13 years old - My first girlfriend

Me, the teenager.

I turned 13. I am just another teenager. Then life dished out some real changes for me.

• I witnessed my father die in front of my eyes when 14
• Sailed the Baltic Sea on cod trawlers the summer I was 14
• Worked on a farm the summer of my 15^th, never got paid a penny because I had eaten too much and not worked hard enough
• Sailed on a coastal steamer the summer I was 16
• Dropped out of High school and joined the army before I turned 17
• Left the army when 18 and ...
• Went to sea again and sailed around the world just before I was out of my teenage years.

But, was the definition of teenager even invented then? I don't think so. It was an invention by marketers when they found out that there was a lot of young people with money to spend.

On my three speed Crescent bike. My mother took the picture.

I wasn't in that spending group, ever, only in the age group by this time.

I was a kid in High School who had just noticed girls. They were noisy, hard to talk to and had some sort of a mystical pull to them.

At the school dances I danced with girls, awkwardly, while watching older students dance cheek to cheek. That activity was frowned on by our, ever present, teachers acting as chaperons. They would even step out on the dance floor and break up any couple that looked too excited.

The cheek-to-cheek activities could continue outside but not for me – yet – I was too innocent. Invariably school dances took place on dark and rainy nights. That didn't deter the enthusiasts, they just moved a little farther away, out of the rain, and took shelter in the darkness under a passageway between the new and the old buildings. The new dated from 1936, the old from 1912.

The covered area is under the passageway, on the right. 

I already had a girlfriend when 13. We would go to the movies together and hold hands in the theatre. If it was dark and gloomy and we could feel that nobody was watching us, we would even hold hands walking to and from the movie house.

My father, the city treasurer, was also the pleasure tax inspector for the area. Not only did he, occasionally, seldom or never (?), inspect the tills of theatre groups, touring circuses and magicians or even the people who held ”interesting talks with sciopticon pictures” about their last visit to Timbuktu. But – the most glorious bonus of this job, he had two free tickets to every single pleasurable (?) event in the area – I had access two free movie tickets. My father had obligingly signed a whole booklet with requisitions that I had hid away, to be used when it suited me.

My girlfriend and I were in the same class. She was the most gorgeous of all human creatures to look at and her dress, oh that was something to behold. Her favourite was a pair of jeans, most likely two sizes too small with a thin cotton sweater, similarly sized.

All the boys drooled over her, but I was the one who got the price. I was the only one with free access to movie tickets. Naturally, the boy with the most assets wins the girl.

No, that may not have been the only reason, we honestly liked each other.

................

That summer I went to a gymnastics camp. It was run by an offshoot of the Swedish army and staffed, mostly, with military personnel on vacation.

Children, some 100 or so, 12 – 14 years old were picked up from the whole of Blekinge province. We arrived by a chartered steam powered train. The trip was super exciting. It was the first train trip on their own for many. I stood on the platform at the front end of a car just behind the locomotive and, of course, arrived well blackened by the soot from the engine.

In front of one of our dorms. (My photograph)

We lived in a multitude of dorms, under the auspices of one of the vacationing NCOs or officers. The girl's dorms were run by army nurses. We were all strictly controlled.

The food was really good and enjoyed by most.

Of course we did have to prove that our nails were clean, on occasion, before dinner. We all had brought our own dishes. After every meal we stood in line for the few cold water taps to rinse our plates, cups and utensils. Was that hygienic? Who knows, but I never heard of any ill effects.

The washrooms were most rudimentary and in the open. They would have been superb by mid 19^th century standards and smelled the part. Fortunately, they were located in the forest, some distance from the common areas.

The morning toilet was mandatory. My mother had been pre-warned and I possessed real salt-water soap, i.e. Soap that would melt in seawater.

After reveille we were allowed a few minutes for washroom service, then lined up in our swimsuits and wrapped in dry towels for the 500 metre walk to the sea-shore. There we had to get into the water far enough for it to cover our knee-caps. Now, brush our teeth and rinse. Then show that we washed not only our face but our necks as well, all supervised from the shore.

Was it cold? Imagine walking outside in your swimsuit on a 12 deg C foggy morning and then getting into 14 deg C seawater. It was supposed to harden us. Some mornings were wonderful, though, with sunshine and really warm water, perhaps 16 deg C. I always read the big thermometer on our way down.

I felt properly hardened every day.

This was a three week long gymnastics camp. I may never have been much of a gymnast in school, but this summer I surprised myself. I was good, became better, and was even chosen to perform with the elite group at our weekend meet-your-parents days.

The gymnastics were great both to perform and watch. True to form, I would go out of my way to watch the girls practice.

I did fall off a gym-bar once. It was high and I grabbed the support pole. It was rough and scraped the skin on my chest as I slid down. The nurse washed off the dirt and put a plaster on to arrest the blood oozing out. It did leave a lasting mark, I still have some scratch marks on my chest.

Sexual abuse hadn't been invented yet.

