places we could go, we drove "Die Romantische Strasse". Hah! In the new Saab, (still no aircondition, but with a somewhat limited cool air system) and a rented caravan, we never really stopped anywhere. There was no lazy admiration of the surroundings.
I don't think my parents even knew how to do that. We stopped for the night at the nearest campground when it was time.

I still remember one afternoon we had to drive through the village to get to the campground. The streets were so narrow we had to fold in the mirrors on the car. We worried we would never be able to leave. When we parked the caravan for the night it was getting dark, and all the colorful lightbulbs decorating the gypsies' caravans were lit. It was beautiful! I was not allowed to leave the caravan at all, not untill we left the next morning.

One day, on a narrow road, in the middle of an endless  grain field; nothing to be seen anywhere but aboundance of grain and the sky, my mother lost it and burst into tears. We stayed in Detwang, just outside Rotenburg ob der Tauber, for two days before we started driving back home. The only tan any of us got on that trip was my mother's arm, from elbow to her hand.

My parents handed down the attitude of getting there. I have travelled quite a bit, but not untill recently did I discover one can slow down and ignore the clock. There is no need to hurry up because you are almost late. Some times you get there on time, and some times you can just stroll and enjoy and get there when you get there.

Sometimes life itself is like that. Even though we have a lot going on, we tend to look forward, what things will be like in the future.
I, for one, always have plans and dreams for what things will be like when...

To slow down and enjoy the roses I come across as I keep up everyday, is something I need to remind myself of.

I would hate to end up like in the song: "... life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."



And the present, what you need to enjoy what is here and now, is actually free, and of no charge.




.

Arduous Riding a Bicycle

This is a  picture I found online.
My brother had a deep purple bike like this.

I learned how to ride a bike standing under the bar on my brother's racerbike.
I must have been about 5 years old, so I fit pretty fine... even though my knees touched my chest and my bum hit the bar, every time one of the pedals peaked on top. The sight of me like this on the bike, noticeably concentrating, must have been pretty hilarious, but back then I just didn't care. I don't think something like what it looked like even crossed my mind. It was all about doing and achieving. I was thrilled by the speed. The warm feeling of self esteem, which runs through your entire body when mastering new skills, made me feel a year older, every time I could sneak away and go for a swift ride.
Of course I was not allowed; not because it was dangerous, but because my brother didn't want me to damage his deep purple, quite pricy, wonder. Back then a racer bike was still rare and unusual.

I used to push the bike uphill, to the barn, and then I would charge downhill, standing on the pedals, round the barn, on a rather poor, gravelled carriage way. When I reached the asphalted main road I would start pedaling. The speed was breaknecking, I couldn't reach the breaks. I was like Superman; stretching far in a primitive cage. Thanks to drivers with excellent reaction I am here to tell you this.

You have to love those old fashioned ladies' bikes.
This picture also from the internet.

My sister and mother shared a red ladies' bike. I didn't use that much. The seat hurt my lumbar when I pedaled, which is a pity, because you would break when pushing the pedals backwards. It could have been a slightly safer alternative than the crazed ride I was in habit for.

Oh well, finally, my 10th birthday. When in the 4th grade we were allowed to start riding a bike to school. A rule which in many places is still current. During the previous years we had to walk, but now we were allowed to ride a bike. Oh the joy, the expectation, the pure excitement of rising in the ranks. We would now enter the league of older pupils.


My parents had promised me a bike for forever, and I knew I would get one. Of course I would: I needed one to go to school!
All my friends and peers had gotten a silver ladies' racer bike, with gears. (At that age boys are not taken any notice of, not back then anyway; they had "boy-cooties". Whatever bike they had didn't matter.)

I was out on the fields, when I heard the family car back up in the farmyard. The new, dark brown Saab went silent, and I ran as fast as I could downhill to be there when they opened the trunk. I wanted to be there when the wonder was revealed.
It was my 10th birthday. I still remember the run, my border collie, Nell, was dancing around my feet as we ran.
I heard the cardoor open, I heard it shut. I was almost there.
Almost out of breath I got there in time, leaning slightly over to get the full view of the trunk when it was opened. And there it was: A brand new bike. All mine!

