Maria Smedstad: Farmor’s diary

My grandmother, or ‘farmor’ was an exceptionally poised woman whom I rarely saw without her lipstick perfectly applied or her brows neatly creased at the sight of us uncivilised grandchildren. She knew how to sit, how to dress and how to glare at people with objectionable manners. Although she was always kind, the gulf between us seemed unfathomable. I could never picture her young, which is why it came as a surprise when her childhood diary was discovered after her passing. More unexpected was its content. Farmor grew up in 1920s Stockholm, and – as it turns out – was not always so calmly composed. Rather, she went about town like a wild imp. Farmor played truant, hitchhiked (via horse and cart), lied and griped about school. She was sassy, bold, and set her sights on a boy when she was far too young, which led to some very familiar bouts of despair, bitter oaths to swear off the ‘stronger sex’ and cunning plans to win him over. In other words, she was a teenager. She was me, when I was her age (although doubtlessly a whole lot cooler). It serves as a lovely reminder that often there is more that unites us than sets us apart, no matter the difference in countries and centuries. The diary ends with the revelation that farmor’s crush has been seen with another girl, and so now it’s OVER – also that her latest diet MUST start in earnest. But tomorrow. Whether she ever got around to it remains unclear, but five years later she married the boy, my granddad. And now I only wish that I could go back to the time when she berated me for being too audacious. I’d laugh and tell her that I knew she was exactly the same. Only worse.