modernitetsrevers

(English version further down)

5793

I en efterhånden ældre udgave af Weekendavisen fra 2015, jeg redede ud af bunken af brændepapir i mine forældres svenske stuga her for nogle dage siden, beskriver Thorkild Bjørnvigs søn Bo Bjørnvig hvordan moderniteten på en ganske konkret måde gjorde indtog i hans fars hus i Gl. Skagens dengang ensomme klitlandskab, efter det var blevet solgt til farens gode ven, den moderniseringsivrige Klaus Rifbjerg. Fra at have et das med træbræt og at måtte bære vandet i bøtter på en stav over skuldrene igennem det vindomsuste øde klithav, vand som Fr. Bjørnvig efter sigende brugte hele formiddage på i hånden at vaske tøj med, var der længe langt til nutidens priviligerede førsteverdenskomfort. Da Rifbjerg overtog, tog moderniseringen også fart – møbler skiftedes ud, en indkørsel blev lagt, strøm og vand installeret, og smarte, store termoruder varslede nye tider med masser af lys. Og naboer flyttede ind, klitterne omvandledes til massesommerhusområde, og Rifbjerg hegnede sig ind imellem de nye nyankomne, når han ikke drønede derfra i een af hans skinnende skiftende sportsvogne.

5563

For en gangs skyld er der hvidt og koldt i marts måned her i Västergötland. Da dette efterhånden er en undtagelse, var min far blevet helt uvan ved at vinterstoppe udluftningshullerne i stugans husfundament med rockwool. Så kulden kom, og kulden frøs rørene til. Det har nu varet to uger med vand i spande fra el-brønden i jordkælderen længere nede af grunden, som disse dage er omgivet af hvide marker og fjerne skovbrugsbryn. Kun eet hus i falurött og hvidt, som en tysk familie har overtaget, ned af den ene og op til den næste bakke, er synligt hérfra. I Mariestads-Tidningen fra igår klager en mand over ikke have haft vand i tre dage – hans tilfrosne rør tvang familien til at hente sne i spande og gjorde al vandbrug mere besværligt. Her i stugan har vi været for lade til at smelte sne som den interviewede mand; turen ned til jordkælderen er ikke så slem endda. Kun dørens hængsel er noget møjsommelig at have at gøre med grundet is i dørrammen. Da jeg var nede at fylde de fire spande op idag, havde jeg også taget mit flittigt brugte digitale lommekamera med; jeg ville tage nogle flere billeder af det lave loftshvælvs dråbeklaser, da de forrige var taget med lovligt rystende hånd. Mens den tredje spand brusede til med friskt brøndvand, svang jeg linsen lidt længere ind under hvælvet og opdagede til min forskrækkelse en lille række af uldne klumper med lange stødtænder stikkende ud af bunden. Lettere ophidset -og med et akavet smil- skyndte jeg mig at få den fjerde og sidste spand fyldt, lukkede med vant møge jordkælderdøren, og tænkte, også selvom jeg poster mit snapshot af den lille kolonis nye hjem i aften, skal der nok gå længe nok før nogen andre af de her på grunden involverede læser opslaget, så familien hugtand har god med tid, før forårets komme og vandrørenes affrysning, til at varme hinanden i dette deres nyligt hævdede hi .

5736

.

modernity in reverse

In a by now rather aged copy of Danish weekly newspaper Weekendavisen from 2015, which I saved from the pile of paper for kindling here in my parent’s Swedish stuga (countryside house) some days ago, Danish poet Thorkild Bjørnvig‘s son Bo Bjørnvig describes how modernity in a rather concrete fashion made it’s way to his father’s house in Old Skagen‘s back then lonely dune landscapes, after it was sold to the father’s good friend, the modernity eager Danish author Klaus Rifbjerg (who had passed away recently). From having an outhouse with a wooden sitting board and needing to carry water in buckets on a staff over one’s shoulders through the windtested barren sea of dunes, water which Miss Bjørnvig allegedly spent full midmornings to clean clothes in, the current privileged first world comforts were far away. When Rifbjerg took over, modernity also spet up – furniture was swapped, a driveway was laid, electricity and water was installed, and smart, large thermic glass windows precipitated a new era with plenty of light coming in. And neighbours moved in, the dunes were converted into beach house areas for the masses, and Rifbjerg fenced himself off from the new newly arrived, when he didn’t speed away in one of his successions of shiny sportscars.

Finally, March in Västergötland has become white and cold. As this is becoming the exception, my father had gotten out of his habit of cluttering the ventilation shafts of the house base of the stuga with rockwool. So the cold came, and the cold freezed the pipes. This has now been going on for two weeks with water in buckets from the electrified well in the jordkällare (a traditional Swedish root cellar) further down the property, which these days is surrounded by white fields and abit further away the edges of forestry woods. Only a singular house in falu red and white, which a German family has taken over, down one hill and up another, is visible from here. In yesterday’s local newspaper Mariestads-Tidningen a man is complaining that he hasn’t had water for three days – the frozen pipes forced the family to fetch snow in buckets and made all water usage more difficult. Here in the stuga we have been too comfortable to melt snow like the interviewed man; the walk down to the jordkällare is not that bad after all. Only the hinge of the thick wooden door is rather tedious to deal with due to ice in the doorframe. When I went down to fill up the four buckets of the day, I had also brought my diligently used digital pocket camera; I was aiming to take more pictures of the droples hanging under the low vault as the previous ones had been taken with a rather shaky hand. As the third bucket was filling up with fresh well water, I swung the lens a bit deeper under the vault and caught a fright discovering a row of wollen clumps with long fangs poking out at the bottom. Fairly agitated -and with an awkward smile on my face- I hurried up filling the fourth and last bucket, closed the jordkällare door with accustomed effort and thought, even if I post my snapshot of the little colony’s new home tonight, enough time surely will pass before either of this plot of land’s other involved persons would read this post, giving the Fang Gang plenty of time before the onset of spring to warm each other in this their newly claimed home.

(english version : September 2018 : with due thx to Adam Nankervis)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *