Things I think I remember, I think... A work in progress... Part One; 1959(ish) through early summer 1964

Kristineberg, Kungsholmen, Stockholm.  My world, 1959 through summer 1964.    

 

I wanted to collect all those little snippets of memories that seemingly appear out of nowhere, just to be forgotten almost as soon as the memory itself makes its appearance somewhere between my ears.  As such, this will be a work in progress, to be revisited as often or as seldom as the memories appear, and, also depending on the memory itself.  My plan is to make this somewhat chronological, but I make no promises…  As these little memory flashes occur, I’ve started to text myself on my phone, in order to document and catalogue all these little snippets for posterity. 

Also, I make no claims to the veracity of these memories, since many of them have been told and retold to myself and to others over the years. So, over time they have most certainly been embellished and exaggerated, and some of them may have happened to others, but over the years I’ve made them my own.  But, these “memories” do live in my head as living pictures and videos (as opposed to fiction, at least as far as I can tell) so I’ll try my best to retell and record them, and some of them may even be entertaining!  I'm also taking a bit of  artistic license, just because, so be aware!  Also, thank you Google, Google Maps and Wikipedia for making my memories come to life, what great inventions! 

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My grandmother Lily and grandfather Siegfried on their wedding day, circa 1926.   

All of my early memories take place in Sweden, for good reason.  I was born and raised in Sweden, and I lived in and around Stockholm for the first 25 years of my life, before moving to California in early 1981.  In 1959, when I was four, after my mom and dad had separated, my mom and I moved in to my grandparent’s (on my mother’s side) apartment on Stiernhielmsvagen 22, on the island of Kungsholmen, which is part of Stockholm proper.  Keep in mind that in the late 1950s, early 1960s, us kids played outside unsupervised, usually from dawn until dusk.  So, it was survival of the fittest, and most of us survived very well, thank you very much!  This was the apartment where my grandparents had brought up three kids in a one bedroom apartment with a little kitchen and one bathroom.  Imagine the chaos!    

Stiernhielmsvagen 22, where my mom and I lived from 1959 through sometime in 1963, when we moved to Thorildsvagen 3.

 

Stiernhielmsvagen 22 entrance.  My mom and I lived on the top floor in a one-bedroom apartment with my grandparents Lilly and Sigfried.

The apartment buildings in my grandparent’s neighborhood had been built sometime in the early 1930s (but don’t quote me on this), so by the time my mom and I moved in they were only some 30 years old, and pretty modern for their time.  Initially when we moved in around 1959, I remember that the apartment had a coin-operated gas meter in the hallway, which you had to feed coins if you wanted to cook; however, not long thereafter the in-apartment gas meters were replaced by central gas meters, and you paid after the fact. 

Example of a coin-operated gas meter.  You had to put coins in the slot to the left if you wanted to use gas to cook.

I also remember the old fuse box that was situated in the hallway; it had large ceramic fuses, which blew regularly.  If you blew a fuse on a Sunday when all the stores were closed, you were out of luck!  Later, our little kiosk convenience store (which was open on Sundays) down the street started to carry the fuses, but I’m sure they weren’t cheap!

Fuse box with ceramic fuses.  The fuse box in my grandparent’s apartment was wall-mounted, but you get the idea.

 

The fuses looked something like this.

 The small bathroom had a sink, mirror, a lion claw foot bathtub, and a pull chain toilet, kinda like the ones below: 

Claw foot bathtub, like the one in my grandparent’s apartment.

 

Pull chain toilet with a tall tank.

 In the winter, when the cold water in the tank would cause condensation on the outside of the tank, it would drip down cold water on your back when you sat on the toilet! 

When I lived there, the little park was surrounded by a short little fence, and in the summer one of the neighbors would tie their dog “Bisse” to the little fence, so us kids could pet this very friendly dog.  Bisse was, if I remember correctly, some sort of Newfoundland, black and furry, and super calm.  I also remember riding my first bike around the little cul-de-sac for hours.

At the end of Stiernhielmsvagen was a little cul-de-sac, where I would ride my first bike, around and around.  To the left in the picture where you see the green bike, they used to store wooden crates from one of the businesses next door, and I remember building wood forts with the crates. 
 

