[Listen]
[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…
My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.
This time, it’s a story about a person’s dissatisfaction with living the life others expected from him leading to a stone in a Swedish forest that also called to someone else during a turning point in his life in the early 860s. Not 1860’s…860s.
But first, the usual content advisory…
“The Song of the Stone” deals with lack of job and life satisfaction, pressure to marry and have children, career pressure, and death from illness.
Before we begin, A mighty thank you to Miro Karjalainen, aka Three Star Vagabond, for answering some questions about Stockholm and Birka. If there are any inaccuracies in the story, they are all on me.
Miro is my favorite travel vlogger. Each week, he documents his travels around Stockholm, the rest of Sweden, and the world. It’s an impressive one-person operation, full of great places, history, and humor.
Miro also has a second YouTube channel called This is Geeky! in which he knocks around documenting geeky things. Of course, I love that channel as well.
So, check out what he’s up to at either link above, or swing by his Three Star Vagabond Facebook group.
Also, I hint at a couple YouTube channels in this story. If you’re curious who inspired those lines, here you go:
Roaming Wild Rosie – A thru-hiking designer who stepped away from the hurried pace of life in London and bought a cabin in the Swedish woods. Most Sundays, she chronicles her efforts restoring her home and tending to her little plot of land. I can’t tell you how much I love the commentary in her video about being a hermit.
Lowkey Swedish – Ally and Hamish are the “adorable couple from New Zealand,” mentioned in the story. Like the others mentioned above, each Sunday they share their restoration progress on their cabin in the woods not too far from Stockholm.
It’s already hit 97F / 36C in Texas this spring, so I’m sure I’ll revisit their snowed-in video as it gets even hotter in Texas.
Links to everyone and everything I just mentioned are in the show notes.
All right, let’s get to work!
The Song of the Stone
It was always about more than just my job, but I didn’t realize that until I found the stone. One day we’re told we can be anything we want, but as we get older, we’re told those dreams aren’t “responsible.”
I’m sure there are six-year-olds who decide they want to be an accountant from the start, but growing up, all my friends wanted to be artists or writers or in bands. They wanted to make movies or explore the world. Now, they spend their days in cubicles or tucked away in home offices, never feeling able to fully step away from their work. But chat with them—maybe even loosen them up with a drink or three—and many admit they wonder what their lives would be like today had they been more true to themselves and not those who raised them.
Me? I wanted to be a history teacher, but my parents wouldn’t hear it.
“It’s a noble profession,” my father said, “but it won’t provide the life of a doctor or lawyer. At least consider business.”
The saddest thing about that day? Me saying, “I was raised to believe I could be anything,” and my mother looking at me and replying, “You should listen to your father.”
And that’s what I did.
I moved from my hometown of Olathe to Lawrence, where I enrolled in the University of Kansas School of Business. If nothing else, I was out of the house.
After I got my MBA, though, I was back home, working as a business analyst where my dad worked in Kansas City.
That’s when Crisis Number One hit…
* * *
I know I wasn’t the first 26-year-old to be burned out at work and feeling some degree of guilt about such a seemingly fortunate problem to have. My grandparents were married and had several kids by 26, and they sucked it up—so what was my problem? But why should a person compare themselves to others, and be made to suffer, when that’s not who they are?
I later found out from my mom that her parents were miserable together. My grandfather cheated on my grandmother for years, and she eventually had more than just a clinical relationship with the family doctor. My dad’s side of the family at least didn’t try keeping things together in an effort to appear happy. My grandfather had the typical mid-life crisis, dumping my grandmother for someone younger who eventually dumped him.
My grandmother, on the other hand, rolled with it and started living for herself instead of to the expectations of others—and today she’s one of the happiest people I know. She doesn’t regret having children, but there’s a spark in her eye when I say I don’t want that.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told it is up to me to continue my family line. That’s a ridiculous weight to place on the shoulders of a six-year-old, but that’s how old I was when I first recall my family telling me—the last male in our family branch—that I was essentially here for one thing: to carry on the Pierson name. I have considered my aversion to being a father might be linked to that. Were my feelings just me pushing back against my dad, his father, and aunts and uncles telling me memories of them would die unless I sired at least one male child myself? Like we were royalty or something?