Hey, wait a minute... this was all wrong! I asked my dad where my bike was? "Silly you, this is your
bike. Isn't it nice?" "But it's not like the bike my friends got." I could feel my throat choking up. "No, this is different, I know. This is even better! This is a really solid bike; this will never be broken".

I don't even know if this bike has a name in English, in Norwegian it is called a "kombi sykkel" (= combined bike).
It was dark green, tiny tires, no gears and I was the only kid at school having one.
I can still taste the disappointment.
Later on another girl at school got one too, which I thought was pretty neat, cause then there were two of us at the far back when on a bikeride with the class.

I went everywhere on that bike, for years. I settled with the bike knowing it was that bike, or no bike at all.
And we became good friends, the bike and I. I still have it stored in the barn at the farm. My brother promised me he would keep it untill I come and get it. I might restore it, just for sentimental reasons... or maybe as a reminder to be grateful for what you got, even when it is really, really difficult.

13 years ago, after two pregnancies, I gained quite a few kilos. Having one son eager to ride his bike, and a 1-year old in a pram, I decided to buy a bike. I got myself a lovely, white ladies' bike with a basket up front and a children's bicycle seat at the back. I even got my first helmet! Both my kids loved our trips to the store. My thighs ached and my back hurt, but I was riding a new bike, my hair was waving in the wind and I was loving it!

I got a flat tyre, and had to fix it... after I put the tools away. When I got back outside my bike was gone. Stolen! My neighbor's fashionable, hitech, alloy bike was still parked outside his house, but mine was gone.
The lock was cut and left behind.

Some people are loyal enough to stick with their motivations. I am not one of them.
It took me years to get a new bike.

So, I got myself a new bike. Apart from the occasional bikeride with my kids, I left it alone. Standing in a corner in the yard with soft tyres and the bicycle chain turning more and more the colour of fall.

Now, on the other side of the world a man, not in the best of shape, got a bright idea about two years ago, or so.
Suddenly he posted pictures of himself on facebook with very revealing bicycle gear. You know: the proper shirt tight as sausage skin, bicycle shorts, helmet and a very impressive bike.
The pictures he posts show impressive mileage and a steadily firmer appearance.
The other day I sent him a message:
- You weren't this keen on riding a bicycle a couple of years ago.. mid life crisis? Bored?
The reply came swiftly: - Fuck off! and yes. I am so fit and loving it. Lost 30 kgs.

30 kgs. I could do with a weightloss like that.
Unfortunately my son refuses to let me ride my bike without a helmet, so I have finally bought one. One of these days it will arrive in the mail.


I can't wait! I love this!


And I am saving up to buy the bike of my dreams.

With the right equipment I'll look dashing in no time!

After all; we all know the right gear is what it takes to make a lifechangeing effort!

Good enough is perfect

Every day I see, meet and talk with lovely, young people. Most of them are young men, still uncertain of their ways, not confident enough to straighten their back to the full length, but I see there is a lot of potential.

There is something beautiful about youth. The kind of beauty you don't acknowledge, or realize. There is this inherent doubt that it will never be good enough anyway, no matter what. Literature describes it as an amazing flower still a bud. Which is actually a very appropriate description: Regardless of their baggage and background they have not yet reached the full potential of all the facets they hold as a person.
Some say: "I have seen it all. There is nothing you can say or show me I haven't heard or seen before". Usually, they have not yet seen, felt, experienced or heard the finer things in life. They think about life as tough, and the world is a rough place to hang out.

I am grateful I will never be a teenager again. It is a lot of work to be young. Young people are so opiniated; eager to share their headstrong knowledge and logic. They oppose, argue, negotiate... especially negotiate. EVERYTHING is up for negotiation, they think. And most of us adults fall into the trap and actually participate and play along.
Young people stretch the borders. They seek borders to be guided, only to find us, the adults, just as bewildered.
They want to be protected, often, to my surprise, from themselves. They want us, the adults, to carry the responsebility and hold the right answers.

