Seen from afar, from the deep darkness of Swedish February, Scandinavian summers are magical. Ripe with colour. Full of light.
Soft and gentle breezes caressing your sun-kissed skin. And we all sing, like little blond Cinderellas enjoying our mundane chores.
There’s never a quarrel, never a harsh word spoken. The kids roam freely in the fields and woods and come home for dinner carrying strawberries and blueberries in their little aprons. And the boys have frogs, string and bottle caps in their pockets. They go fishing with their handsome fathers with home made fishing rods and a hook made from a bent nail.
And there’s soft music from transistor radios in every garden and the neighbours are waving and saying hello in their friendliest voice.
At night, when the mothers tuck the kids in, the sheets are a bit stiff to the touch from hanging on the line all day. And the fresh, crisp scent of air dried laundry lingers, while the kids drift of to dreamland where they do the same as they have been all day; laugh and play.
It’s a dream. I know.
But from where I sit right now, it’s a beautiful dream.