But it’s not that: I just like solitude. I’ve never dreamed of having a relationship with someone, let alone a marriage. I’ve been told by family, and even some people I barely know, that I’m greedy for being this way. I think it’s more greedy, however, to have children because it’s what’s expected of us. I’ve been told I can’t know what I’m missing until I hold my own child in my arms and look in its eyes, but I have many friends whose parents did that and then put on them all their regrets and failures and expected them to carry those hopes and dreams—even if they did not share them—to some imaginary end. The world is full of neglected children, many from some of the wealthiest neighborhoods that exist.
Yet I’m somehow the broken one rolling in a puddle of greed for not producing the children I don’t want, just so someone can say, “See? I told you so!”
I’ll admit, my solution to Crisis Number One might have been a bit extreme, but I made the decision on my 26th birthday to leave Kansas. I’d been thinking about getting my own place in Kansas City, but it was apparent I needed even more distance from home. Somehow, the conversation during my birthday dinner turned to talk about when I was going to settle down and give my parents grandchildren. I zoned out, but I remember my dad saying something about leaving behind a legacy and my mom asking me who will care for me when I get older.
It was my friggin’ birthday, and that was my gift? I looked at my mom and told her: “If I had kids, I’d not have them to take care of me. We shouldn’t be talking about my inevitable death on my birthday, but since we are, I’m fine walking into the woods and dying when it’s my time. And legacy, Dad? Who’s your great-great grandfather?”
He couldn’t name him.
“That’s legacy, Dad: forgotten in a few generations.”
“I’m here because of him, though,” my father said.
“Yes, you are, and honoring his legacy by working a job I know you can’t actually enjoy—and badgering your son on his birthday, despite knowing my feelings about all this.”
I’d done what I was supposed to do: I got an MBA and a good job, but it still wasn’t enough.
I knew the longer I stayed in Kansas that things would only get worse.
I wondered what another life entirely might be like…
* * *
AD 857
Einvaldr wondered what his life might be like had he stayed on the farm. It’s not that he lacked interest in the bustling trade city of Birka, with its people from distant places converging on the island to peddle and purchase wares, but it was the life his father wanted—not him. Einvaldr preferred the quiet pace of farm life, tending to the land and sheep, instead of the din and throng surrounding him. That didn’t stop his father from trying to convince him they shared a dream.
“Do you agree this is a good life, my son?”
The two huddled around the hearth in the center of their small shelter and shop.
“It is, father. But it is not the life I imagined.”
“What do you not like about it?”
“This building is small, and the village is crowded.”
“This building is warm and a reminder of our family’s work. This city is our connection to the world.”
Einvaldr looked at the piles of fabric making their already tight dwelling even more claustrophobic.
“I am proud of our work and do not mind coming here to sell it. I do not like living here, though.”
At first, Birka was not without its excitement. Einvaldr was content to sleep beneath their stand when the weather was pleasant, and moods were bright. When they settled into a permanent space—staying even through winter—the novelty quickly faded. Einvaldr only saw home when his father sent him back to the farm to retrieve more fabric.
“That we can survive, here, is a testament to our way of life,” his father said.
“My way of life is not here.”
“Your beard is still short. You will one day see the opportunities before us as I do.”
Einvaldr’s father stood and retrieved a piece of silk from a nearby stack of fabric.
“I will put our family’s work against any local, but it is not like this. Do you not want to travel east to see how this is made?”
Einvaldr drew his cloak around his body. “That will not keep you warm during winter.”
His father settled back beside the small fire. “I have given you a better life than mine. Your children will have a better life than you. One day, you will realize this.”
Einvaldr stared at the flames and said, “I had a better life on the farm.”
* * *
Crisis Number Two was on me.