Right outside the apartment was a slope with a little rock outcropping, and I remember jumping off the little rock hands first.  As it so happened, there was a sharp piece of glass where my right hand landed, and I cut my hand open, blood everywhere.  I still have that scar in the palm of my right hand, a one-inch reminder of my childhood!

My right hand scar from 1965(ish).  The scar runs at a 45 degree angle toward my wrist.  No stiches as far as I remember, just a towel around the hand, and let it heal up by itself.  Such was medicine in the early 1960s!  

On Stiernhielmsvagen 20 just a few steps from my grandparents' apartment, in what is now ChanThip Thai Massage, used to house a mean shoemaker that I remember as a five-six year old kid.  He was a lone wolf, and he was suffering from some sort of speech impediment, maybe from Bell’s Palsy (in which half of the face gets paralyzed).  Us kids would tease him mercilessly, and he would chase us out of the little shoe repair store.  He probably wasn’t a bad sort, maybe just tired of his lot in life. 

Stiernhielmsvagen 20, which used to house our little local shoemaker and repair shop.    

The neighborhood where my grandmother and grandfather lived was called Holmia, and their apartment building had been built sometime in the 1930s, but across the street was Gamla Holmia, a collection of row houses and apartments that had been build sometime between 1897 through 1918.  By the late 1950s, they had fallen in disrepair and they were demolished starting in 1965, but I remember having a couple of friends who lived there, and it was spartan to say the least.  There was only running cold water, and the apartments were heated by large wood-burning stoves, called  Kakelugn or Tile Ovens.  The Tile Ovens were large, often cylindrical floor to ceiling ovens, covered in ceramic tiles for insulation.   

Gamla Holmia, circa 1950 (I’m guessing based on the clothing), complete with a central cobblestone street.  In the background on the left-hand side, you can see the apartment building where my grandmother and grandfather lived.

 

The back of the row houses in Gamla Holmia, which lead out to some sort of common area with trees.  Again, in the background you can see the apartment building where my grandmother and grandfather lived.

 

Gamla Holmia as seen from Lindhagensgatan.  In the middle far right of the picture you can see the apartment building where my grandmother and grandfather lived.

 

As far as I remember, this was the last standing apartment building in Gamla Holmia, and it was probably torn down in the late 1960s.  This building was just up the street from my grandparents’ apartment, and the building also housed a small butcher shop, which was located toward the lower right of the building.  Judging from the cars, this picture was probably taken sometime in the mid-1960s.

By the late 1950s, Gamla Holmia had fallen into disrepair and the apartments and little row houses were demolished starting in 1965, but I remember having a couple of friends who lived there, and it was spartan to say the least.  There was only running cold water, and the apartments were heated by large wood-burning stoves, called  Kakelugn or Tile Ovens.  The Tile Ovens were large, often cylindrical floor to ceiling ovens, covered in ceramic tiles for insulation.    

A Kakelugn or Tile Oven, used for heating.  The Kakelugns at Gamla Holmia were not as ornate as the one above, but the principle was the same.  You fed coal or firewood in the firebox below, which heated up the rest of the stove, which radiated heat.

 Below is a little snipped describing the principle:

Kakelugn Principle

 Also, there was no indoor toilets; instead, the dry toilets were shared, and the metallic excrement  containers hauled away by the Skitokarn, or the “Crap Hauler” periodically.  I do seem to remember seeing Skitokarn in his truck; this must have been 1960(ish).  Toward 1962-1963, Gamla Holmia was condemned, and all the tenants were gone.  However, for a short while before the demolition started, us kids would sneak into the old apartments looking for treasure (not much was left…).  You can check out the source at https://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holmia,_Kungsholmen

I have a bunch of little memories of living on Kungsholmen at that time, and many of them are pretty vivid, so here it goes, in in particular order (but don’t quote me on any of this; after all, I was just a little kid):

Ever since World War II, the air-raid sirens in Stockholm were tested every first Monday of every month, at precisely 1 PM in the afternoon.  I also remember my grandmother talking about the early 1940s blackouts when they had to put thick black paper on the windows, in case the German bombers flew over, or maybe later in the war, when the Allies were bombing Germany.  Remember, Sweden was neutral during WW II, but the bombing raids usually took place at night, and their navigation systems were crude, so they could easily get lost. 