They are conserned and worry about the future, they try to figure out their values and react to unfairness, but most of all they worry about coming too short. Demands are too many and often too much since noone really prepared them for the expectations they would face later in life.

I know I spent a lot of my young years being insecure. When I had the chance to be wild and vast and free, I found myself wondering, almost at a halt, in a crossroad trying to figure out what direction I should choose. My insecurity so overwhelming it battled my courageous attempt to be a person with values I could be proud of.
I felt like an ugly duckling, knowing I would always stay an ugly outsider, and never be a swan.
I have pictures. Pictures from school: Early 80s and they all wear something dark blue and have a really straight haircut... I am wearing a red jacket, totally out of fashion. And I have shaggy hair pointing in all directions. And I am the only one smiling. Back then I felt it hard to stand out; to be the one always different. Today I look at the picture and see: in spite of everything, I had a beautiful smile.

Being young is brutal. You manage, fix, cope and master; friends fail and let you down. Love passes just as easilly as it occured. Parents and society are pushing and pulling in all directions, not allowing time to take a breath and think things over... you are just carried on, not really following the flow, just unable to fight it.

Being youth passes. As do being a young adult. Suddenly, almost like by magic, you look around and realize you are no longer insecure, you are given more space, it is no longer a punishment to take on responsebility for your own actions.
The bud will bloom and turn into a beautiful flower, not always a rose, not even a sunflower or a tulip, but ever so beautiful in its imperfection.
Maybe not a perfect adult, but perfect for someone.

cards on notes... or notes on cards.

Every day I pick up my mail, and every time I get equally distressed. The mailbox is filled with commercial leaflets and bills, and apart from the newspaper, which arrives sometime during the night, that’s what’s in my mail.

I know the newspaper arrives around 3am ‘cause I “sometimes” am still up at the time. I pick it up on my way back in the house after walking my dog in the morning, and I always plan on reading it while drinking that first, food for soul cup of coffee. Being optimistic about it is more than half the fun of it; time flies in the morning and I rarely get time to neither coffee nor newspaper.

Not only does my mail add industrial amount of paper; it is also somewhat depressing. Commercials and bills: It’s like the only attention I get, is from those who want money from me.

It used to be different, though.

“It was customary to send important notices with traditional electric telegraphy, seriously developed by the American Samuel Morse in the 1840s, Mediterra-1800s until the technique was gradually replaced by telex until the 1970s, since fax and today’s various types of electronic messaging services, including email and text messages. The sender usually ordered telegram over the phone or directly in the expedition into a telegraph station and paid a fee that varied with the number of words and the distance to the receiver. The message was sent to the receiving station, was printed and delivered to the addressee by a messenger, and later on, mail or telephone bids. The method was much faster than old-fashioned letter postal services.

The Norwegian Telegrafvæsen opened Norway's first civilian telegraph line in 1855. The first telegram between Europe and the United States was exchanged in 1858. (Wikipedia)

Telegrams. The feeling when a stranger knocked on your door and handed you a friendly envelope. It’s pretty special, I tell you. I have my parents’ congratulation telegrams from their wedding. Adorned with a carefully painted flower and the Norwegian crest it looks like something somebody put some effort into, even though it’s typed on a typewriter  with glass keys.

Seeing them now with the characteristic print which typing machines left, brings the sound, the click, of each pounding to my ear and the smell of old paper imaginary(?) hovering in the room.

Now most of us barely think of anything to write to congratulate someone for any reason. We tend to use our digital platforms, like email, text or Facebook, Twitter… or any other digital, already made, easy to click platform to show we remember their occasion. We, in return, click the like button. I am not saying that social medias are insignificant or without value as a forum, not at all: I send most of my birthday greetings on facebook, adding a birthday song and a “Happy birthday!” carefully picked from youtube.

Or, we order seasonal cards with picture and text printed, and we send it off to family and friends only adding the address on the envelope… unless we send it by mail or text.

Then we are a few who believe in the old fashioned way of doing things.

I make about 70 easy-to-make-papercraft Christmas cards every year. The one time a year I make an effort. I have to admit they look at best questionable, but they are made by yours truly (with help from my kids, of course), and the writing is in my own handprint. I don’t even know what people think of them, apart from they remember they got it.