I left Kansas for a corporate training position in Portland. It wasn’t teaching history, but it was teaching. I quickly realized how easy it is to convince yourself that doing something similar to a dream is the same as living the dream, but it didn’t last long. What I was doing in Portland was not much better than analyzing data back home in Kansas. Training people how to use proprietary software is not the same as teaching people something you love—it’s just a job like any other if your heart’s not into it.
I had aspirations to get outside with my move to the Pacific Northwest, to soak in the landscape—maybe become one of those people who forages for mushrooms and knows hidden places even most locals don’t know exist. But I spent most of my time in Globotek’s Pacific Northwest office, or in my studio apartment, exhausted. While I was free from the pressure of family, I was not free from its effects.
The problem with running from something is that you’re running. Instead of holding my ground when others demanded things from me, I gave in because it was easier than confrontation and feeling like the bad guy. Once you establish that as normal, though, you are—in essence—giving others permission to continue doing things in your life you do not like.
I once read an article written by a palliative care nurse—about the regrets people have at the end of their lives. I figured wishing they had worked less would be the number one misgiving, but it was number two. The number one regret of the dying? “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”
At least I was in good company.
I was on the cusp of another full-blown crisis just three months into my move when my boss asked me to come into her office. I hoped it was a layoff. I’m not sure what I would have done, but I was able to save much of what I made and knew I’d be fine. Worst case: I’d have a little bit of time to get out and see things I moved to experience before finding another job. But instead of saying, “We’ve unfortunately made the difficult decision that we have to let some people go,” she said, “How would you like to spend a year in our Stockholm office?”
* * *
Stockholm was nothing like Kansas City, or even Portland. If I had to compare it to other places, I’d say it’s like a cross between Paris and Vienna, with a lot more water and bridges. But that’s not fair—it is a city all its own, where Baroque masterpieces stand beside minimalistic works of art. A city that built its streets around walking and cycling. Despite breaking each morning for fika and eating pastries with coffee, it took little time to lose the bit of extra weight I hoped to shed hiking in the forests of Oregon. It was every beautiful thing about other wonderful cities in one place.
My work life was much different as well. I never quite figured out why I was needed, other than my manager wanted a native English speaker to create training content for some clients, even though my coworkers spoke better English than many native speakers I knew back home. When we worked, we worked with focus, but when the day was done, we stepped away. I wasn’t expected to answer email on my phone after hours or work on weekends. I never realized until then how even on my best day in the states, I still carried the hum of low-grade stress with me everywhere I went. When you factor in how stringent my parents were about school and sports growing up, I found myself with time to myself for the first time in my life. That’s when I discovered a new problem: I had no idea what to do with that time.
I mentioned my predicament to my manager, Nora. She suggested I get a hobby. I told her I enjoyed hiking, and she said, “That is a part of life. You need something to focus on.”
I said, “I enjoy history and reading.”
“That is also part of life.”
* * *
Another thing I discovered about Sweden is your work friends are your friends at work, but it’s up to you to find friends outside the office. It’s not like in the states where work friends are often personal friends; in part, because we never seem to stop working in the U.S. I suppose that’s why Nora suggested I find a hobby—so I’d at least have friends at a club for whatever I decided to focus on. But I preferred being alone.
I was content to wander Stockholm, so there was no reason to take up something new. The history of the area, and the city’s myriad museums and parks, meant I always had something to do. When the novelty of living in a new place faded, I rented an Aimo carshare one weekend and explored outside the city.
Of course, I still focused on history—opting to visit the ancient trading outpost of Birka west of Stockholm. It was a simple plan: visit Birka early, and then drive around and see what else was out there.
I was surprised how quickly the city gave way to suburbs, and then suburbs turning into country. The urban sprawl of the U.S. was so normal that I never gave much thought to how far you have to drive before things feel even a little open. A ferry ride got me to the Lindby jetty, where I parked and hopped a final boat to the island of Björkö.
The recreated Viking village reminded me of the Western villages I visited as a kid in Kansas and Missouri: everything was meant to appear authentic—and perhaps it was. At least there were no Viking battles in the streets like the mock shootouts back home. The museum was everything I craved, full of weapons, jewelry, clothing, and dioramas. After that, I wandered down to the water, where I saw a handful of replica boats on either side of a small pier. It was easy to imagine what the island and city must have been like then, with its tightly packed structures and throngs of people living along the banks of Lake Mälaren.
While it seemed most people’s favorite part of the visit was the overlook at the Cross of Saint Ansgar atop a stony hill, I preferred wandering the rest of the island. The trail meandered around so many burial mounds that I lost count of how many people were buried there. Sheep and cows lazed about in the shade of trees, and I was surprised to see fields and small farmhouses. I found a trail cutting through a small cluster of trees, giving me my first taste of Swedish forests. On a rise on the south side of the island, I wondered what it must have been like looking out across the water and the trees beyond. Or living there and looking across to Birka.
* * *
AD 862
No matter how low Einvaldr felt, returning home to the farm for stock and supplies always brightened his spirits. The family home sat on a slight hill overlooking a pasture full of sheep. Behind it all, trees scraped the sky. Their farm was humble, but a sprawling estate compared to the tight quarters in Birka.
It was Einvaldr’s first visit home since the death of his grandfather the previous spring. He had argued that his mother, uncle, and aunt needed him on the farm, but his father had final say. As he approached home, he considered anything he missed back in Birka. He liked being closer to the water, but not at the price he and his father paid. There was nothing else he liked about the place. All that mattered at the moment, though, was he had a few days at home before his uncle would help him drive a cart full of fabric back to a waiting boat Einvaldr would struggle to row back to Birka.
After their bellies were full of dinner, Einvaldr’s mother asked how his father was doing.
“He is father,” he said. “He should be here as well.”
“He is doing what he feels must be done,” his mother said. “I love your father, but I do not miss him. I miss you, however.”
“And I miss you. All of you. And home.”
“There are many years before you,” Einvaldr’s uncle said. “Give it time.”
“Time is one of the things I do not like about Birka,” Einvaldr said. “Here, time passes slowly. A year is measured on the land. There, it all runs together. We are losing our fascination with slower things. Now, it’s all about trade routes and goods. Birka is a place of desperation.”
Einvaldr’s uncle laughed and said, “You have always been wiser than your years. Do not worry—your day will come.”
* * *
Einvaldr fell immediately back into the routine of the farm. He rose early and helped his uncle tend to their cart. He cleaned up around the house, giving his mother and aunt time to ensure the fabrics they had woven were ready for market. He sat on the hill watching the sheep graze in the pasture stretching before him. Birka was not without its open spaces outside the village, but Einvaldr’s father kept him tethered to their small shop.
In the afternoon, Einvaldr returned to the lake the check on their boat. Perhaps the thing he disliked most about Birka was absorbing his father’s fear that if things were not watched, they would be taken. He never had such a concern on the farm.
After confirming the boat was secure, Einvaldr walked along the edge of the lake, eventually spotting a large stone through the trees. He made his way into the forest and climbed atop it. There was something about the way time had worn it down that cradled Einvaldr’s frame in all the right places. His stresses seemed drawn from his body and into the chunk of granite. Across the water, he could see the better side of the island of Bierkø. Birka lay out of view—from his vantage point, one would never know there was a city on the far side of the island, were it not for the occasional ship on the water or tales of the port.
It was a luxury for Einvaldr to lose track of time; he only realized how long he’d been sitting on the stone as the shadows of the day grew longer.
He couldn’t explain what it was about the spot he’d found, but he had never felt such a connection to a place.
* * *
I wanted to see what was south of Birka, so I doubled back after leaving the island. A couple ferry rides got me to where I wanted to go.
