I always thought I kept a tidy home until we went to Sweden to visit my husband’s family several years ago. While the Swedes lack the “build the American Dream” political landscape to erect uber McMansions, they keep up with the Anderssons by making sure that every square inch of their identical homes are in apple pie order, to the point where you could bounce a Euro off of any lawn or bedspread, whether it belonged to the mayor or mail man.
So while in America we can see rusted swing sets and water fountains coexist within the same block, in Sweden there’s a patriotic fever to presenting curb side appealed that would kick any naysayer to the curb who did not adhere. Gardens burst with flowers and vegetables too perfect to pick. Grass is tightly trimmed, shudders freshly painted, door knobs shine, curtains dusted and tea sets ready to serve. A Swedish flag always blows at high mast, cheerfully inviting rather than finger wagging. You feel like a SWAT team could pull into any driveway at two in the morning and home made cookies would be presented and a fresh-swept hearth lit to welcome your arrival. As Eric and I burrowed under layers of freshly ironed downed quilts at night, my head swirled with nightmare-ish visions of our house back home: every detail down to the light switches now suddenly seemed neglected, dirty and insufficient. I’d impatiently nudge Eric- no doubt dreaming of herring carefully arranged on a sparking china plate being offered to him and whisper- so that no doubt everyone within 5 kilometers could hear-”We need to redo the garden.”
“Hmmm?….” he murmured.
“The garden! AS SOON AS OUR PLANE LANDS!” Of course our garden seemed perfectly lovely to me before we left for Sweden. Now, knowing that carefully preened rows of roses and radishes lay gleaming in the moonlight just outside where my head lay, provoked a hologram of its American cousin as being nothing more than tangled weeds and vines, unfit to be viewed by anything except a bored slug. As enchanting as Sweden was, its enchantment was killing me.
“Eric!”
“What?!” he sat up, as though being called to douse out a sudden house fire. (OK, in my midnight delusions, it had crossed my mind).
“And paint the doors! We…must…paint..every…door!”
When it finally came time to hug our gracious cousins goodbye, I took one last look at their abundant window boxes. The geranium heads of soft pinks bobbed in the warm winds with a grace I could only interpret as meaning “So long…sucka!”
When we got home, a dinner invitation from some neighbors down the road beckoned like a lighthouse in the sea of mail. “Please join us for dinner,” it said in a hasty pen. “The house is a mess and the garden in shambles but come anyway.”
I couldn’t wait.