Mormor

When I first met Wife and we started dating, she lived not far from where we live now. It’s a ten-minute drive from our house to the cul-de-sac where the other yellow house is. My place across town, on the south side, about a five-minute walk from our first apartment together, was an 18-minute drive from her. But that’s in the middle of the night, with no traffic, and with some speeding.

The best

Back then, Wife had a roommate, and I remember her telling me wonderful stories about how the two of them would cook dinner together, and then eat in front of the TV, watching their favorite shows.

And the next day, when Wife left for work, she had a lunch box with her, filled with leftovers from the delicious dinner the night before.

On Friday nights, or, not every Friday night, but every now and then, her roommate would take out the rose hip sherry bottle, and the fine glasses, and they’d have a drink together.

When I came along, their Friday nights together became more scarce, but the three of us did hang out at their kitchen many a night. We spoke about Finland, and on a few occasions, I helped her read a letter she had got from Finland and then craft a greeting back in Finnish. She became my ally, and somebody non-intimidating for me to practice my Swedish with.

Or mushroom picking. Now, I know next to nothing about mushrooms, and even less what to do with the ones I’ve picked, but when Wife and I went picking mushrooms with her roommate, I was the luckiest guy in the world. Not only was it nice to do anything with Wife, but oddly enough, I seemed to find a lot of mushrooms just by following the roommate’s tips.

“Why don’t you look under that tree over there,” she’d say. I’d go see, and lo and behold, there’d be a whole bunch of … things there.

Well, she was more than Wife’s roommate, or a landlady.

She was her grandmother.

The tiny, white-haired lady with the biggest of hearts was already 78 when I first met her, but Mormor, – Swedish for maternal grandmother, and yes, in her case, capitalized – seemed to be able to get a lot more things done than I, or even a person not even remotely as lazy as me. She collected clothes to be sent to Estonia, worked with the church flea market, and was often seen walking around her neighborhood, going to the store and what not. She seemed to have a lot of balls in the air, and whenever the family got together she was in charge of the kitchen like a cook on a Navy vessel.

She’s the most positive person I’ve ever met, and not in a classic glass-half-full kind of way. She’d be happy to just have a glass which she would then praise, before filling it with something tasty to drink and then passing it around so that everybody else would feel good and welcome.

When we moved to this house about a year ago, we decided to give our old microwave to her. She kindly accepted, but didn’t ever use it, because it was “too big”. And maybe a little scary, with all the buttons. Besides, her old one was still OK, and if that didn’t work, she could always go back to her even older way of warming stuff up, the one she used when Wife was her roommate, when she used to put a small bag of frozen food behind the radiator to unfreeze it.

A stroke slowed her down a few years ago, but she stayed the same happy presence she’d always been. Kind, understanding, easy with the laugh. She’s not one to use harsh words – unless the harsh word is 14 down in a crossword puzzle. And she’s always, always baked the birthday cakes for everybody. Because they’re the best.

She was over at the Wife’s parents’ place for a family Easter lunch a few days ago. In the middle of the kids’ treasure hunt, organized by grandpa, Son rushed in to ask Mormor Intrigue – as he says her name, switching the consonants in his great grandmother’s name – how old she was. Her age was a part of the code he had to crack. She was looking at photos of her latest great-grandchild, a four-week-old little baby boy.

“Yeah, you know, how old am I? Let’s see, I am 88 now, I’ll be 89 in the summer,” she said.

“Wow, eighty-eight,” said Son, thanked her, and ran back out, to find his treasure.

Yesterday, Mormor was rushed to the hospital. It was her heart. The organ.

8 thoughts on “Mormor

  1. Today was the day for Mormor Ingrids funeral. I’m very sad I couldn’t be there. Instead I was home with my wonderful oldest girl who was sick today. It was a calm day in Tromsö with plenty of time for thoughts. I thought about Ingrid and we talked about her, me and Mira. She really was a lovely person, religious in the most positive way, thankful, giving, and never judging. In Miras (and the rest of the kids mind) she also made the best small pancakes (plättar). We never make small pancakes in our family (I only remember a few times in my life having them) but every time the children came to Mormor Ingrid she offered them her speciality. So we have decided we should have a small pancake day in her memory. Maybe your family wants to join us when we move back to Stockholm?

Let's talk! Write a comment below.