It’s funny how places far from each other can seem familiar. You could just as easily film a movie set in old England near Birka as you could a Viking saga. And when I lost myself among the pines, fields, and cabins south of the island, it became easy to understand why so many Scandinavians who found their way to the United States settled in Wisconsin and Minnesota—the scenery, in spots, was practically interchangeable. I parked the car at the end of a gravel road and stretched my legs.
It was what I hoped for when I moved to Portland and then agreeing to work on the project in the Stockholm office: the smell of the pines and lakes, the sound of water lapping along the shoreline and wind through the trees. Birds, the occasional boat, and nothing more. I grabbed my water bottle and headed into the trees.
It wasn’t a deep forest, but when you’re new to a place, even a small stand of trees feels huge and magical. I followed the shoreline where I could, occasionally making my way back into the forest. About 50 yards in, I found the stone.
It was roughly the size of a small car and smoothed by time. The annual expansion and contraction of ice on its surface created a ledge on one side almost like a chiseled seat. It was the perfect place to sit and think, or to clear your mind and do nothing more than take in all the forest offered. Years of stress melted away. I found myself practically sobbing as I let go of unseen weight carried within.
I couldn’t tell you why, but I’d never felt such a connection to a place.
* * *
When I lived in the United States, I believed my dissatisfaction with work came from the long hours I endured. My time in Stockholm revealed a deeper problem: I was not happy with what I was doing, even when I had more time to myself.
Parts of my job interested me: creating interactive learning modules, writing and voicing scripts, and even the occasional video presentation, but the topic always left me wanting more. Proprietary ordering software was not history. At times, I felt undeserving of the role I worked my way into as an escape from analyzing data. Somewhere, there was a person who studied what I had figured out largely on my own—some days, imposter syndrome got the best of me. Was someone with better credentials stuck in a job they hated because I took the seat in the role they craved?
I considered returning to school, to study what I wanted to do all along, but a semester had already started, and I only had a year in Sweden. So, I did my job as best as I could, and looked forward to my weekends.
* * *
There was no reason to explain why I kept returning to the stone, other than it was a place of comfort for me. There were more places to see north, south, and even the islands to the east—places I knew were more impressive than a boulder in the trees by a lake—but that spot had a strange allure.
I loved seeing cabins tucked away in the trees and imagining what it would be like to live in one, and I did visit more than just the stone. I’d pick a direction and drive, watching fields and trees roll by, or stopping for lunch in small towns along the way. It was a reminder that people were the same all over, city dwellers retreating to the country, searching for antiques and specialty shops, or time away at a bed and breakfast.
No matter how far I roamed, though, I always felt pulled back to the stone.
* * *
AD 864 – 873
In time, Einvaldr’s father’s promises of travel became reality. They traveled west into Värmland and north into Kvenland. They crossed the Baltic Sea into the land of the Rus. No matter how far they roamed, Einvaldr always felt pulled back to the stone.
When his father followed trade routes deeper into lands they’d heard about in Birka, Einvaldr insisted he stay behind to manage the shop. He missed the farm but appreciated his time alone—and came to appreciate being in one place again, even if it was a place where he didn’t want to live. When he was able to get away from the city, he wandered to the south side of the island, scanning the far shore for the spot where the stone lay.
Trips back to the farm to restock were also times to ground himself in his secret spot in the woods. His uncle joked with Einvaldr, asking if he had found a father’s daughter who held his heart. He told his family it was nice being in a place not so crowded and loud—that time walking released the stresses of living in Birka.
What Einvaldr didn’t tell his family was that he’d begun feeling unwell.
* * *
Fall was every bit as beautiful in Sweden as it was in Portland. Winters in Kansas City prepared me for the cold of winter, but not the darkness. Spring was an explosion of light and relief. Through it all, I visited the stone when I could. Like the seasons, I always returned.
That cycle was a reminder that life is never truly behind—it all loops back if we’re willing to receive it. It’s easy to feel lost if you measure your own worth based on the perceived successes of others, but I can say with confidence that while my father appeared to have everything constituting a well-lived life, he was not a happy man. My time in Stockholm, particularly my weekends, were happy times. And maybe that’s why I always returned to the stone: it was a reminder that if something stuck around in my mind, eventually I got to the things I want to do.
