There’s No Such Thing as Bad Weather

by Linda Åkeson McGurk

  There has been a shift from a time when playing outside at school and at home was the norm and young children, like the Boy Scouts who used to camp at this preserve, still learned valuable outdoor skills, to a time when many children’s only contact with the wild is through guided tours at air-conditioned nature centers. Any meaningful interactions with nature in many public parks and preserves are now forbidden—look, don’t touch!—and most private landowners would probably rather invite a leper for dinner than have unsupervised children playing on their property. Causing this shift were the usual suspects: electronic-media bingeing, frivolous litigation, overscheduling, standardized testing, and parents’ fear of strangers, traffic, and nature itself.

  The last phase of mourning is acceptance. For a while I considered fighting the charge, but then I decided to let it go and pay the fine. The rules are the rules are the rules, and I had unwittingly broken them. When I talked to John Bacone, director of the IDNR’s Division of Nature Preserves, about my experience, to my surprise I found that we essentially agreed on the problem. “Kids don’t play outside like they used to,” he lamented. “We need to get them out there again so they don’t just stay inside and play video games.”

  But how? For seven years I had fought to keep my daughters as connected to nature as possible in a culture that didn’t seem to value outdoor play. The creek incident was just the straw that finally broke the possum’s back. I was starting to question whether it was at all possible for my daughters to have a childhood anything like my own.

  Unless I took them to my native Sweden.

  Scandinavian Parenting Tip #1

  Prioritize daily outdoor time from when your child is a baby to make it a natural part of your routine from the get-go. Remember that not every nature experience must entail a grand adventure to a scenic national park—watching a caterpillar make its way across a sidewalk or simply lying in the grass and watching the clouds go by in the backyard can be a great adventure to a small child. Celebrate these everyday nature experiences together, and come back to the same places often to make sure your child forms a bond with your community and its natural areas.

  Suggested reading: Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder, by Richard Louv. Algonquin Books, 2008.

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  FRESH AIR IS GOOD FOR YOU

  Fresh air affects children’s constitutions, particularly in early years. It enters every pore of a soft and tender skin, it has a powerful effect on their young bodies. Its effects can never be destroyed.

  —JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

  There is another, more pressing reason why I’m yearning to go back to Sweden. About a month after our creek debacle, my dad experiences severe stomach cramps and is rushed to the hospital by his wife. Emergency surgery reveals a ruptured, cancerous tumor in his large intestine, and after suffering complications from the procedure, he is literally fighting for his life. If moving to the US had seemed like a grand romantic adventure when I was fresh out of college, it’s an understatement to say that being over four thousand miles away from my aging parents at this point in life isn’t exactly ideal. With my dad now facing a tough recovery from surgery, followed by six weeks of chemotherapy and radiation, then another surgery to remove the tumor and possibly more chemo after that, I start planning for an extended stay in Sweden. I schedule a flight for early January 2016, which means that the girls and I will arrive on the heels of my dad’s second surgery. We are to return in June, giving us nearly six months in Sweden. My husband, although not thrilled about being left behind, is understanding given the circumstances.

  The news of our extended overseas stay spreads quickly in our hometown in Indiana, and although most people seem excited on our behalf, others express different variations of one of the biggest American parental fears of all: that my taking the girls to Sweden for nearly six months will cause Maya to Fall Behind. I have some reservations myself. I worry that both kids are going to miss their dad, friends, and extended family in the US, and I worry that Maya will have a hard time adjusting to a new school. The fact that she’s going to miss a semester of second-grade Common Core math, however, hasn’t really registered as a concern of mine. She will be going to a public school in Sweden for one semester, she’s already bilingual, and I feel like this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her to immerse herself in her Swedish heritage. In my opinion, she’s already ahead.

