Spell of the Fiddler

摘要

In Swedish winters, darkness arrives early. Farm work tapers off. Ambitions hibernate. One of the earliest memories I have is of staying at my grandmother Jenny Clifford's farm in the little village of Bingsjoe, which is situated in a pine and birch forest in the middle of the country. In the evenings we used to visit her brother, my great-uncle Gustaf Pakkos, up the hill in the house where they were both born. But we could always be shucked of our seasonal torpor if Gustaf Pakkos took down his fiddle and played.