Is this the little girl I carried?

The Only-Begotten Daughter and the Love of Her Life didn’t let go of each other’s hands and eyes from the moment the walked up the church aisle to their exit in a cloud of rose petals and soap bubbles. Their loving looks could have lit up the hall all by themselves. The couple had clearly spent the last year planning every smallest detail of the wedding, achieving the effortless smoothness of practice. The solo performance by one of their friends of “For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her” was the idea of my daughter, I am convinced.

A bus was waiting outside to take all wedding guests to the manor in the city where the wedding dinner would be served. I realised Långholmen indeed is quite a long island. The wedding cake was eaten and then we were sent out on a quiz-walk in the brisk autumn afternoon while the dinner was laid out. Merrily picking choices we found that details of academic titles can be quite complicated (as if I didn’t know).

The dinner was served in a very church-like room, which however was the billiards and music hall of a previous owner. Each seat had been supplied with a leaflet giving brief but spot-on descriptions of all guests, so that everybody immediately could start conversations with unfamiliar faces. The catering staff had apparently memorised each person’s dietary requirements as they efficiently served the courses through the evening. We parents of the brides made our speeches during the entrée. I believe I managed reasonably well, but the heart-felt and witty speeches of their friends brought what tears had not yet been shed. That they both had retained so many of their childhood friends tells something of their loyalty and indeed at one point the OBD interrupted the proceedings to honour the birthday of one of these friends. The dinner ended with everybody lustily joining in in “Chiquitita”.

Another interlude during which the tables were cleared to open the dancefloor. The bridal waltz turned out to be “Graceland”, which I hadn’t realised was so danceable. My mother jitterbugged as if age didn’t matter, but eventually we took her home and went to sleep, letting the young folks dance on. The baton has now been passed to the next generation.

Heritage

Today the OBS absolved the public defence of his PhD thesis. My grandfather went to school because they served lunch, saving his mother a meal. My parents received secondary education. The OBS has been in education since preschool.

One of the professors in the grading committee I knew from when we were sprightly Young Scientists, with hair, in the 1980s. Already then we had set out on our respective research tracks. We’ll hang along for a little while, but the next generation is waiting to take over. And that is as it should be.

Emotions with Björn Afzelius

I should have posted this five years ago, but I only first heard it a few days ago. Still worthy of listening to.

The Only-Begotten Children

I’m not the only one to have Only-Begotten Children, but so does Prince Philip, as witnessed by the Reverend Hubert Rumtumtibumbum (starts at 5:00):

With a lifetime guarantee

Pomp and circumstance

Today the Only-Begotten Daughter graduated from high school. Parents and other relatives were not invited to whatever ceremonies were done inside the school, but waited out on the square outside waving the usual placards with baby pictures of the freshly-baked students. Some boys from the lower forms stood in a cluster and shouted intermittently, whether caught up in the expectant excitement or wanting to draw a bit of attention to themselves. A couple of minutes before the hour the graduates exited the school building, led by a blond young man in shorts and buttoned shirt with a shoulder belt supporting the Swedish flag he carried. ”Den ljusnande framtid är vår” got just a wee bit too close to “Tomorrow belongs to me” for my sensibilities.

They paraded around the square and then went up to the school again, to stand on a balcony and sing the Student Song gloriously out of key. Then they all rushed down the hill into the waiting arms of their proud parents. Some of them would then continue into the city by lorry, joining other graduates in spreading loud music and beer over Stockholm.

The OBD however eschewed drunken debauchery, so we just had a quiet celebration in the family.

Now it’s just the rest of life ahead. Does anyone have a job for a skilled artist trained in science?

Ah, youth!

The Only-Begotten Daughter’s Boyfriend’s Band was playing at the famous anarchist café and I had been invited. I arrived a bit early and stepped in. Youngsters in black, acne fading into piercings, dyed hair, stared with surprise at the old geezer who obviously didn’t belong. I for my part stared at the walls covered with posters exhorting action and revolution, many of which I remembered from when I was their age. One poster listed the distinguishing signs of a plain-clothes policeman, possibly I displayed several of them.

