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A
woman's frustration and manifest determination to
overcome and
rule those who would rule her.
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A visit in Sweden
and my cousin, for the first time in seventy five years...
“You sound…I don’t know, like an old person on the radio…someone’s grandfather,” he said. “I do not mean to offend you,” he went on as he’d filled in the paperwork for the car, “...possibly like my grandfather. It is nice to hear and a little bit amusing.” The immersion into Swedish culture continued as I drove north into the county of Dalarna, the place my maternal great-grandparents had fled in the 1800s. Some books I'd read said it was because of the starvation that was endemic in Scandinavia at the time. Others said it was that...but also the desire for more religious freedom. My relatives had been pretty strong church people; all the old photos showed everyone dressed in black, from head to toe and I remembered my mother and her sisters describing the dark clothing. Five hours driving brought me to my cousin’s farm, which wasn’t hard to find. I just asked when I got to the village of Dala-Järna. Again, the amused look at my halting Swedish. I sensed they wanted to know more about my and my ancient accent...who I was and why I was visiting; but their innate Swedish politeness prevented the question. When I arrived at 2:30 in the afternoon, my cousin’s family were eating dinner, or so it appeared. I was immediately invited into the kitchen and given a place at the table, a long pine affair, entirely covered with food. A large basket of assorted breads dominated the shiney boards, flanked by a platter with at least four oddly-shaped cheese blocks and another of sliced luncheon meats. I thought I had my times mixed up, but my cousin explained that this was their main meal of the day, having been in the barn, milking cows and working, since six a.m. and after a short nap, they'd be right back at it in another hour. I pulled up and was quickly caught up…stumbling to both speak and understand their Swedish. “You are speaking the old way,” my cousin's man, Olle said, “...it is the local dialect...mål," he smiled kindly. "We use it too, when we are not in the city.” And they did speak it wholly, then and it was far easier for me to understand them. Like other Swedes I'd met along the way, they found it curious that I spoke mål, after it being so long since my great-grandparents had emigrated. “That was in the early 1880’s, was it not? To think, it has survived in Amerika...it is wonderful and you are most welcome here at our home." After the meal, we went into what was intended as their parlor, I guessed. There were many very old photographs, copper and iron utensils, assorted books and other old things ringing the room. They seemed proud of their old culture and heritage, I noticed and like that about them. “Here is your great-grandfather…the one who…?” he pointed to a framed tin-type photo on the wall. “Yes, the one who probably fathered my grandmother and…they didn’t marry,” I helped him over the embarrassing introduction that my grandmother was a bastard child. “Yes…that is it...we call them oäcktabarn.” “I see. Do you know anything about them...illegitimate children...child?” “Nay…almost nothing. They never spoke of it...the old people. It was something to be ashamed of…what happened...for both sides, I think.” “We spent the remainder of the day talking until it was time to milk the cows again. I volunteered to help them with the milking. “Do you know how to milk cows,” he asked, surprised?” “American cows, yes. Are Swedish cows different?” “I am not sure, but Lisa will find you some suitable clothes and you can see whether they are the same, or not.” ©
2007 Smultron Publications, All Rights Reserved
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What is a Valkulla?
 continued in the previous chapter...
The life of a valkulla is often romanticized, but it was in fact work of drudgery with the girls rising before dawn to milk, clean the barn, utensils and drive the cows and goats to the forest pasture. Someone usually remained with the animals until it was time to bring them home for evening milking. The old women who remained “at home” in the Fäbod churned the butter and made cheese. They also cooked whey butter from the whey that remained after making cheese. This was a slow and exacting process, not trusted to young girls, for near the end, it could be so easilly burned. On weekends, village boys, come a courting, siblings and husbands often took the long walk up the mountain to the fäbod to relieve the mutual loneliness. Then a festive occasion ensued and there would be much singing and dancing until the early hours. An experienced valkulla gained a considerable standing of esteem in the community, depending on her skill. A vallkulla who could make the best butter, cheese, mismõr and sew and knit the finest garments for her master, was pursued by many farmers. offering higher wages for her to take their cows the following year. Nevertheless, a valkulla’s life consisted of loneliness, hard work and often dangerous situations...wolves, bears and wandering men often came through the fäbod , lurking around the mountain cabins with evil on their minds. ...end
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