Storybound

Storybound is a children’s fantasy book written by Marissa Burt. It is a part of a duology about Una Fairchild and her adventures in Story. This book is aimed at children 10-13 years old, but I think even younger kids might like it. Even though the heroine of the book is twelve years old.

This is one of those novels where the heroine disappears into a book where she finds a magical land where all the characters she always thought were only fictional prove to be real. Una Fairchild falls into Story in the middle of Peter’s practical examination where he has to fight a dragon in order to save a lady in distress. When he discovers Una in the cave he thinks she might be another maiden in need of a knight so he tries to save her too. But Una is not brought up to be a lady and she is more than ready to try to save herself. Later, Peter and Una become friends and Una joins him in the school where he is training to become a storybook character. But why has Una really come to Story? Will she ever get back to her real world? And who is the mysterious lady in red lurking around talking about Write-Ins?

I loved this story, and the plot, even though it has been told many times before, is original and creative. This book reminded me a lot of Chris Colfer’s “The Land of Stories” series, which has much of the same storyline. This book however, is a richer, but also more demanding read. It took me a long time to get into the story, and much of the plot is revealed through dialogue (there is a lot of eavesdropping) and reading of passages in books. The action part comes at the end of the book, something that can require too much patience for a young child. I found that the language didn’t flow as easily as I would have liked in a children’s book, but having said that, the book is very popular, so it might just be a personal preference thing.

I would definitely recommend this book, but for children who are a little impatient and like more action-driven books I would rather suggest checking out Chris Colfer’s “The Land of Stories” series.

C.S Lewis and me

I frist encountered the magical world of C.S Lewis through the BBC Tv-series “The Chronicles of Narnia” from 1989. I must have been just 5-6 years old, or even younger, when Narnia became the name of my own magical world. I made this world so detailed and vivid that when I first read the books in their original form I was quite let down. C.S Lewis’ writing was very straightforward and to-the-point and lacked the detailed descriptions that I have also craved in books. Nevertheless, he is the father and creator of this enchanted world with all its magical inhabitants and adventures, and for that, he has my absolute admiration, gratitude and utter respect. He has inspired my imagination to take flight ever since I was just a very little girl through his books; unabridged and complete, and abridged picture book versions.

The BBC series that introduced me to the wonderful world of C.S Lewis was normally telecast during Easter in Norway, as a morning treat for kids. My family and I spent our Easter in a sailing boat at sea, and it was only my uncle who had a TV in his boat, so he made us pay an admittance fee in candy in order for us to watch the series. Something we happily did, even though our storage of candy was quite limited.

My favorite parts of the series are the scene in Mr. Tumnus’ house when he and Lucy take tea for the first time in the first book, the scene in the magician’s house when Lucy makes the magician and his subjects visible in “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader”, and when Eustace and Jill first meet the marsh wiggle in “The Silver Chair”.

The port keys to Narnia have always fascinated me. And all my life I have been looking for enchanted wardrobes and magic oil paintings of mighty ships at sea. Even the lamppost that is the first Narnian landmark after you’ve entered the magic Wardrobe has made me take hundreds of photos of Narnia-looking lampposts in the real world. I specifically remember one Wardrobe I found in an artsy hotel just outside Venice when I went there with my best friend to celebrate my 21st Birthday. It was magnificent, and yes, I did try to look for a magic country inside it.

When the “new” (well not so new anymore) Narnia movie came out, I was soooo excited. I spent hours on the Disney website playing Narnian games and watching trailer-clips of the upcoming film. But I was a bit let down when I first watched it in the theater. It was, as most modern movies are, fast-paced, action driven and computerized. The action bits (like the battle) were blown way up, and it had even added action scenes that were not there in the books. Having said that, I loved the four young actors who played the Pevensie children, they were all brilliant, and I wish I could have cast them in the BBC series, but I would have kept the old witch, played brilliantly by Barbara Kellerman. She is way scarier than the witch in the Disney movie.

The magic of Narnia will always fascinate me. It is not only a part of my childhood, it has become the totem pole of my imagination. I will always keep looking for secret doorways in paintings and wardrobes, and turn around to marvel over old lampposts. Narnia has become a part of me, of who I am, and that is all thanks to the wonderful C.S Lewis, who said so brilliantly: “Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia.” If only in my dreams.

Bliss

Bliss is a children’s book written by Kathryn Littlewood. The book is aimed at children from 9 to 12 years old, and the main target is girls. I would say the book can even be enjoyed by younger readers from 7 and up.

Bliss is the name of Rosemary’s family’s magical bakery, and magical, in this context, is meant literally. The Bliss family is in the possession of an ancient cook book with recipes that can cure the common cold, make people truthful or fall head over heels in love with each other. The book needs to be guarded carefully so that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands, and when Rosemary’s parents have to go away for a week, this task falls on Rosemary.
But as soon as Rosemary’s parents have left, a mysterious glamorous stranger appears in the bakery claiming to be the children’s long lost aunt. Aunt Lily is everything Rosemary has ever dreamt of being; popular, exotic, adventurous and drop dead gorgeous. But why does this beautiful aunt give Rosemary such a gnawing feeling in her guts, could she be someone else entirely? Even someone with sinister intentions?

This book is light-hearted, funny, sweet, and an absolute treat for kids who love cakes and baking. I can already hear my almost-nine-Year-old neighbor laughing in delight at some of the recipes-gone-wrong parts of the book. It is a light read, but perhaps a bit slow-paced. It reminds me of Roald Dahl, Alan Snow and David Walliams’ books, but this one is definitely for girls. It is perhaps a bit too childish for adults to enjoy, but I think it would be wonderful to read together with a little girl.

