My Most Extraordinary Grandmother

Much of my childhood was spent with my grandmother. She taught me that greatest joy in life: reading! I was four and she had bought me an ABC. She was very excited when she unwrapped the book, excited like I had never seen her before. I remember the moment very well because it was as her breathing was quicker than usual, and her hands revelaed a slight tremor. As she began showing me all the drawings in the book along with some signs which she accompanied with funny sounds. She kept repeating them to me, over and over, having me repeat back to her. She called these mysterious signs in the book letters.

Since before the day I could move in an upright position, she took me out for walks. I understood much later in life that the whole purpose of these walks was discovery. These walks were short ones at first. Then they became longer and longer. Having grown up in a small hamlet called Grindaheim, right in the heart of the magnificently beautiful mountain range of Jotunheimen, she had a great respect for nature which she carefully communicated, thus passing it on to me. She taught me the names of all the flowers we came across on our rambling strolls across fields or mountains.

She spoke with the animals, as she did with her plants. And they all thrived around her. She loved everything that lived and spent every minute of her conscious life supporting life.

Every day that followed she sat with me for a little, and very soon I could read. By the age of five I was reading books on my own. I could also add up and subtract, because she had taught me some other mysterious symbols, the numbers, and what to do with them. And in the process she had taught me to read.

The best time of year was the Summer when my grandmother and I would take the cattle high up in the mountains. For two whole months we would stay in this mountain kingdom, surrounded by spectacular nature and animals. All we would do is read, natter, and sing. And always looking and listening: looking at the mountains, the colour of the sky, she shape of the clouds, the animals, each other...

Never once in my entire life did I ever feel her love for me not be present, or even wane. When I came to visit her, at the sound of my car, she would peak out from behind her kitchen curtains. When she saw me, she looked as if she'd just seen the sun rising - every single time.

She was a paradox indeed, my grandmother. Toward the end of her life and full of days, she was deeply frustrated because Life wouldn't let go of her. One day and deep despair, she cried out, "Oh, my dear God! Oh, bloody hell!"

I guess that sums up life for many of us, but especially so for her. My, was she brave - and so amazingly wise, in a most ordinary way.

I'm deeply grateful to her. For everything. Our love is as solid and eternal as the mountains of Jotunheimen amongst which we wandered, learnt, laughed, and sometimes cried for all those years.