Many solstices had passed since last time I was here. My mother is Swedish, my father was an orphan from Brooklyn — and for nearly 20 years, we spent every summer in Smaland. It’s why I have never felt completely American. It’s also why I have no relatives who aren’t Swedish. I have strong memories of growing up in Sweden; over the past 20 years, those memories have become almost fable-like. And in all those summers, there was no day more special than Midsummer. It was the one day we were all together. It was the one day I wanted to share with my own child.
It was time to teach my 3-year-old daughter, Frankie, how to sing and dance around a maypole (assuming I could even remember), see the cousins I still envisioned as 10-year-olds, and find out how Smaland had changed over the past two decades — or rather, if it had changed. It’s always risky to return to a place that gave you happy childhood summers. At worst, you may find that new four-lane highways have run over your personal memories. At best, you realize those memories have inflated. But Smaland, I learned, may be impervious to change.
Most cultures have their pagan hand-me-downs, and in Scandinavia, it’s Midsummer. Or, more accurately: Midsommar. Back in the Middle Ages, the point of covering a maypole — a midsommarstang — in leaves and flowers was an appeal to the gods for a generous harvest. Over the centuries, traditions shifted. And every Midsummer party I’ve been to has been less an offering to the gods and more a really fun garden party, but also a special one — particularly to those who grew up with it.