Hearing church bells on Sunday, something that I actually miss.  Also, most of the stores were closed on Sundays, so you had to make sure to stock up on food on Saturday at the latest.  Furthermore, in Sweden Good Friday is called “Long Friday”, a day of reflection when all the stores were closed, and all they played on the radio was somber music.  A long Friday indeed!

I also remember going to some sort of Easter Parade in Stockholm with my mom when I was about six, maybe seven years old, and I remember her wearing white gloves, although this snippet of a memory is indeed short.

Across from my grandparents apartment and across Lindhagensgatan, in the summer they would store the gravel that was spread on the streets during winter, which was swept up in the spring to be used the next winter.  All the gravel was piled high like a little mountain top, and me and my buddy Ralf called it the Gravel Mountain, and we would run across Lindhagensgatan (and hopefully look both ways) to play in the Gravel Mountain, jumping from the top and in general have a good time.            

 On Lindhagensgatan was a little meat and grocery store were we used to shop, and I vividly remember the front window having some sort of water spray running down the window, maybe for cooling reasons.  However, when I search our best friend Google, I can’t find any references to this practice, so maybe this is one of those invented memories.  If you can find any references to this, or maybe even remember it, please let me know!  The store also had a potato chute, where the potato delivery guy would empty sacks of potatoes into the chute, which lead to the basement potato storage.  I also remember a drunk coming in to the store, and buying just little slice of ham, which was all he could buy with his pocket change.

Also on Lindhagensgatan was a tire repair shop, and we knew the owner, a really nice guy in his 50s.  He would give us patched and repaired innertubes, for us to play with or use as sleds in the winter.  Such a great memory! 

My grandfather Sigfried collected pieces of string that he found on the street; he would tie the ends together, and I remember seeing his string ball, about the size of a baseball.  Maybe from having lived through the Great Depression had made him exceedingly thrifty; as they say in my favorite movie Mouse Hunt "A world without string is chaos!"   

On occasion the street troubadours would come by, busking in front of the apartments, usually a couple of guys with accordions, playing for change.  If they were deemed to be good, people would throw down pocket change wrapped up in little paper packets for the guys payment.  My grandmother had a soft spot for this sort of entertainment, and she would gladly pay, throwing out a couple of Krona to brighten the buskers day.  Years later (I'm thinking 1974), I remember Chino and I running out of money when we were visiting some club or disco, and we decided to drive to my grandmothers' apartment, and beg for money.  We drove up in Chino's giant Cadillac Coupe De Ville (more on that story in the upcoming Part Three, stay tuned...), and I threw some pebbles on her bedroom window, waking her up.  I yelled "Grandma, we need some money", and, just like years earlier, she threw out some money wrapped up in a little paper envelope.  We probably got just enough for some food and drinks, and being my Grandmother's only grandchild, she was happy to part with a bit of change.               

As a five, six-year old kid, living with my grandparents, I was plagued by painful ear infections, and I remember the doctor (who, at around 1960 – 1961 still made house calls) coming over and lancing my eardrum, so that the fluid could drain out.  If you woke up the next morning with a wet pillow, the lancing had been successful!  

I also remember being sent to the store with a little shopping list and some money, and presenting the shopping list and the cash to whomever was on duty, and getting the merchandise and the remaining cash back.  Mind you, the store was just five minutes away, and I was probably six or seven. 

Geijersvagen 17, which used to house a little tobacco shop that I remember shopping at for my grandmother.  At the time, a traditional tobacco shop would sell, in addition to cigarettes, tobacco and cigars, also newspapers, magazines, candy other small sundries.  This was just five minutes away from my grandparent’s apartment.

On the left is Nicandervagen 2, which housed our little local grocery store.  On the wall outside the store were little hooks, where you could tie up your dog outside while shopping.  This store was just two minutes away from my grandparents' apartment.     