  Shortly before we leave, I meet with Maya’s teacher to discuss our upcoming trip and what I can do to help her stay on track academically while we’re gone. The teacher is warm and caring, and genuinely concerned. “I don’t want to overwhelm you—I just want third grade to be easy for her,” she says apologetically after going over all our options for keeping up with the math, reading, and writing curricula while in Sweden. “As a second-grade teacher you feel pressure because you want the kids to be prepared for the testing in third grade—otherwise you’ll cause problems for the third-grade teacher.”

  As I somewhat exasperatedly look at the stack of books and worksheets in front of me I recall a conversation I’d had with a grandmother of one of Maya’s classmates the previous week. Her older grandchild was in third grade, that crucial year when students in our state start taking the Indiana Statewide Testing for Educational Progress (ISTEP), as required by No Child Left Behind. “Wait until she gets to third grade,” the grandmother had told me in an ominous voice, referring to Maya. “There’s a drastic difference compared with second grade. The kids get much more homework, and then you have all the extra-credit projects on top of that.” She shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know who we’re competing with—China, I guess. But I don’t think it’s working, because by the time they get to high school they’re already burned out.”

  The conversation with Maya’s teacher leaves me feeling deflated, but I dutifully pack the folder with math worksheets in our already bulging suitcases. I’m starting to wonder if I should be more worried that my failure to keep up with the weekly spelling lists and periodic math assessments will not only determine Maya’s ability to pass the standardized tests in third grade but potentially forever destroy her chances of getting into Harvard. Oh well. There are plenty of ways to get ahead in life without an Ivy League education.

  When we arrive in Sweden, the plane touches down in a wintry landscape and my mom picks us up in the tidy but somewhat tired old Saab station wagon that will be our ride for the coming months. As we drive toward Borås, the city of nearly seventy thousand people where I went to high school, the girls curiously watch the landscape go by from the backseat. They’ve seen this scenery every summer when we’ve visited my family in the past, but it looks a lot different this time of the year. Long swaths of pine trees and wildlife fences eventually give way to signs of civilization, industrial parks mixed with towns just big enough to sport a gas station, a school, a soccer field, and a pizzeria run by Turkish immigrants. Then, just as you start to think that you’ve left the forest behind, it reappears and swallows you whole until it spits you out in the next little town.

  You can’t go to Sweden and not notice the forest. There are more than eighty-seven billion trees in Sweden—the equivalent of three and a half soccer fields of woods for every man, woman, and child in the country. Maya notices it as well. “I know what the most common tree in Sweden is, Mommy,” she observes from the backseat. “It’s the pine tree. There are just too many pine trees here.” I’m not paying much attention to the endless stands of coniferous forests that look like they were splattered with whipped egg whites in the last winter storm. I’m looking for people. It’s been years since I spent the winter in Sweden, and part of me wonders if I’ve been wrong to assume that people here still enjoy the outdoors like they used to. After all, the last time I lived in Sweden the iPad had yet to be invented and fiber was something in your diet that helped you stay regular, not a gigabyte highway that connected every apartment, house, and cottage in the country to the inte
rnet. There’s a lot of new bandwidth and gadgets to compete with Scandinavia’s traditional friluftsliv.

  But I quickly realize that I don’t need to worry. As soon as we get off the main highway and approach the small town of Äspered, where we will be staying, I see people on foot. A man walking three large Saint Bernards. An octogenarian getting her mail supported by her hiking poles. A couple of kids pulling sleds. Teenagers walking to the bus. And, of course, a small army of men and women pushing strollers down slushy sidewalks, snowsuit-clad toddlers in tow. On a frozen lake nearby, some kids are playing hockey, and by the lodge a few miles down the road the parking lot is packed with families who are getting ready to hit the cross-country tracks.

