6. Walk of life

The years at Nesset went by- The exhaust-coated house of ours did get more and more skewed.  At slow speed it sunk down into the soaked “Everglade-like” foundation, while on the inside… was a storm heading our way.  Like a glacier, the mood of the house and it inhabitants went from warm to cold. Like an old guitar not being tuned, the mistuning became a part of every room in the house.  It was like the invisible glacier spread inside the walls, growing hard – through the kitchen floor spreading to the second floor, making frost roses on the windows.  A painful silence was established, like a thin layer of ice – all the way up to the attic, where my grandfather lived.  Sorrow was silently added to both adulthood and childhood.  It took the dance away from our feet, laughter out of the heart and joy out of life.

Not that we noticed it in the beginning.  Me and my brother had as much fun as before.  I had a horse, riding through the everyday life in full gallop.  And I marched, with the marching band, and my clarinet to the beat of the drums, and I played soccer with the girl team. The last with any trace of coordination or talent (but I put my soul into it).  Besides, I was blessed with a grandfather on the attic buffering everything that was unpleasant.  Grandfather in the attic, the world’s most caring man, with bushy eye-brows and groomed hair.  With his strong arms, after many years as a longshoreman at the docks in Oslo.  Plumber, with a past as banana-boat loss boy, but he also had worked as a dentists assistant during the second world war. I’m not sure this was before or after he received his certificate as plumber, but the point is that he did not – under any circumstances – have any education to justify his work as a dentist’s assistant.  During the war, he pulled out all the teeth of a German patient.  And nobody cared, except from the patient maybe…

My grandfather’s fingers were yellow from excessive smoking, and he always had a curled up pouch of tobacco in his chest pocket.  The beer was not exactly out of reach either.  Green glass bottles were lying dew-cold in his bag. Always. Within arm’s reach.  My grandfather drank. Periodically.  Some periods longer than others, but I didn’t mind at all.  My dad probably thought otherwise, but for me he was the nicest, most caring granddad. Granddad who always had porridge ready during the winter, when we came home from school, and the snow was blowing round our ears. Rice Porridge, semolina porridge, butter porridge.  Nobody could make butter porridge the way he did.  To this day, I have never experienced butter porridge like that, I haven’t really eaten it since… But IF I had, it wouldn’t even be close.  Granddad that always listened carefully to what we had to tell about that days events, and willingly sharing his own events  - from the times that consisted of more than drinking buddies at the docks. He was mild, warm and THERE.  Loving, honest and caring,  in the middle of the moist.  When the storms between mum and dad raised – he was walls, roof, house and home.  The anchor.  That never let go. My rock, in everything floating.

In 1985, the ice hit the roof, punching a big hole – and mum and dad divorced and split up. That would say, my mom stayed, and my dad went to the end of the world… I sent him there.  I was angry and unforgiving.  An attacking warrior on horse.  Attacking was the best defense. Total rejection.  The tears found their way like a flooding river, and the house unnoticeably continued it’s journey down in the “everglade”, together with, mum, my brother and myself. Everything real became unreal.  I did not recognize the world.  The paradise of childhood slammed the doors at me and I dived into a ocean of anger, sorrow and bottomless despair.  I desperately cut bonds, then tried desperately to tie them back together. I was 13 years old, and what was I to belive in, when the one’s creating me did no longer exist?   My landscape was torn to bits and pieces, it was the end of the world and a new world war at the same time. Catastrophe and chaos. Pain and darkness. There was moments where even the heartbeats froze to ice, I was numb and empty.

After a while, my mum packed the remaining of the past into boxes.  She locked the doors of ice and proclaimed it was time for a new life. She put on her skates and kickstarted life again, while listening to Dire Straits. Walk of life pulled the days, and blew gently a warm breeze on the black ice.  She refused to stay “knocked”. So we stood up, mum, my brother and myself – led by Mark Knopfler and his brilliant guitar.  Slowly the winter turned into spring. I had to grow up, before I could understand how hard that journey was for my mother.  What a strong mum I have, she never quit walking.   She always got up.  At the time I was to busy with my own sorrow.  The anger I had towards my dad was raging inside me. How could he leave us? His family.  That was the first hard lesson in life for me.  Nothing lasts forever, not even those emotions – thank god for that.

I don’t remember to much from that time.  I cannot even remember the day we moved, and my grandfather had to find himself a new attic.  I don’t remember if I went down to the creek to say goodbye to my beloved sticklebacks, who now could live a life free from worries of me and my brother.  I don’t remember if we said goodbye, or had a farewell party in the fields. Probably, we grew from that, too fast.  It didn’t really matter – it was the end to the fairytale.  We left the highway behind us, and let the house live it’s own life – as the Atlantis feat. The Everglades.  It was the end to a hell of a way, to get to school. 2 kilometers a day, straight up… Or down, dependning on what end of the day we are talking about. Some hills, you don’t need to conquer them every day.  Even followed by the “Walk of Life”. When I think back, it would have been great if it was one of your songs that carried my mum through this.   Maybe you would have listened a little more carefully then… For let’s face it, so far, I haven’t spoken a word about YOU.  Maybe you are getting impatient, but I cannot ADD details that are not correct, not a part of the truth.  I am not building this project on a lie, it’s a little like: Take it, or leave it.  You will soon enter the story, first as a guest visit, a small one.  I just hope that you are still reading.  I hope you are just not skimming the story, that would be a bad sign, luckily I’m not looking over your shoulder to see if that is what happens.

Now, in 2012 lies a beautiful February-day out there. February, my month.  Quite ironically actually, since I freeze my butt of just getting the mail. In a few days time, I will turn 40… And I can’t wait ‘til spring. When everything comes to life, when life springs from the crust of the earth. When life itself comes to life, and warms the cold souls so that dreams and new roads are let free. Can’t be long, I heard the spring birds sing yesterday.  That makes the wait shorter. I am working the night shift today, finally having time for you on the other end of the day.  Usually I have to stay up all night, but today I have had the sunlight with me – and the cold outside.  And I can promise you, that it is much better to have the cold outside, than on the inside.  This is the hardest chapter of this journey so far.  I have been over this over and over again, also with my dad.  Because he has his story, just like my mum, and my brother.  And when all this is brought together, you get the truth about the past.  But remember, you only hear my voice in this story.  Mum and dad is backing me up every step on this road.  I hope I am worthy that trust.  It’s for their honor I am able to take this journey.

I wish you a great day, Bruce. Where ever you are. Talk to you soon.

Rikke.
Posted in Norwegian February 10. 2012