And yet, I know I should be a lot better at expressing my appreciation by sending a note. Not only because I, myself, feel it’s a highlight of the day to get something handwritten and personal in the mail, but I also feel it hard to express appreciation which very often is taken as awkward, mooshy blah, blah..  I am terrible at accepting help, I am almost just as bad at saying thank you.

A journalist I know told me he sends thank-you notes to those who help with election votes. When I asked why, he told me that:

“Sometimes I may send an email, but I have a box of thank you notes with the paper's logo on it. I send to the election people because we're always on such a tight deadline and the pressure is bad. They help out tremendously.

I may just jot off a quick "Thank you for your help. It made my job a lot easier and less stressful. I appreciate it." and then I put my name, etc.

I figure they get complaints a lot since they are public servants and deal with people a lot. So, a written thank you is something they can see and pass to other workers. Helps morale and it helps me because they will remember that and help me again next time”. (And guess what, when I say "told me" I am referring to a chat on a social media. I never heard his voice!)

Jimmy Fallon is known to write thank-you notes on “The Tonight Show” every week. 

OK, so his routine is a hoot; a joke that nevertheless points up the truth that some of the boring stuff your parents made you do never actually goes out of fashion. We are all familiar with thank you notes, and their purpose, even though it is not an everyday issue in our house or in the family.

I find sending thank you notes so sympathetic, and though it might be something people did back in the old days, it doesn’t mean it is old fashioned or out dated. In a digital world, it is so incredibly important to have the dignity to sit down and write something in your own hand. It adds emotions. You know when people say: it’s not personal; it’s business. What a stupid thing to say, it only proves that we have lost the willingness or ability to take into consideration that people we deal with have feelings, and sometimes it is very personal to them. They might have gone out of their way to benefit you. Then a text just doesn’t cut it. Conveying emotion in digital formats is a lost cause.

Let people understand they have been noticed, they have been seen. There is nothing silly, old fashioned or outdated about it, on the contrary: I strongly believe that people through history has done a lot of smart and kind things. Some made life easier, some made others feel better about themselves, and they knew this is a good circle to be in: what goes around, comes around.

Some Times, and to some, Tough Is Normal.

Unlike how I raise my own children, my father had certain issues in which he gave no pardon. He never raised his voice or anything, but there was never doubt about his opinion or stand. And I never even thought about disagreeing when he told me to do something. My kids think everything is up for negotiation, but that was not the case at all, when I grew up.

From May to September, my dad told me: “I do not care when you go to sleep; actually I don't care if you sleep at all!!!!! But 6:30 in the morning you will be dressed, boots on and ready to go”.

Every Sunday morning, from May to September that is, my dad and I went up in the mountains to count and check on the flock. He would only walk as far as above the treeline, and then he would use his stick to point where he wanted me and the dog to go.

Often we crisscrossed the mountainside for hours. Just to make sure the sheep were all right. Good thing we are talking about sheep here, because sheep like to stay at the same area, they do not scatter about.

I didn’t really mind. I was in good shape when I was young, and the early, crisp mornings offered amazing experiences. Black adders sunbathing, deer which ran off into the boscage, eagles hovering above me, high up in the sky, making sure I didn’t get too close to the nest. (We had two pairs of eagles, each with a nest in the scree near the top.)

Pouring, summer-warm rain or humid, sunny mornings; bearing promises for a wonderful summers day.

 

One time I carried a sick lamb back home, carrying it across my neck. I wasn’t used to carry sheep, and it didn’t really fit very well, so I walked back home with my neck bent in a strange angle.

You know those paintings/posters of Jesus carrying the one lost sheep? There is nothing relaxed or romantic about it! It was brutal… on me, not the lamb.

One Sunday I remember particularly well. It was fall and we had our annual sheep round-up. We came home missing 7 animals. Standing on the country courtyard, listening to the silence of a Sunday morning still wet from the heavy dew I heard them bleat, then I saw them close to the top… they must have wandered behind the mountain for the night and not returned until after we left. Anyway: I went back up with the dog and brought them home.