Our dorm, with about 25 boys, had a supervisor who liked us all and encouraged us to sleep naked. That was a bit cold and few obliged. He would like to sit on his bed and invite me, and a few others, to sit next to him. He would then read a newspaper and show articles for our approval, at the same time fondling our private parts.

I noticed that he had his zipper open and that his member would grow, substantially, covered by the newspaper and only visible to the boy next to him.

We, the favoured kids, learned fast never to sit ”there” and read the newspaper with that man. Strange how busy we were, doing other things when he was near.

A little side story; I learned, years later, that he had been murdered in a bar in Spain. Perhaps he fondled the wrong boy in the wrong company.

One of my dorm mates had a father who was a pilot in the Swedish air force. He came visiting his son in a sailboat. The father promised to do a fly-over in a Saab Tunnan J29 the next day at a certain time.

All of us from that dormitory lined up outside at the appointed hour and – true to the promise – a single Saab Tunnan jet plane swooshed down over our camp, really low.

The noise brought all outside. Then the airplane came back, almost touching the treetops as it flew by. We were really impressed. Imagine, having a father who not only had his own sailboat but also flew a real jet plane.

June 30 was to be a very special day, there would be a total solar eclipse, mid day. The preparations include lectures on the solar system, the moon, and, not to be forgotten, lots of information on how to protect our eyes. We were lucky, no clouds. The whole camp stood in the open, amazed, with our black, sooted, glasses during the entire 2 minute and 22 second darkness. We also confirmed that the birds fell quiet as the sunlight dwindled.

....................

I came back to town, invigorated by my newly found gymnastics skills. I signed up for a gymnastics program that fall and enjoyed greatly.

Then I noticed something. There was a ballet class in a nearby gym. Most of the participants were girls with only a few boys. I switched to ballet, primarily because that's where the girls were. My career was cut short by my father's death. I still developed a life long love for ballet and the accompanying music.

..........................

School was always an afterthought and I never tried very hard. I still had extremely high marks in Biology, Chemistry and Physics. I really found those subjects interesting but utterly failedin other subjects.

My best friend then was Christer who has long since passed away as I write this. He may not have been the most savoury character. We found many ways to get in trouble together.

There was an election that fall. I went around town and mutilated an election banner: ”Down with taxes, the Communists”.

If you used your pen knife and cut out ”the taxes” the sign clearly read: ”Down with the Communists.”

That was not a good move. Someone saw me and went to my father. He, even though he was no admirer of the Communists in town, told me to cease and desist.

I did.

The communists got only 4 % of the votes that fall. I felt very proud. After all, a lot of people must have followed my political advice.

................

Christer's mother was a member of the Bethel free church. He and I were offered 2 kronor for each Sunday mass visitor we could bring in. I had many friends. One krona for you and one for me if you go.

I got a few reward kronors that fall until I got too greedy and asked the same person to come back once too often. Well, it was good as long as it lasted.

Christer's older brother, Tore, acquired a small 120 cc motorcycle. It lacked many finer details, such as brakes. I am still 13, but talked him into let me try it.

I did and ended up in a wood pile. Nobody noticed if there were any new dents or scratches on the motorcycle, but I got some. That called for another run to the hospital to stitch up my bleeding elbow. I was more careful about verifying vehicle brakes after that event.

.....................

My parents had been divorced for about seven years by now. I lived with my father in a huge apartment on the top floor of city hall. The largest room was ten metres long, with chandeliers in the ceiling.

Wedding photo.

One, or both of them, have erased all photos of them together. All I have is their wedding picture from 1935 that I found as bookmark in a long forgotten book. The two boys are my mother's brothers.

My father was active in the local politics, often worked late and would come home long after I was in bed. I was alone a lot.

I hated the dark. In truth, I was afraid of being alone in the dark. When on my own, I would search the apartment for ”one more light” that I could switch on. I even left the refrigerator door ajar so the light could shine over the floor in the kitchen. Needless to say, that was not appreciated.

Being home alone also meant that we could have parties, not chaperoned by any adult.
.

My girlfriend and I danced, of course.

.................

I had long driven my father's Renault Juvaquatre 1948 model car. At first by holding the steering wheel, sitting by my father's side. This year, still 13, I learned to drive from the driver's seat to and from our cottage, 35 km away. I would sit on one pillow, with another pillow behind me, and have a hat on my head so I looked older.

I was no master at shifting gears but did learn the rudiments of taking the foot off the accelerator when you clutched. The final part of the road was very narrow and you had to pull over to the side and stop when meeting a car or a horse drawn wagon. I never stalled the engine when starting up again, I think.

This was probably not entirely without legal risks for my father, he was occasionally the acting chief of police.

Father's fiancee, Sandra, lived in Stockholm, some 600 km to the north. Normally he would take the train but one time he decided to bring some furniture and drive, even though we were in the month of November. But, the weather was still nice so why not?

