Stormhult

Andrea Polla
Aug 9, 2017 · 2 min read

This house is older than all the others in our village; Stormhult is the heartbeat of the past, the reminder that we all begin and end. The scalloped rooftop can be seen from the south side of the narrow, yet long lake, Lygnern. Grass and pillowy moss has grown between and smothered stones from the 1700´s and three generations of Hedemora chickens roam freely.

The first man to call Stormhult home was, like most Swedes, self sufficient. he raised pigs and planted a cherry tree which still provides and holds his spirit near. the cherries ripen and large magpies and other birds feast upon this two hundred plus year old tree. The man who lives at Stormhult now hung a swing with sturdy rope and a wooden board. The swing moves with the wind side to side, the woodpeckers tap and the shade is soothing for the feral village cats.The moon, when full, spreads across the lake, a yellow glow trickles and twinkles over Lygnern. The leaves glisten and sway in the wind and the night is blown about, lulling all creatures to a drowsy state.

Stormhult has 23 homes, some only suited for summer and others occupied year round. The autumns are wrought with strong winds and pounding rains that milk your bones of all their warmth. Chimneys flushing with dark, puffs of smoke can be seen from the main road that winds past the edge of our overlooked dwellings. Logging trucks grind along and we all begin to think to gather and split wood and to seal the cellars shut as we prepare for ur hibernations.

I am the wife of the man who lives in the oldest house, with the cherry tree, and the chickens and the carefully preserved cobblestones and history that is the pulse of this village. I am part of the future that will turn to dust and have name that may be recited someday by another woman reading the journals kept about Stormhult´s legacy. My name will be said out loud, “ Andrea” and the years I lived happily will be noted properly along with my husband and our children. The tears and struggles and restless afternoons i spent alone will not be in the journal. The pain and passion, our sorrow and triumphs will not be remembered.

Tonight a strong gust is rattling our windows. I think of “Elvy”, the woman before me who sat by this fireplace knitting, who had children tucked in their small wood framed beds with goose feathered duvets, the woman who preserved the elderberries and foraged for mushrooms in the dense forest and who made gingerbread and boiled coffee on the black woodstove. I say her name. I may not know why, but she shed some tears, she laughed and loved. and Stormhult was home. Elvy did not know my name.

When I sleep I will seek in my dreams, guidance. I will continue. I will preserve. Stormhult needs me, too.