That afternoon I went to my boyfriend’s grandmother’s birthday party, and I was so exhausted I just burst into tears for no good reason at all.

Back then we didn’t carry water-bottles or packed sandwiches: we lived in, by, with, off nature, both summer and winter, and it was our backyard, so we went up there, did our thing and went back home.

In fall we picked berries and went hunting. In winter we chopped wood, so it would dry over the year. When I had time, I carried my skies as far up as I could (depending on hazard of avalanches) and had a great skiing ride back down home. My friends used to go to the ski resort, but I never did that. I grew up in a skiing eldorado, but never learned how to ski properly.

In spring we mended the fences, and cut the most damaged brush (caused by avalanches), to open passages and trails. During summer we harvested grass and went to check on animals grazing. My horse would sometimes join in too; checking on the flock and the surrounding farms’ cattle.

Today most farms have quit husbandry; there are hardly any animals grazing in the mountains anymore, fewer pick berries, and only a few go hunting these days. To tend to the forest and brush have become neglected and the passages are not kept open anymore, the way they used to be.

Now people drive somewhere to find more friendly tracks to go hiking. 

 

To me there is a funny twist, though. These days, each fall, sportsmen from all over the country, the elite, and anyone else absorbingly preoccupied with health and sports, enlist for a race; running from town center (the marina) to the top of the mountain. They say it is very prestigeous. And very, very tough.

Radio Luxembourg and me

Facebook opens up to new horizons in unpredicted ways. One of the groups I really enjoy is, the Radio Luxembourg 208 fans Group. Getting to know the facts and history behind this radio station is to me a real treat.

I am by no means scientific about it or a person with profound knowledge about Radio Luxembourg… actually I know nothing about the facts and figures related to it, neither do I know a lot about the people behind the transmission, but I really enjoy picking up bits of history from the archive gathered, and the memories, posted on the facebook group page. It is as if I now get to learn about what I actually took an interest in as a very young teenager.

Still, in spite of my ignorance, Radio Luxembourg has had a great impact on my life. When I was a young teenager, even as young as 11, I used to tune in on the channel at night and have a field day (or night, rather) with music; both chart-toppers and music outside the mainstream musical liking. (Apparently, the reason why I couldn't pick up on the signals too well during daytime has to do with sunray and activity...?)

I used to record the transmission, edit the talking out and by that got tape cassettes with collections of great music. I still got them; drawers full of tape cassettes I have just started transferring to Mp3 files. Without my idiot proof 5 in 1 stereo I would never have taken on the projec (I think) no matter how nostalgic. Good thing I am a living evidence that lazy people find good solutions to demanding tasks.

Listening to my recordings now, it is easy to imagine I must have had an ear for music… or perhaps it was just the influence my much older siblings had on me, which kicked in. They played in various bands, playing just about any instrument they fancied.

In retrospect I think I to some extent took part in the infancy of rock and pop by listening to the transmissions from Radio Luxembourg. I was introduced to new genres at an early stage and learned how to appreciate them. Some of my peers were really dubious to my liking for music they had not heard before and my style in clothes reflected my willingness to embrace and accept different musical genres.

As a teenager I spent most of my spare time writing and performing music. Then I got less time on my hands and had to prioritize, and music was one of the things that gave way first. Passion for music never decreased, but I left it up to others to create and perform. 

Living in Norway, at that time, meant we only had one TV channel and one radio channel. What was broadcasted was main stream and to a large extent in Norwegian, apart from detective series like Derrick, Columbo and McCloud… and The Eurovision Song Contest (Still remember how to give points in four different languages). English was our foreign language in school, but often the teachers had less knowledge of the language than the students. I derived huge advantage pronunciation wise from listening to Radio Luxembourg. I guess the hosts and dj’s “rambling on” back then are to blame for the quasi British accent I have today.

Pop music is a genre that will always be around. And it will continue to upset, thrill and comfort people. The beat and the lyrics not only support people’s mood and life situation; it also reflects the lifestyle, values, fashion and trends. People will always listen to music and music labels and radio stations will continue to track what songs people are listening to. Radio stations will still be important for introducing artists and musical styles new to the market. For as long as radio stations are transmitting (whatever form they may take in the future) and people are playing and listening to music, there will always be a chart-topper, musical icons and evolvement in use of instruments and various effects. Music will surround us where ever we are, but Radio Luxembourg is history. Part of my history.

housewives back in the days

Back in the days, when I was a little girl, people didn’t just show themselves to just anyone in what they wore around the house.

I remember my mum riding her bike in her narrow skirt and tailored jacket, all dressed up for a trip to the store; her skirt so fashionable and smart and narrow her knees thwarted by every turn of the pedals.

The heels on her shoes cleared the asphalt with just about an inch and her hair was always impeccable, in spite of the wind. No sensual mane flowing freely in those days. No way.

In those days people dressed up and looked presentable when going to the store. Even if they were just to buy a pack of gum. The housewives in my neighborhood used to spend their days, doing their thing, wearing hair curlers, often under a very nicely tied scarf, in case they had to rush off to run some errand.

The hasty visit to the bathroom to remove the hair curlers, run a brush through their hair and then spray it with hairspray, hard as enamel (and smelling like it too), was a common ritual before leaving the house or open the door when someone unexpectedly rang the doorbell.

The exception was for those daily set chores like picking up the mail (at a set hour), hanging laundry (I don't even have a line, I have a drying tumbler) and other things they had to do just outside the house, where they didn’t risk meeting anyone other than other housewives, looking and wearing the exact same thing they did themselves.

They wore aprons and house coats, protecting their clothes from getting stained or wet when cooking and cleaning and polishing.

I remember the lemony smell of furniture polish and the odour of pine from the soft soap; which was used to clean just about everything. They didn’t have spray-and-mop, no wet wipes, no deodorizing air freshener: In those days they didn’t need it because the house was clean and smelled like it.

They didn’t have an income themselves, but to a large extent they administered their husband’s income. Making ends meet. And someone was always at home when the kids got back home from school. They did a tremendous contribution to family, local environment, community and society, taking care of not just their own family, but keeping an eye on everybody they could see when looking out their windows or from their garden.

Today I get the impression at home mums are very busy outside the home: going to lunches, training or whatever they feel like doing when they have time on their hands.

I miss the mums from my childhood. I miss feeling secure and taken care of, and at the same time I sometimes wonder if they were happy?

I mean, today we take it for granted that women in Norway have a job of some sorts. When I was a kid a house cost 4 times one average income. Today an average house costs approximately 4 times two average incomes. A family needs two incomes to have the same standard of living as they did 30+ years ago.

We don’t bother to dress up to go to the store, or to have impeccable hair at all times (not even at work!), we drive everywhere and instead of protecting our clothes from occasional stains we change clothes, choosing from our extensive wardrobes.

We know all the tricks how to make house chores fast and easy… and we still end up in a stress mess wondering how to get time for it all. But we do. At the end of the day we add and subtract activities to our daily lives which makes us feel happy, and we buy whatever aid needed to help doing whatever seems like a needless waste of time. Like cleaning robots.

I know that when I was a kid, my parents remembered their childhood with the same sentimental mind I remember mine. And what we remember, and tell stories about, are most often the people who used to surround us.

They say everything was better before… not sure before what, but I do know it was before something.

I got a horse when I was a kid.

When I was a child my father got sick. His condition resulted in numerous emergency hospitalisations and my mother took an education and worked nightshift as a licensed practical nurse. By the time I was 11 my siblings had moved out, and the work on the small farm we had was, to a large extent, my job.

I didn’t really mind getting up feeding the sheep before I went to school… even if I have to admit I did not always have the time to shower before school. (To my classmates during those years: I apologize!)

I didn’t mind feeding the sheep at night before supper. There is something soothing about listening to animals settle down and eat, and in many ways working with them was to great comfort.

I didn’t even mind the nights of watching the sheep during lambing. To help new life into the world was perhaps scary at times, but when they fed for the first time and their little tails propelled like frantic all was good.

My Border Collie was my loyal friend and companion, never too far away and always willing to join me no matter the weather condition or temperature outside.