Sitting on the stone, looking across the water to Björkö, I could imagine someone long ago sitting in the same spot doing the same. Maybe a farmer imagining what life would be like there, or even someone from the city wishing for a slower pace to their life.
I have to think, even long ago, that people got burned out by the speed at which the world grew, and time passed.
* * *
Einvaldr’s life turned with the seasons. With his father mostly gone, he settled into his own routine. He came to enjoy winter—not because it was a slower season in Birka, but because he could walk across the ice to home, which was easier than arranging for a boat in warmer seasons. Other days, he crossed the lake and visited the stone.
With nature’s annual cycle came great changes in Einvaldr’s life: news of his uncle’s passing—and eventually, his aunt. When he insisted he come home to help his mother, she insisted he stay in Birka. In time, Einvaldr assumed his father passed away or found a new family in a faraway land. With his mother unable to keep up with demand, he sold his spot in Birka and returned to the farm. Eventually, it was just him.
Each year brought more fatigue, but visits to the stone rejuvenated him. Now, when Einvaldr looked across the lake to Bierkø, his past felt like a strange dream told to him by another person.
* * *
The last time I visited the stone was the weekend before my project came to an end. I expected a profound visit for some reason, but it was like all the others—which was not a bad thing. Sitting there eating a sandwich, I did spend a moment thinking about how many other places I could have seen during my time in Sweden. But I was always content to know specific details about a smaller area rather than seeing a smattering of things quickly over a wider space. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I lived like a local during my time in Stockholm, but on Mondays when chatting with coworkers, more than a few nodded and said, “That’s a good place,” when I told them where I’d been.
I’d seen more of the country than I’d ever expected to see. To think about what I might have missed served no purpose, other than unnecessary regret.
Before leaving, I placed my left hand on the stone. I wished I could absorb what it was that drew me there and carry that energy back to the states with me.
I patted the stone and said “Goodbye…”
* * *
AD 881
In the dark of morning, after summoning his final reserve of strength, Einvaldr struggled through the woods to the stone. It was more than the usual pull to the spot he loved, as though something inside had finally given up and sent a message to his brain that it was time, and that was the place to be. Too weak to climb atop the boulder, he gave it his back, propping himself up so he could see through the natural window of the trees to the lake. Above, stars shimmered as gentle waves counted down time against the shoreline.
The blue sky gave way to the sun’s glow beneath the horizon. Einvaldr listened to the arrival of another day in the forest: birds calling and animals scurrying about, all oblivious of their mortality. It would be easy to envy them, were it not for the pride he felt in living a life without regret. In the end, the demands of others did not weigh upon his soul.
Einvaldr reached back with his left hand and placed it against the stone. It gave him just enough strength to see his last sunrise climb above the trees.
He patted his old friend and whispered, “Goodbye…”
* * *
I thought I’d carry my Swedish weekends in the woods back to the states, but I was quickly reminded how broken work is in the U.S.—even in Portland. With the opportunity—even expectation—to work oneself to exhaustion, I did. When I was able to get away, I looked for a place that made me feel like I felt on the south shore of Lake Mälaren. I could argue the forests of the Pacific Northwest were more majestic than those in Sweden, but I felt more grounded over there. I loved the smell of ancient glacial lakes others might even find repulsive: the pungent decay and rebirth along the shoreline mingling with cool breezes and cold water.
I daydreamed about returning, becoming obsessed with YouTube channels about people buying cabins in Sweden and slowing down. I knew I’d have no idea how to fix up an old place, but each Sunday I watched a British designer who left her secure world behind to have a go on her own in the middle of nowhere, and an adorable couple from New Zealand who seemed to inspire people to help them figure things out in their efforts. It made it feel not so out of reach.
When I found myself working for the god-knows-how-many-consecutive weekend in a row (after promising myself I was done working weekends and would get out to do things that made life worth living), I told my manager I wanted to take a little time off to step away from the rush of days.