  “The house looks fantastic,” my mom exclaims giddily as we approach the rural red-and-white nineteenth-century homestead that I will be renting. “I thought the décor was a bit dark, so I’ve redecorated it for you. There was a lot of black and white, but I thought you should have a little more color.” She’s right—it is a different place than when I first checked it out during our last summer vacation in Sweden. It’s been gutted and remodeled, and old and new elements now fuse effortlessly in the one-bedroom, five-hundred-square-foot cottage. A beautiful antique ceiling lamp hangs over the dinner table next to the glossy white IKEA kitchen with its state-of-the-art induction cooktop. The crumbling old vinyl floors have been replaced by a stylish wood laminate, which my mom has all but covered in mismatching rag rugs. In the only bedroom, a bunk bed made of traditional lacquered pine sits in front of an accent wall featuring a modern black-and-white tree-print wallpaper. The composting toilet in the bathroom has been torn out and replaced by a modern water-saving model that resembles and operates like a large airplane toilet. The girls marvel at the novel sound effects and elaborate flushing procedure. I’m apprehensive and slightly skeptical. The waste pipe in this toilet is smaller than normal, and each flush contains only half a quart of water, which is great for the environment but places an awful lot of faith in the power of suction. Going number two is initially surrounded by a certain element of suspense, but to my surprise—and great relief—our airplane toilet delivers every time.

  However, the place does have some issues. “The floors are a bit cold,” my mom says, pulling out a gift box from her purse. “It’s a belated Christmas present. I thought they would come in handy.” It’s a pair of gray knitted wool socks with a traditional Swedish pattern. I waste no time putting them on right on top of the wool socks that I’m already wearing, and I still feel like I’m walking barefoot in a meat freezer.

  The bathroom also holds a washer that looks like it came from a yard sale at the Seven Dwarfs’ cottage, and the kitchen features an equally small dishwasher. If I run both at the same time, the landlord has warned my mom, I’ll blow a fuse. Then there is the shower, which has only two settings: Mountain Stream Cold and Angry Moose Fending Off Mob of Overzealous German Tourists Hot. When I first turn it on, the water almost scalds me. Then, when I’m all lathered up and getting ready to rinse off, the hot water abruptly runs out. As time goes on I learn that the water heater has approximately four minutes and thirty-five seconds’ worth of hot water, just enough time for me to quickly apply and rinse out shampoo and conditioner, but not long enough for shaving one’s legs. Fortunately, it will be at least four months before my legs will see the sunshine again.

  The cottage is heated by a few scattered radiators and a wall-mounted heat pump that quickly loses its mojo when temperatures start dropping down to zero degrees Fahrenheit. One bitter-cold night just a few days into our trip I go to bed wearing my new wool socks, long thermal underwear, and my knitted beanie, and still shiver under the thick duvet. I have three TV channels and no internet, at least not for another week. All the clothes that I’ll be wearing for the next five months fit in two small dresser drawers. I have everything I need but not much more. I affectionately name our new home the Shack.

  When you’ve grown up in a place but have been gone for a long time, it sometimes strikes you as strange and strangely familiar at the same time. The past is constantly present and will find you, whether you seek it out or not. At the grocery store in nearby Borås, the big city where I went to high school, the cashier turns out to be an old classmate who grew up in another small town near the Shack.

  “You live out there now?” she asks me incredulously when I tell her my story in a forty-five-second sound bite, to avoid holding up the line. “Well, welcome to the end of the world! I’m glad I got out of there and moved to the city.”

  Twenty years ago, when I was in high school, I probably would have said the same thing. Being away for so long has made me see everything in a new light. True, the grocery store by the gas station in Äspered was shuttered years ago. More recently, the buses stopped coming through here as well, and what used to be two Christian congregations have merged into one. A devout crowd still meets for worship every Sunday, and for the rest of the villagers the nineteenth-century church on the hill remains a popular venue for some of life’s major milestones: christenings, commencement ceremonies, confirmations, weddings, and funerals. But, like in many other small towns in Sweden, the heart of the community is really the brown-and-white clubhouse half a mile outside of town. From these headquarters, the local sports association organizes an impressive smorgasbord of family-oriented activities: cross-country skiing school for kids, soccer leagues for both children and adults, weekly bike-riding meet-ups for families, gymnastics, land hockey tournaments, a running club, and various noncompetitive outdoor family outings. Just months before our arrival, volunteers completed a new outdoor gym with tires and monkey bars and boot-camp style climbing structures. All in a community of fewer than a thousand residents.