My grandfather Sigfried (born in 1904(ish)) and grandmother Lilly (born in 1902) had an interesting relationship; they were ostensibly separated, but they still lived in the same apartment.  Both of them had retired early; my grandmother had been a hospital cleaner for most of her working life, and my grandfather had worked as a sort of handyman or "Alt-i-Allo", Jack of All Trades at one of the Odd Fellow’s lodges in Stockholm.  By the time my mom and I moved in with them in 1959, they were both living off the government.  My grandmother would sleep in the bedroom, and my grandfather would sleep on the floor in the little dining room off the little kitchen on a mattress he would keep rolled up in the closet during the day.  I don’t remember what had caused this sort of situation, but it seems to have worked for them.  I remember seeing my grandfather on his mattress at night, listening to talk radio on his little transistor until he fell asleep.

I remember my grandmother Lily making sausage, using a hand-cranked meat grinder, and mixing raisins into the ground meat.  She would also make Rhubarb compote and Nyponsoppa, or rose hip soup with almond biscuits, which were some of my favorites.

My grandmother would also talk about some very distant relatives, six brothers who went to war in 1618 in the 30-years war, and according to legend, in 1648 when the war ended all six brothers returned unscathed.  True or not, it made for a great story!  

My uncle Janne had joined the Merchant Marine when he was 15 years old, probably to get away from the chaos of five people living in a one-bedroom apartment, and he never went back to live in Sweden, eventually ending up in Alaska, where he worked on the Alaska oil pipeline in the 1970s.  Around 1960, he sent us a 45 rpm record where he had recorded a spoken Christmas message (I think it was Chrismas, but I may be wrong, but I vividly remember the record), which my grandmother would play over and over again.      

My grandfather Sigfried brough home the first television that we ever had, sometime in 1961; a little 19” black-and-white, that was housed in a wooden cabinet, typical of the time.  I also remember sitting with my grandmother Lily on a Saturday, watching the test picture before the regular programming.  Every five minutes my grandmother would say “I think it moved”…   

I also remember the April Fools prank that the Swedish TV broadcasting system played on gullible Swedes (like my grandmother); if you took a nylon stocking draped it over your black and white television screen, you would automatically have color television!  You guessed it, my grandmother fell for it, and cut up a pair of nylons and draped it over the TV, to no avail…  

As part of living in an apartment in the 1950s, - 1960s, the tenants in my grandparents’ apartment also had cleaning duties, which included scrubbing the stone stairs leading up from the entrance door all the way up to the second floor, something that must have been exceedingly unpleasant, especially in the winter with all the dirt.  In my mind’s eye I see my grandmother on her hands and knees scrubbing the stone entrance way, something she probably did once a month, when it was her turn to clean. 

Probably in order to get ready for going to school, I received my first smallpox vaccination at around six(ish), which would have been 1961-1962.  I remember the clinician coming to the house, and taking a small glass ampule and breaking the ampule against my upper left arm, and with a needle poking the vaccine under the skin.  The ensuing pox took weeks if not months to heal; I remember a puss crater on my arm with a scab floating around on top.  It finally healed up, but after more than 60 years, I still have the tell-tale vaccination scar on my upper left arm. 

     

My smallpox vaccination scar from 1961-1962.  Many years later in 1974, when I got a small pox booster vaccination in the Army, it didn't leave any mark, so the vaccine must have been improved. 

 

In the fall of 1962, at the age of seven, I started school at Kristinebergsskolan, which was probably some 15 minutes away from my grandparents’ apartment, as fast as a seven-year old can walk.  The two buildings which housed the school had originally been built 1875 as an orphanage by the Freemasons, and in around 1928, it was opened as a public elementary school.  I spend my first two years of schooling at Kristinebergsskolan, from the fall of 1962 though the spring of 1964.  The primary school of Kristinebergsskolan was closed in 1967, to be replaced by a hospitality school as part of Kristinebergs gymnasium (high school).       

Kristinebergsskolan, Nordenflychtsvagen 22d, 112 51 Stockholm.

   

Kristinebergsskolan, Nordenflychtsvagen 22d, 112 51 Stockholm.

 

The central area with Kristinebergs slott (castle) in the middle.

 I have some relatively vivid memories of going to Kristinebergsskolan, in no particular order:

There was probably 20-25 kids in my class, and in the winter, after our little recesses, there would be 20-25 pairs of wet woolen mittens and 20-25 pairs of wet woolen socks on the back radiator, to be dried until the next recess. 

