Saving history

Somehow I´m not exactly the same person returning from Langeland. As ill as ever, sure. But somehow my shadow has grown slightly denser. Now I´m not talking of some significant weight-gain or anything, but a greater sense of belonging, of being the current end to a long line of lives, loves and hardships.

There are four of us in the 6th generation with links to the island, and by the looks of things it seems my sister being the most likely candidate for producing a 7th. But lets not get ahead of ourselves.

I´ve always been a sucker for the past, and its blatantly obvious I got this passion from my Danish gran, but its not been until now when I´ve been forced in to a role of sedentism I´ve taken the time to properly listen to the story leading to myself. I´ve scribbled in pads, on napkins and on the back of reciepts, and when I remember to keep it handy, recorded on a dictaphone this past year, and maybe one day it will all boil down to an organized chronicle. But this far it feels like the bottomless well of stories that pour out of my gran, novells in themselves, is an enormous jigsaw of which I still lack an over-arching key.

Thinking of the siv-like memory of my mother I never cease to wonder if she used up the recollection capacity of two generations in one go, but in any case I´m grateful for discovering this before its too late.

My gran Elise Pedersen in the late 1940´s

When we´ve been in front of photo albums back here in Stockholm I´ve always enjoyed hearing of how she moved to Sweden as an 18-year old, working as a maid for the noble af-Ugglas family, how she then already bitten by the dazzling veils of history was allowed to rummage through the manor library among leather-bound volumes from the 17th century, or having the king mother the late Sibylla herself (who never took tea but only tomato juice) hand-sew a large set of towels for my gran´s wedding with my grandad. But it is when we´re in Denmark, when I can lean on the walls that once contained the seasons of life of her stories I feel like my mind fully absorb and nurture them in to pieces of me.



The family farm we call "Olga´s" after my grans aunt who lived and died there


My gran had two older sisters and when their parents and aunt died, they inherited one house each. My grandparents cared for the family farm for as long as the body of my grandad could manage, then they had to let it go. Her oldest sister Ellen and her son Ole stayed on in the house their father built on the island, where the girls grew up. The two of them had very odd perceptions of maintenance and cleanliness, and I dare say suffered all kinds of dilusions, so ending up sharing their humble castle with every stray cat of the region, and their breeding intentions, and soon losing all household priviliges. Now Ole is gone and Ellen has been forced to move down to the care-home of the village. Meaning that the house must be sold and my mum and gran have been rummaging through the enormous health hazard that once was called Janus for the few family heir-looms that hasn´t yet disintigrated under years of treatment to cats claws and excrements.


I wasn´t of much help in that department, but I was up there practicing a bit of the old phenomenology (never thought I´d have any use of that abstract fucker again after finnishing my dissertation), geared out in wellies, hat, torch and plastic gloves. And although the stench was almost unbearable and I came upon two whole dead felines and one rat (the size of a cat) I was able to see glimts of my great grandmother making jam in the kitchen, the family gathered in the living room listening to the 9 pm BBC broadcast during WW2, gran looking out the window of her room or Ellen at work at the loom. Next summer the house will be someone elses, and the bonds to the 5 generations who have called Lohals their home will be almost severed. So I can only proud shoulder the custody of what my family has left and thank for this opportunity to put a face to what can no longer be seen.


My gran´s childhood room

The upstairs hallway

The kitchen










The library