Presently another elderly gentleman turned up, presumably a proud father of a musician, also out of his element:
“Can I pay with credit card?”
“Uh, no.”

I paid the entrance fee in cash and had my hand stamped: RETURN TO SENDER

Finally both the Only-Begotten Children turned up and we sat down, waiting for the concert to start. I used the rest of the cash I had to buy dinner, a vegan risotto with beans that turned out to be cheap, good, and plentiful. I was also (finally!) introduced to the OBDB’s parents.

The concert space was festooned with murals, mottos, and the tags and signatures of hundreds of bands that had played there over the years. Several times when audience members entered the room I gave a start and thought I saw a classmate, and immediately had to remind myself that they would now be as middle-aged as me, but apparently the look and fashion has never quite gone out of style.

The first band consisted of the classic three guitars and drummer and demonstrated that the sound system was amply dimensioned for the relatively small space. They all carefully wore ear plugs and the rest of us could experience the drums and bass straight through our sternums. The lead guitarist finished by showing exactly how fast he could play. Quite impressive, in fact.

The OBDBB came on next, also three guitars and drums, but played much more softly, concentrating on poetic lyrics (in English, natch). The OBDB even changed guitars during the set. Very professional.

The final band also consisted of mop-topped three guitars and drums, playing in the shoe-gazing style, but they also added a lead singer. In this case it was the drummer who demonstrated his speed-drumming skills.

Eventually the gig was over and I wandered down along Katarinavägen, looking at the view over Stockholm and feeling a bit like Viktor Rydberg’s gnome: Where do all these kids come from, generation after generation?

Older than ever before

Today my youngest, my Only-Begotten Daughter, comes of age.

Against all (my) expectations, their mother and I have managed to bring up two fine human beings, who by all accounts should do well, by themselves and by others. Yet whenever I see them, superimposed on their gangly figures are the newborn baby, the sweaty sleeping toddler, the sick and crying child, the joyfully running pre-schooler, the earnest pupil, the love-lorn teen. I still want to protect them and I fear for their future, but they have to fend for themselves and they’ll do fine, they’ll do fine.

Young art

As the Only-Begotten Daughter reminds me, she has recently had her first art exhibition.

Teater Accént, in addition to schooling young performers, have initiated Galleri Accént, where young artists can exhibit their work in the theatre’s premises. So the OBD and several of her friends worked hard for weeks sculpting, photographing and painting, spreading the word through all those wonderful social media and then rigged up the labyrinthine cellar spaces of Teater Accént with both art and a nice setting for viewing.

This is when we arrived on the scene. I was pleased and proud, though not a bit surprised, to find that the Daughter’s pieces were among the best featured, in particular her photography. (Anything else would clearly have been against the laws of (parental) nature.) She even managed to sell a painting (though not the featured one).

Hippo happy

250 K and the already strained public transport breaks down completely.

On the crowded train a teeny child is unhappy—hot, bored and with the sniffles. It cries dejectedly. Its mother thinks for a while, then pulls out her mobile and puts this on repeat. The child immediately stops crying and stares at the funny animals with a beatific smile for at least the twenty minutes I was with them on the train.

I'm pleased that at least someone got something good out of the day; myself I am thawing frostbite for the second time today.

Finsmakare

Zeno berättar om sin släkts Tacksägelsefirande och noterar att lille B ännu inte talar rent, till omgivningens munterhet. Jag påmindes då om den Enfödde Sonen, som länge inte kunde uttala ”r”. Han var också mycket förtjust i pommes frites, så på hamburgerrestaurangen meddelade han glatt och mycket ljudligt:
 – JAG VILL HA FRITTAR!

You cheat!

I've spent the day playing with Denephew. I've never understood the principle of letting a weaker opponent win, so at one point he yelled: “You have to run slower, that's what adults do when they play with children!” Bah, he fits in narrower spaces than me*, so no mercy!

*) Here's another tip: If you play hide-and-seek and you know where the kid has hidden, you don't have to immediately retrieve them if you need a breather.

