Vitsand, Sweden
  Photos (c)Russell Johnson

Midnight in the Garden of Swedes and Norwegians 

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The Scandinavians like their summer nights. There aren't so many of them…but they can become intense. The bandstand at Tivoli Gardens in quirky Copenhagen is a place for an early evening jam. 

I grew up with Danes and Swedes and Norwegians. The Danes were always the most fun. The Swedes and Norwegians told long jokes. They had great punchlines but it took a Finnish winter to get there. Of northern European cities, Copenhagen ranks as one of my favorites. But, if you really want to stay up late, you have to go north.

I went to discover my roots. An old friend of my father's said that I really had to go there to understand my family's odd behavior. My dad was born in a little town called Vitsand in the Lakes District made famous by the Kristin Lavransdatter books. It is nestled in a bed of pines scattered with red houses and barns. I have seen pictures of it taken in the 1920s. It hasn't changed.

My father immigrated to America, like many others, to escape poverty. Farmers in the valley put themselves in hock and lost their homes either to merchants or, God forbid, the church. I have learned to be wary of Lutherans from cold countries. One from my dad's hometown was a real piece of work.

There is a folk song still sung here about my grandfather and his brother. A new preacher came to town and decided that each of his flock would have to be re-baptized, in the middle of the winter, by being dipped in the lake through a hole in the ice. Of course, there was a fee involved. My grandfather's brother never married but he did have three lovers, all named Ingeborg. After Ingeborg number two died of pneumonia after her dipping, the boys took the law into their own hands. They grabbed the preston (as preachers are called) stripped him naked and plunged him into the cold water. Then they threw him in their wagon and hauled him out to the woods.

The preston was never seen again.

The region is called Varmland and it is still an area of small farms. Gorgeous country, where Swedes flock to ski in the winter and, in the summer, hike the pine forests and fish in the lakes. Vitsand is within Tiveden National Park. One part of the park has supposedly never been inhabited by man, at least human beings. Trolls, maybe. It is called Trolltiven. You can pretty much hike anywhere you want in Sweden. There is a law on the books called "Every Man's Right." You can hike on anyone else's land, swim in anybody's lake, pick anyone's flowers, mushrooms or berries. Within reason, of course.

I went to visit one of my umpteen cousins. Here, everybody seems to be related. He told me that the town was abuzz just before I arrived. There had been a Shirley sighting. Shirley sightings took place, they said, once or twice a year.

Shirley MacLaine supposedly had been spotted in a nearby store. My cousin drove me up to a fenced retreat where a world famous "channeler" held court. I don't understand a word of Swedish, but after Sunday dinner a bunch of guys sat around talking. One of them held his hands over his eyes and said something in Swedish sing song, and everybody laughed. My cousin translated: "Those people up in the hills…they can see with their eyes closed."

I visited the area's main roadside attraction, the "Place of the Cross." There is a fence around a patch of grass and a whole tourbus full of people were peering over it. My cousin told me it was shaped like a cross…and it always grew that way. I couldn't see it.

My cousin took me around the valley…introducing me to my other"cousins."

You wonder, with all of the Johns sons, Peders sons and Swens datters, still living together that there isn't a great deal of inbreeding, that there aren't, as in a Gabriel Marquez novel, kids with tails.

The answer may lie the yearly rites of summer.

One night, about midnight with the sun high in the sky, the family filed down the stairs and announced that we were going to party. Surprise.

We got in the car and drove miles and miles into the hills toward the Norwegian border. Every summer the tribes congregate: villagers from small towns in both Sweden and Norway. Many don't understand each other's language or dialect. They get together in the light of the midnight sun, dance, get themselves absolutely blotto-drunk and perhaps, in the process, diversify the gene pool.

There is no drinking inside the dance at this place called Elk Lake. There are two pavilions, one with band and folk music and the other with rock. They are guarded by big blond hulks that reminded me of villains in James Bond movies. But, the drinking ban does not extend to the parking lot. As we left the dance, we spotted one of my so-called second or third or fourth cousins sitting with his family in a car. He motioned us over. I crawled in the car, he picked a bottle of Stoly off the floor, took a swig of it, wiped the rim with his shirt and passed it to me. I took a polite sip a passed it on. Outside in the parking lot, men were staggering like zombies in "Night of the Living Dead," puking and falling over car hoods.

We left. My cousin rode happy if not a bit glassy-eyed in the back seat. His wife, the designated driver, drove and I rode shotgun. It was the middle of the night and the sun was just starting to reverse its course…moving higher in the sky. And those birds were starting up again.

We drove by a lake and got out of the car. Two elk were swimming across, leaving a gentle wake on the lake's glassy surface. My cousin and his wife stood and held hands.