Mrs. Gard Froster, our teacher, was in her late 60s, and supposedly (again, if my memory serves me), the spring of 1964 would be her last semester of teaching, and she was not very patient.  I remember her screaming at us to be quiet, which to this day is really hard for seven-year-olds…

Each classroom had both a piano and a foot-operated pump organ, which was probably standard classroom issue at the time.

Since the neighborhood at Stiernhielmsvagen did not have a lot of kids, I was never exposed to the usual sniffles and colds that kids usually carry around, let alone any of the serious childhood diseases like measles or whooping cough.  So when I started school and got thrown in with a bunch of new kids, I got sick all the time.  Just from illnesses, I probably missed at least a third of both first and second grade, which certainly didn't help me academically.  In one of our assemblies (probably in second grade), I remember being called out by one of the teachers as somebody who, at the age of 8, still didn't know his alphabet.  The horror...         

In first and second grade at the time (fall 1962 – spring 1964), we would go to school six days a week, with a half day on Saturdays (which I’m sure many parents would welcome today).  But on Saturdays we would be allowed to write with fountain pens, which were locked away during the week.  Then I would come home, and watch one of my favorite TV shows, maybe Alla vi barn I Bullerbyn, or the Children of Noisy Village, which was based on the Six Bullerby Children by Astrid Lindgren.      

Walking from Grandma’s to Kristinebergsskolan

 As you can see above, from left to right, there was a walking trail that led from my grandparents neighborhood to Kristinebergsskolan, probably a 15 minute walk, not too bad.  I think I walked alone most of the time, but my grandmother may have accompanied me.  Also, the freeway (Essineleden, which was built in 1966) that goes right through the middle of the picture was not yet built when I lived there, so there were no major crossings of any busy streets or roads, so it was probably pretty safe, and I obviously lived to tell the tale!

Years later, in 1986 my wife Kathy and I visited Sweden, and as part of the "grand tour", I showed her my old neighborhood where my grandparents, my mom and I lived in 1959-1963.  As we were walking around, there was a little hairdresser shop just down the street, and when I looked in I saw one of my friends from fist and second grade, I kid you not.  I recognized him pretty much immediately; a kinda big and redheaded kid, who was now in his early 30s.  I couldn't help myself, and I went into the little hairdresser shop, and lo and behold, he recognized me as well.  He had stayed in the same neighborhood, not more than 10 minutes from where we went to school in 1962-1964, and had trained as a hairdresser / barber, and he seemed happy and healthy.      

I was probably seven or eight, when my mom had decided to send me to a horse camp for a couple of weeks up in the northern part of Sweden, to be around other kids and horses.  We took a all-day train ride up to the camp, and in the evening I got introduced to the horses.  However, since I was so attached to my mother, I could not be persuaded to stay, and we just stayed the night, and we both went home the next day.  

When I started working at Pressbyron as a driver in 1975 and later in 1976-1979, I would visit my grandmother on occasion and often stay the night, since the Pressbyron hub was just up the street on Nordenflychtsvagen.  I remember sleeping on the fold-out couch (probably the same couch where my mom and I had slept many years earlier) and trying to sleep, even though grandmas' Cuckoo clock would tick like crazy.  

Grandma Lily had not been the greatest mom, and she really hated my dad for stealing away her only daughter.  However, in her later years, she had soften up a bit, and as her only grandchild, she loved me dearly, and I could do no wrong.        

My grandparents lived on Stiernhielmsvagen until they both passed away.  Grandpa Sigfried, who had suffered a stroke, passed away sometime in the mid 1970s.  After his passing, I remember helping Grandma Lily clean out the basement storage, since there was a rumor that Grandpa Sigfried had hidden money in the stored furniture.  Sadly, we didn't find any money...  Grandma Lily passed away in 1979, at the age of 77.   

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Moving to Thorildsvagen 3

Sometime in 1963(ish) my mom and I moved to a little studio apartment on Thorildsvagen 3, which is situated some 5-10 minutes away from my grandparents’ apartment.  The studio had a hallway with a little alcove where I slept, and my mom slept in the large room.   

Thorildsvagen 3, Kungsholmen, Stockholm.  My mom and I moved there to a little studio apartment, probably sometime late 1962-early 1963.  Mind you, this was only some 5 minutes away from my grandparents, so I would still spend time with them.  In the lower right-hand corner, you can see the little round fountain where some of the older boys sailed their model boats.