That didn't go so well. Half way there, the snow started to fall. Who knows, nor does it matter, but he collided with a car driven by a dentist from Stockholm. The cars were dented and taken to a nearby body shop. My father arrived to Stockholm by train with the furniture in the luggage compartment.

Then, once in Stockholm, he got a very painful blood clot in his leg. He ended up in the hospital for a few days before returning home, also by train.

Later, just before Christmas, we both traveled, in first class on the train, to Norrköping to pick up the newly painted car to drive it home again.

I thought our dinner in the restaurant car was just the grandest of all.

This time the weather was nice, cold an crisp, and we drove home through a bright snowy landscape. This French car may not have had a heater designed for the temperature of the far north. We both had blankets around us.

The next time we were in Stockholm we visited the dentist and his family. They served a candle lit dinner in their grand apartment, overlooking the city hall, and all had a good time.

To collide with someone is not my preferred way to meet new friends but, but why not?

......................

This winter had its pleasures, I have never understood people who complain about winter. Dress for it and "get out there".

The skating rink was close. I got a pair of brand new white (!) figure skating skates. Why white? that was the only pair in my size in the store, so my father bought them. Was white for girls? I didn't know, but many of my friends did.

Sure I had my tumbles, but got better with time. Then, one of my classmates came from behind and hit me. I landed hard and broke my right wrist. I continued skating for a few minutes but something must have been wrong, The pain in my arm got steadily worse.

My father walked me down to the hospital and I left, a few hours later, with a plaster on my right, the writing arm.

Karlshamn Lasarett.

The white skates?

I traded them with a girl classmate who had gotten black skates from her father, the fisherman. That was a trade that stood me in good stead the next summer. I went fishing with his trawler on the sea.

What to do about school? Learn to write with your left. I did and I can still write passably with  my left hand.

..................

Spring again. Our cottage beckoned my father. We would arrive while there were still remnants of snow in the shady spots and thick pipe-ice on the lake. That melting ice had more of the consistency of slush than ice. It would freeze hard over night but was extremely dangerous to walk on.

The cottage was, of course, ice cold inside. It had a 380 V power supply that fed a 7 kW open coil industrial heater, sufficient to dry out and overheat the inside in less than one hour. The heater had come out of a building demolition, stolen by me, and dragged on my bicycle to my father. He saw the need and, to the cottage it went. The installation was far less than to the electrical code. My father admitted that he hadn't worked with wires since he was 20 years old in 1913.

Summer arrived and now we could enjoy the growth everywhere.

Father decided it was too hard work to rake the dead leaves and dried straw from last fall. Why not just burn it?

That thought may have been the beginning of the end of his life, the moment that left me fatherless and changed my life forever.

He put a match to some grass in an open area. It was dry and the fire spread. It was moving into the forest undergrowth in minutes. 

He was slashing at the fire with branches, probably to little avail.

I ran, the fastest two km run of my life, to the next farm.

It took seconds to convince all available hands what was about to happen. The smoke was already visible over the treetops. Several men and women ran with me back.

The undergrowth fire was finally put down by sunset, many hours later.

There was still one fire left, though. The ground cellar was built with very solid beams. They burned all night. I was out with my father, carrying buckets of water from the lake to pour on that.

After a nearly sleepless night, the next morning was calm again and we returned to the city.

King Gustav VI was on his Eriksgata, visiting all of Sweden. He would pass through next week and stop over for a dinner with all the ”important” locals. My father was assigned a seat close to the king.

Now, back in town, my father who had been on sick-leave on and off the last few months, learned that he would not sit at the King's table the next week. He was relegated to a seat far back in the dining hall.

This was a crisis. What can be done to reverse this?

He and I went for a crazy four hour walk through town, talking to most all in authority, to no avail.

That may just have been too much for him.

We returned to the apartment where Sandra, his fiancee, had prepared lunch. He was to set the table, leaned over the cutlery drawer – grabbed it hard and stood there, as if in panic.

We lead him into my bed. Sandra called my father's best friend, Dr. Walter Paulsson. His office was just across the street. He was with us within minutes.

Dr. Paulson practically screamed when he saw my father: ”Harald, I told you to take your blood tests”, turned around and called for the ambulance.

My father was dead three hours later – from an internal bleeding inside his brain. The Post Mortem confirmed that he had far too much Warfarin, a blood thinner – also used as rat poison – in his system. He had failed to check his blood values or adjust his prescription after the blood clot the previous November.

I spent the afternoon in a state of chock, circling the hospital on my bicycle between visits to my father's room.

On my last return I was met by a nurse. She held a small gray envelope in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

”Take this.” It was salt of Bromide, a mild sedative.

He was dead. I looked at him, so quiet and seemingly small in the bed, and left.

The King arrived one week later and was greeted by the major of Karlshamn. My father was not at the dinner...

My life had changed forever.

The next year I was 14, you can read that story here:

http://ayoungboysjourney.blogspot.ca/2017/04/growing-up-14-years-old.html

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If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:

https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man