The stage is all a world

The Only-begotten Daughter's theatre class had developed a play of their own again, yet again touching on the theme of struggling for a better world while people are as they are.

The setting was of a house scheduled for demolition being squatted by a disparate gang of youths, ostensibly to turn it into a house of youth culture, but the high-flying plans coming to nothing. A dizzying ambiguity underlay everything, not allowing any easy taking of any given position, putting every interpretation into question. Their soliloquies on how life could be more beautiful or their own pain were just enough over the top to possibly be taken as ironic subversions of themselves, yet perhaps not. In the end the police storm the building and the group stand together, lighting up the dark with their little cigarette lighter sparks of hope, singing “Imagine”, yet defecting into the dark one by one.

Certainty? Nowhere.

She's all right

A song I've been looking for since it aired here in the early 1990s: “She's all right” with the Chipmunks. Marsha is impressively broadly skilled but what on Earth is the notation on Simon's blackboard? (2:17–2:44)

Ordnung muß sein!

Jag irriteras då och då av att vissa formuleringar förlöjligas som varande ”politiskt korrekta” – varför skulle det vara mindervärdigt att vara korrekt? Vakteln är politiskt korrekt vilket innebär att hon är mycket, mycket precis. Precision är bra.

For obvious reasons

Approved by the Stockholm Visitors Board

Today I am lobster red, the usual result of taking me outdooors. Yesterday my sister and I arranged a belated birthday celebration for our mother and took her on a day trip to Drottningholm Palace. Of course we went by steam boat: S/S Drottningholm.



The much-praised Stockholm Archipelago is really the continuation of the islands, isles and islets in Lake Mälaren and I've always been very fond of travelling lakeside where the shores creep near the boat. It is also fascinating to know that what looks as dense pine forests in fact are just thin barriers in front of the most densely populated areas of Sweden. Shore protection laws are cool.

Denephew wasn't quite as appreciative of the beauty of water travel.



Soon however we arrived at Drottningholm and found ourselves a spot on a lawn where we picknicked. The sister had bought a Kubb set and soon we had a closely fought game going. Denephew insisted on being on my team, which much flattered me, and he didn't do at all badly, but eventually we (or at least I, he wouldn't hear of it) had to concede defeat.

Then Denephew and I went to explore the Labyrinths. I found to my surprise that the hedges all had little passages just the size for five-year-olds to run through and leave any adults behind. I don't know if they have been created on purpose by the gardeners or if millions of visiting children over the years have excavated them. I tried to explain the principle “If you get lost, stay where you are!” to Denephew, but it didn't stick as the imperative to joyously run as fast as his little legs would carry him overruled all concerns about ever getting home again. Fortunately his high-contrast clothes allowed me to glimpse him every now and then through the hedges and thus retrieve him. When I tired of the run-and-seek I scooped up the little lad and carried him back to his parents who by then had collected our belongings in preparation for a tour of the palace itself.

As has been noted by others, children strongly prefer ice cream to ancient art so while I was very fascinated by the huge battle paintings with careful legends, I did not get much of a chance to study them. I was very bemused by the room full of Klöcker Ehrenstrahl portraits of Charles XI's generals, all looking exactly the same, followed by the room full of von Kraft portraits of Charles XII's generals, all looking exactly the same. (Sorry, no photography allowed indoors.) I will have to return at some point to study all these closer.

Denephew then got his Nazi ice cream and we boarded the boat for the trip home. On the way, Denephew and his father played guessing games:
“What's round and brown, you roll it and you can fry it?”
“An egg!”
I think the boy should have gotten full points for that, one must be precise.

More growing-up

So, the Only-begotten and Infinitely-beloved Daughter graduated from 9th grade. As a first step all 9th-graders in the school and their teachers had a dinner and a ball earlier this week. Parents were requested to help as bouncers and of course I responded, as always when Duty calls.

But, as I was leaving the office, the phone rang and I got stuck for an hour, helping a computer illiterate (but at least properly contrite) user somewhere several time zones away troubleshoot an installation of the company's software. So, as I arrived at the site, the dance had already begun. First, though, I had to make my way through the Breathalyzer-equipped squad of parents at the door. I was recognised and let into the building.