 

Thorildsvagen 3 entrance.

 

Thorlidsplan park, a little parklike area with trees and grass, and a tobacco store.

 

Thorlildsplan park.  The tobacco store was housed in the white building on the right, where the arched windows are.

 

Newspaper headline posters outside a newsstand, like the one outside our little tobacco shop in Thorildsplan.  This one is talking about the death of director Ingmar Bergman in 2007.  

I have some vivid memories of living on Thorildsvagen, and in no particular order:

When president Kennedy was shot in November of 1963, the newspaper headlines were plastered all over the marquee on our little tobacco shop, and I remember some kids running by and screaming "he's been shot, he's been shot!" 

When we lived on Thorlidsvagen, I was a latch-key kid, and after school I was probably alone for some 2-3 hours before my mom would come home from work.  She had bought a cool spinning armchair, and one day I invited in some friends (while my mom was still at work) and we used the spinning chair as a carrousel.  I don't know if my mom caught us in the act, but I do remember that she was very disappointed.    

I also remember meeting some distant relative, who had spend time in a German concentration camp, and he showed me his concentration camp number tattoo.   

In our little neighborhood of Thorildsplan lived a boy who was probably some three years older than me, he was probably eleven or so, and I think he lived on Creutzgatan, just up the street.  Let's call him "Bertil", and he was a born chiseler / hustler, and his hustle at the time involved the trading of toys.  He modus operandi at the time would involve a switch and bait, where he would be trading something of mine that he wanted (let's say a cool toy car), with the promise that in the future he would trade something more valuable, and his bait was the "Choo Choo Baby" model tank.  So he would trade my cool toy car for his crappy toy car, and tell me that next time I could trade whatever I wanted for the coveted "Choo Choo Baby" model tank.  However, that next time never came; instead, I would get swindled by Bertil time and time again, trading my cool stuff for his worthless trinkets (who he had probably swindled off some other young schmuck), and I never got the Choo Choo Baby model tank.  All his trades took place in the attic of the apartment building, away from any witnesses, just like any common thief, but eventually my mom got wise to the whole sordid affair, and she told me to stay away from Bertil. 

Many years later, probably around 1977, when I had long since moved away from Thorlidsplan, after a visit with my grandmother who still lived on Stiernhielmsvagen and walking toward the Thorildsplan subway station, I happened to see Bertil.  He was selling Christmas trees just outside the subway station, outside in the cold.  Even though at least a decade had passed, I immediately recognized my nemesis, and we exchanged hellos.  By this time I was 22, I had a good job making good money, living on my own and in general enjoying the good life.  Bertil, on the other hand, was still living in the old neighborhood (with is mom, I guessed at the time), still hustling (Christmas trees this time), and hopefully living a sad, miserable little life.  Karma baby, Karma!!!!         

On occasion, my parents and I would go to the Dragon movie theater, which was located at Fridhemsplan 25-27, just one subway stop from Thorildsplan.  I remember my dad taking me to see The Nutty Professor with Jerry Lewis, which came out in 1963.  When the transformation scene stared, I got so scared that my dad had to take me out of the theater, and we went straight home.  I think I also saw Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs there as well; the movie must have come back in the early 1960s. 

The Dragon movie theater, on Fridhemsplan 25-27.   

The Nutty Professor from 1963, starring Jerry Lewis.  

Walking from Thorildsvagen to Kristinebergsskolan

My last report card from Kristinebergsskolan, second grade, spring 1964.  Apparently, music was my worst subject.

In retrospect, I don't remember how I got to school at Kristinebergsskolan from Thorildsvagen, but I know I walked, and I probably took Geijersvagen toward my grandparents' neighborhood, and then took the same little walking trail I used before, but my memory is fuzzy.  Also, remember that in 1963 the large freeway that goes across the middle of the picture was not yet built, so there weren't many busy streets to cross.  Nevertheless, this was the early 1960s, and I lived to tell about my experience, and on the whole it was great! 

By spring of 1964, my mom and my dad had reconciled, and all three of us were living in the little studio apartment, but it was OK; I had my dad back, and my mom seemed very happy.  However, it got a little cramped, and in the summer of 1964 we moved to Hokarangen, but that's a story for Part Two!