  The Shack is located about half a mile from the clubhouse, nestled between a narrow blacktop road with little traffic and a large lake with water that is remarkably clean but as cold as a supersize trough of ice. A few hundred yards down the road is a small nature preserve with mostly deciduous forest and a trail system that probably dates back to the time when walking was most people’s main mode of transportation. To the west, the town is flanked by a bog, and to the north and south, it’s surrounded by pine forests so thick that even on sunny days only slivers of light can reach the soft, bright green moss that covers the ground. No matter in which direction I turn my face, I am completely immersed in the natural world. Here, I will be able to bring life down to its bare nuts and bolts and focus solely on connecting with nature, my daughters, my family, and myself. If this is the end of the world, I’m more than happy to face it.

  A couple of days after we arrive, we visit my dad, who has just been released from the hospital. He’s tired but in good spirits. And he can’t wait to get back outside. “Two weeks in the hospital with no fresh air,” he mutters and shakes his head. “You can’t have that. Our bodies need fresh air.” Considering that my dad was a smoker for over forty-five years and just recently quit, he may not be the best judge of what constitutes fresh air in the literal sense. But although he didn’t always make the healthiest choices in life, he, like most Swedes, has always had an innate longing for nature. Last summer and fall, while recuperating from the difficult emergency surgery, he had prepared for his radiation and chemotherapy sessions by going for daily walks in the woods behind his and his wife’s house, my childhood home. Some days, the walks were short, as complications from the surgery left him tired and winded. Other days he would walk one, two, even four miles. But he walked with his neighbor Bernt every day at 11 a.m. sharp, rain or shine. And every day he felt a little bit stronger.

  While reacquainting myself with Sweden, I soon make another observation—most people around me are in annoyingly good shape. I have always been a fairly healthy eater and exercised on a regular basis, mainly, in all honesty, so that I can keep eating chocolate without having to buy bigger clothes. But I clearly have nothing on the clusters of Middle-Aged Men in Lycra (known locally simply by the acronym MAMILs) who fl
y by the Shack on their expensive bikes as soon as the road is cleared of snow. A quick check with some of my old friends confirms that the interest in friluftsliv, health, and fitness seems to have reached a new all-time high. One friend’s husband has, in a slightly intoxicated moment, been persuaded by his friends to do the Swedish Classic Circuit, a four-race event over twelve months that involves 56 miles of cross-country skiing, 186 miles of bike riding, 1.8 miles of open-water swimming, and 18.6 miles of running. Another friend’s husband has, out of the blue, come up with a plan to ascend Kebnekaise, which at 6,882 feet is the tallest peak in Sweden, with a couple of his workout buddies. A third friend has registered herself and her boyfriend for a twenty-mile trail run in Norway as his birthday present, and now they are both hard at work training for it.

  Apparently I have arrived in the middle of a great health awakening.

  Sleeping Baby—Outdoors

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  There’s an old Danish proverb that claims that “fresh air impoverishes the doctor.” Ironically, the Scandinavian penchant for fresh air can be traced back to a time when outdoor air was not necessarily very fresh, at least not in the cities. At the start of the twentieth century, children played outside a lot, but poor sanitation, disease, and smoke from coal and woodstoves made for an unhealthy cocktail. Tuberculosis was rampant, and one of the few treatment options was to send children as well as adults to so-called sanatoriums in the countryside, where they were encouraged to eat healthy and rest outside. Although this was not an entirely effective treatment for tuberculosis, people discovered that nature had other healing qualities. Soon the wealthy started flocking to the countryside to get their beneficial dose of nature, whether they were sick or not, and children from poor families were sent to summer camps or on extended stays with families in rural areas.