“We’re busy right now,” she said.
“I know. But we’re always busy. It’s my time to take.”
“Those Swedes got into your head.”
“Maybe. I’m not even talking about a week off. Just two or three days packed around a weekend,” I said.
“We’re pushing toward a product release. We need you to be laser focused in case training needs to be updated or the dev team drops a new feature on us without notifying product managers. After this project—I promise.”
Maybe my manager believed that, but I’d heard that line so many times before. I emailed Nora.
Nora,
Hi, it’s Zander Pierson, but you know that. Since returning to the U.S., things have not been great. I find myself working far too often. Any time away is spent preparing to work: doing laundry, shopping, and planning the next week. I miss Stockholm—I miss Sweden.
I feel I proved my abilities when I worked for you, and I wonder if there’s a permanent role for me at the Stockholm office? If there is, I’d love to return. I promise I’ll even get an actual hobby.
All the best,
Zander
I knew it was a risk. If word got back to my manager in Portland, she’d have likely taken it personal. Fortunately, Nora’s reply was more than I hoped for.
Zander,
Your timing could not be better. I’m leaving Globotek in three months to form my own company. How are you in front of a camera? We’ll need a native English-speaking content developer for an online effort. The first project is an educational series about Swedish emigration to the United States. You’d work with historians developing scripts and be one of the hosts on the series. There’s a need for your skills after that, so yes: it would be permanent.
Please let me know your thoughts. I look forward to hearing from you soon,
Nora
* * *
I had always done the right thing, but never the right thing for me. I avoided a third crisis by accepting Nora’s offer to help with her startup educational media company in Stockholm. My manager in Portland told me I was making a mistake by going to another country to support something that might fail. I reminded her in the few years I was with Globotek, that I’d seen enough layoffs to know loyalty and security only goes one way. It’s a matter of time before most of us, these days, are shown the door for no fault of our own.
The good thing about living a solitary existence is there’s no one to tell you you’re living life wrong—no one to tell me, “How can you leave your parents behind and move to another country?” as though I owe them something for which I had no say. No one to tell me I’m greedy for not having kids or that I should suffer because others have had a harder life than me. I know my parents did their best, but their blood does not bind me. I should not suffer and be judged based on their preconceived notions of who and what I should be.
I didn’t buy a cabin in the woods; instead, I stayed in the city and settled into a new job that satisfied my love of history. Things that didn’t seem possible in Kansas City or Portland seemed viable in Stockholm. My work friends were my work friends, and I was happy to spend my days with them. I didn’t need more beyond that.
On weekends, I explored. I visited the stone frequently, but also traveled north, south, and far enough east to where the Stockholm archipelago gave way to the Baltic Sea. I even discovered forests every bit as majestic as those along the Oregon coast.
And…I kept my promise to Nora that I’d take up a hobby.
* * *
Nora was right: reading for me was a part of life, not a hobby. Still, I wanted something that complemented the pile of history books about the area I kept on my nightstand. From its first episode, I fell in love with the TV series Detectorists, so I purchased a metal detector. Of course, the first place I visited was the stone.
Along the trail from where I parked to the stone, I discovered two pull tabs and a 25 öre coin from 1983; the body of a tiny toy car and a crushed beer can.
An initial sweep in the area around the stone revealed nothing, but when I moved closer to the boulder, I got a good hit on my metal detector.
After digging down a handful of inches and poking around with my pinpointer, I pulled out a metal loop about the size of a poker chip. In the same hole, I discovered a metal belt tip. The items were caked in dirt and corroded, making it difficult to see the simple design on the belt tip in any detail. Another sweep of the area exposed a cloak pin and a ring appearing to be made by the same hand. My heart raced as I set the pieces on the stone.