In the temporary headquarters I was given the plans for the evening and then I went out to reconnaitre the site. I noted with some consternation that the songs the DJ was playing were much the same as were popular when I was their age. A mother confirmed that there is an 80s revival underway—her son had expressed surprise that she was so into modern music that she knew the words to his favourite songs…

All the boys were very conservatively dressed in suits and ties (except for the one rebellious one dressed like Alexander De Large). The girls wore equally conservative dresses, but had by then given up on their high-heeled shoes and almost to a woman moved around barefoot.
The Daughter, dressed in a charming self-made combination of black tulle and latex, and her posse graciously came to greet me but then flitted away for other entertainment and I went on perimeter patrol. All was well and the returning long-distance reconnaisance platoon had nothing to report.

Groups of party-goers were starting to leave around 22:00, some in taxis, but at least one group of girls in brightly-coloured dresses, their shoes in their hands, sat at the tram stop like a lineup of exotic birds.

Eventually the Daughter and her friends also left for homes or other more interesting places. I stayed on a while longer, but as the number of parents soon outnumbered the dwindling number of still-dancing children, I was eventually dismissed.

And today was the graduation ceremony proper.

It started with the school choir leading the assembly in ”Den blomstertid nu kommer ”, which surely must be blasphemy, obviously it should be sung last.

Prizes were handed out.

As deservedly as could be wished for the Daughter received the prize for best results in Swedish and I whooped loudly from my balcony perch. The headmistress fumbled a bit with the words and awarded prizes for “fine results in spite of their hard work” to a couple of pupils. There was much rejoicing among the comrades of those who received prizes.

The choir came on stage again and a girl sung “Fields of Gold”, rather choked with emotion, and several girls, both in the audience and the choir itself, made weird flapping motions with their hands that I eventually deduced were attempts to dry their eyes without mussing up their makeup. I at my first row seating just had to lean forward and no-one could see the state of my eyes.

More songs, but eventually the classes withdrew to their home rooms for the handing out of grades (the Daughter points out she got even better grades than her brother, I am insanely proud), saying of goodbyes etc. The farewells grew increasingly protracted and eventually the Daughter sent the family off while she remained with her friends for yet a while.

Secular trends

At my god-mother's funeral, there were some two hundred neighbours, relatives, and friends present. I noticed that I, my cousins, second cousins, etc, were, almost all of us, a head taller than our parents' generation, born in the war years with scarcity of food and everything else.

The Only-begotten Son passed me in length quite a while ago and I now have to reach up to tousle his hair.

But when he got on the stage today to receive his graduation prize he was the shortest of the young men up there. Where will this end?



No… Try as I might, I just can't manage to coolly drop that in passing…
MY SON GRADUATED FROM HIGH SCHOOL AT THE TOP OF HIS CLASS TODAY AND I'M PROUD TO THE POINT OF BURSTING!

An outing

The gang were going down to the Air Force Museum in Linköping and I brought along the Nephew, so as to properly indoctrinate him. Well, clearly the Lego pit was much more interesting than old aircraft, but climbing in and out and in and out and in and out of the old Draken cockpit was fun too.

The rest of us were treated to a very detailed description of how to actually fly a mission in the Draken by a museum guard who turned out to be a former control and elint officer. In response to a tricky question he said: “I'll hand that over to a weapons technician.” and turned to another museum employee hovering nearby who then went into a deeper explanation of the properties of first-generation Sidewinder missiles. Museums seldom keep with knowledgeable staff, but this seems to be the rule at the Air Force Museum. Kudos!

The museum shop is also to be commended in that they are not afraid of procuring rare model kits in order to be able to have as many Swedish Air Force Aircraft as possible available for purchase.

(However, I was a bit annoyed that in spite of promises, the museum had not updated the sign that claimed the 57 mm cannon on the SAAB T-18B was the largest-calibre gun ever carried on an aircraft. In Sweden, to be sure, but not in the world, where at the time several 75 mm monsters were lugged around and in later days even 105 mm howitzers have been used onboard aircraft.)