I had a good childhood, maybe different, but I never thought I was worse off than others: I learned to cook quite young, I learned to figure things out and make small repairs. I plowed my first potato field at an early age and all in all I think I got to do stuff many kids only dream of doing.

But there is one thing I still have a bit problems coming to terms with. I still wonder what my father was thinking!?

In our village there were several small farms. A few had horses, and the girls (mainly) who did not have a horse themselves were allowed to currycomb and rub down the horses, they would muck out the stables and enjoy it, they fed the horses and talked about it all week. They all wanted a horse of their own.

When I was 13 my dad told me he had decided to give me a nice surprise. I was all exited, maybe he wanted to give me a new bike (the story about my bike is a long and quite funny one, at least to me it is funny… now) or maybe it had something to do with my room?

It was nothing of the sort. My dad was quite pleased with himself when he told me he had bought me an Iceland pony. My heart fell to my stomach, and all I could think about was how much work a horse would add to my already full schedule. I had heard the girls talk about the currycombing and the mucking, the special diet a horse needed, the cleansing of hoofs and everything else they got to do to and for a horse. I knew nothing about horses apart from the fact they require quite a bit of work and dedication.

I never told him this. My worries were less important than the fact he was so pleased with himself and his plan. But I did think a lot about it.

We built a stable in the barn, and the day came when we went to pick up my horse.

Since we didn’t have any kind of animal transportation fit for a horse (transporting sheep only requires a trailer with sides built taller using pallets), we borrowed one from a man who owned many Iceland ponys and we drove off. We took the ferry across the fjord and finally came to the pick up place.

To my surprise it turned out that the herd of horses had just been collected from the mountain where they had been grazing that year. He pointed out a beautiful pony, dark brown with black mane and tail: “That one is yours! She is two years old and no man has ever laid his hand on her!”

She was captured using a lasso, not without a fight though, and we managed to put the halter on her. And at that point she figured she had cooperated enough.

Long story short… 8 men carried the pony into the trailer, secured her and we drove back home. I believe I was pretty pale, I know I was sick to my stomach dreading what may come.

On the ferry I opened the trailer in front and talked to the animal; She looked calm and accepted both my treat and my voice… and I fell in love.

By the time we parked in the courtyard, I was nervous again: Thinking that if she was let loose I would never see the pony again, ever. Since she was a bit nervous and I was not really comfortable with the situation the chemistry between us was probably not the best. I had no hope of us cooperating when getting her into the stable. My best solution was to mount a drawwork in the stable and vinch her in. It worked. Slowly but surely she accepted moving forward and into the stable. It was victory!

Two days later I entered the stable and we were friends after that.

I knew nothing about horses. And no one really told me how to treat a horse, so we found our own way of how to deal with eachother. I treated her more like a dog, and she fully believed (at least she acted as it) she was above the dog and slightly below me in the hierarchy. The dog, of course, did not agree. Nell, my dog, and Frigga, my pony, would play in the field for hours. Nell trying to be as annoying as possible while Frigga ignored her with stoic arrogance. Then suddenly they would run off in an impressive speed, tails high and peculiar jumps and bounces now and again.

I used to put a blanket on Frigga’s back, to let her get used to the feeling of something being there.

By the time she was 3.5 years old I got on her back and went for short rides. (I know it was probably a bit early, but I was light back then and she was a rather big pony.) I had no saddle (I got one from a neighbor, but the woodwork crumbled on the first ride, full trottle and all ) so I rode bare back. We spent 9 lovely years like that. When I checked on the sheep which grazed in the mountain during summer, both my dog and my pony would follow me, jaunt a bit about but never too far. And when the mountainside was not too steep or the scrub too thick I would ride a bit.

I know I never treated her like a horse should be treated and trained, but it worked for us. The film crew which lent her to use her on the set was not very pleased. She was, apparently, a tyrant to the other horses and not easy to ride. How could she be? I whistled to make her come and I told her left and right, like I did with my dog. An experienced horse rider would not know what to do with my horse or how to handle her... I never knew myself.

(From the film Kvite Viking (White Viking), 1991)