Almost immediately after returning to my search, I got my biggest hit. From a hole in the dirt beside the place I’d sat for who knows how many hours on weekends, I uncovered a knife. Its handle had long decayed, but the six-inch blade, extended tang, and pommel were in tact. I placed it with the other items and spent the next 20 minutes searching the area for anything more. The only other signs of life in the dirt revealed that sometime, probably in the 80s, someone liked to sit on or near the stone and drink beer.
As a kid in Kansas, I loved exploring the trails behind my hometown’s water works. Looking back, it wasn’t a huge swath of land, but it seemed endless when I was young. I’d lose myself in those woods, convinced I’d traveled back through time. It was always the discovery of a beer can that pulled me back to reality.
I put the cans in my pack and returned to the items on the stone. For all the history books I’d read, I could only guess at the age of the items before me. With no bones to be found, they were either placed beside the stone, or the owner of the tiny cache had been there so long that their mortal remains had been claimed by time. I carefully soaked the metal belt end with water from my water bottle, gently removing the dirt. It seemed the stone had been calling to others for a very long time.
Certain places stir something deep inside a person. Were I to analyze why this particular spot meant so much to me, I couldn’t explain it. Sure, it was a nice rock tucked back in some nice trees beside a nice lake, but for most people, it might only be a place to stop for a water break, perhaps a photo, and move on. For all I know, the person leaving behind the items I had spread out on the stone before me was just stopping by, but something told me I wasn’t the only one who heard its song.
I also wondered what became of the beer drinker of the stone. Was he still alive and in the area? Did he live in one of the nearby cabins that stirred a different sense of comfort in me? Perhaps one day I’d visit the stone and share a beer with him.
I was further removed from the life of the person whose life seemed to end beside the stone. There was no sword or surviving metal from a wooden shield, so it’s unlikely they met a violent end. The bit of cleaning I did on the found items indicated they once belonged to someone of modest standing. Was this spot his escape from what passed as the rush of life back then, like it was mine today? What were his final moments like? (What would my final moments be like?) What was it about this spot that seemed so important to us?
I contemplated returning the items to the soil, but I feared someone else might find and take them. I always had mixed feelings about respecting the final resting places of those who came long before us and removing remains. But when I thought about someone taking what I had discovered putting them in a drawer or showing them off to friends as a novelty, I knew what I had to do.
* * *
A proper archaeological survey of the area around the stone revealed a fragment of bone and some teeth—enough left behind to conclude my guesses weren’t far off from those of experts. Roughly eleven-hundred years ago, someone likely died beside the stone. There was nothing to indicate a burial, and with little more than remnants of a body to determine a possible cause of death, it was an end left to speculation. Everything pointed to a modest merchant with ties to Birka dying in that spot. I can think of far worse ways to go than hearing the wind through the trees and Lake Mälaren splashing along the shoreline as one took their final breath.
I was invited to the Birka Viking Museum shortly before opening on the day the items I found were added to the exhibit. The knife didn’t look much different than the day I found it, but seeing the polished pieces eased my concerns that I had done the right thing.
Over 1,000 years ago, people plying their crafts shaped bronze and silver into something more than utilitarian standards. Except for the ring, each piece still served a functional purpose, but their designs were a reminder of a society’s growth and appreciation of beauty, a step to where we stand today. Why should that work be left beneath the surface of a forest floor when their efforts can be admired over a millenia later?
I spent the morning watching people look at my discovery. Some marveled at the pieces, while most paused briefly before moving on. A small part of me hoped for a bigger reaction—not because my ego required it, but because the five items represented all that was left of a life. But they were still only a handful of fragments among hundreds. We’re all just a solitary piece of so much more in the end.
That morning reminded me the legacies we leave behind are always claimed by the ages. Living a life true to oneself—not giving in to the expectations of others—is always a life well lived. I hoped my inevitable end would be free of regrets. And I hoped the person who once owned what I discovered in the woods found what he wanted from life. He may have given his bones to the stone, but his memory had joined a song echoing through time.
* * *
[Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was licensed through Epidemic Sound.
Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.
Next time, it’s a light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.
[Quirky music fades out…]
[The sound of an axe chopping.]
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!