The only thing I would perhaps change about the book is the lack of descriptions and those little details that add so much magic to books like this; books that are atmospheric rather than action-driven. But that is just me, and I know many kids prefer more to-the-point language.

I would absolutely recommend this book to little girls from seven and up, especially girls who love baking, magic and funny things. 😄😄😄

The Iron Trial

The Iron Trial is the first book in a fantasy series called “The Magisterium Series” written by Cassandra Clare and Holly Black. The book is said to be aimed at children between 9 and 12, but I would say it will suit young teenagers more.

The Iron Trial is about 12 year old Call and his two friends Tamara and Aaron who are all apprenticed to the same master in an underground school of magic called the Magisterium. In the Magisterium young mages are taught to control elemental magic and fight against the chaos-ridden. It is a classical plot where good has to stand up against evil, but the evil in this book is the chaos, the blankness, the nothingness, and sometimes good and evil are all mixed up and can be hard to tell apart, and that is when the line between chaos and order becomes blurry.

I can’t not say how much this book reminded me of the Harry Potter series, there is a lot of similar twists to the plot, and sometimes I felt as though I was reading about Ron, Harry and Hermione, but I mean that in a good way. Who wouldn’t want to be compared to the great J.K Rowling!? But this book however, is much more action-driven, and leaves out the little details and the characteristics that make the Harry Potter books so special. Still, I loved the book as a pure thrilling and entertaining read that will definitely catch the attention of young fantasy-loving readers. It is also one of those books you can thoroughly enjoy as an adult too.

The only thing I will say is that I did not feel that the characters were 12 years old, the way they talked and behaved was more like teenagers in my opinion. And some of the magical explanations will definitely go over the heads of 9 year olds.

Having said that, I devoured this book, and did not put it down until it was finished. And I will definitely continue reading the other books in the series.😊👍🏻

So I give this book five out of five stars! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I highly recommend ” The Iron Trial” to young teenagers and everyone else with a taste for the magical realm!

My Adventures at Sea – Memories of a Norwegian Childhood Part two

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I always tell people I grew up on the sea. This is only partially true; I grew up by the seaside on a hill, eating breakfast every morning to the sight and sound of the roaring ocean outside the broad red-curtained window. But I became a true sailor at age six when my parents decided to build a 35 feet long wooden sailing boat on a raft on the South-side of the country. My uncle, who was already an experienced sailor, agreed to pilot the new sailing boat, with us on board, safely home across the open sea the summer I turned six. And that was the start of my maritime adventure.

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My family’s wooden Sailing both next to my Uncles’ boats.

Both of my mother’s sisters and their husbands and kids had boats of their own, not a homemade sailing boat like ours, but mass-produced fiber boats with powerful cruising engines and double back propellers. My father had baptized our sailing boat Linus, and from the day of the naming ceremony she was my best friend. I loved her fiercely and fed her bread crumbs from the prow where I usually ate my meals. I was never seasick; the waves had a calming soothing effect on me, lulling me into a dreamless sleep as though I was being rocked in a cradle. And we did meet with rather tough seas at times, so much so that my father had to provide me with a bucket to pee in because it was too dangerous to leave the cabin where I slept. I would lie, shaking with excitement in bed, squealing every time the tiny porthole next to my berth went underwater.

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Here I am sitting in the bow of Linus, singing songs from a songbook.

We had a favorite island of course. It was called Sheep Island and had a perfect little sandy beach, a tall cliff, a forest and a huge green slanting meadow. It was a popular spot for the local sea scouts and we would tense with anticipation every time we rounded the cape of the island to see if the little stone pier was occupied or not. My brother learned to shoot on this island, with a too big rifle and empty tin cans as targets, and I found a perfectly tall flat rock to function as a puppet theater where I could hide while using my dolls to peak over the edge of the rock and enact intricate tales and dramas I made up on the spot. Oddly shaped rocks became rides in an amusement park, and smaller rounded smooth rocks were made to build rock trolls, coming to life with moss hair and store-bough craft eyes. In the evenings, my father and uncles would light a bonfire on the stones that made up the pier, and we would make stick-bread wrapped around birch branches and chocolate bananas secured in tin foil and left to burn on the logs. One time my father climbed a tall tree, made an insertion in the bark and attached an empty bottle to the wound, the tree bled into the bottle through the night and the next day we all tasted beautifully sweet sap.

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My little cousins, my big brother and I on Sheep Island.

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My father hoisting me up in a tree on Sheep Island (oh yes, very much at my own request!) In the background you can see the Theater Rock.

Sandy Cove was another much loved mooring spot. It too had a huge green meadow stretching all the way down to the make-shift pier, but with a dangerous scattering of goat droppings hiding underneath the tall grass. My mother arranged sharp stones for us to scrape our shoes on before boarding the boat, but alas, children will be children. The reason why we, the younger sailors that is, loved Sandy Cove so much was because it had a ghost house. A big yellow abandoned house perched on the top of a hill, surrounded by various fruit trees that never bore any fruit. My uncle and I made up a story about the old lady Olga Sandy Cove who had died in that house and who now haunted it. We convinced my younger cousins of this story, and I practically forced them to join me in exploring the underground basement of the house. The basement was a storybook image of a creepy haunted cellar. It had a damp muddy floor, racks of empty glass bottles, tin boxes with outdated faded labels, rusted garden tools and rotting discarded furniture. And it had a black cat. Of course we only found out later, after running screaming out of the cellar, desperately trying to get away from the black shadow lurking behind the shelf. I had never had so much fun in my life.

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My Uncle, Aunty, Cousin, father, big brother and I having lunch on Sandy Cove by the pier.

Easter was when we peeled of the winter coat tucked around our hibernating sailing boat and set sail once again on our yearly virgin voyage to the islands. Sometimes there was still a thin layer of ice around the prow of my beloved Linus, and I would sit there, wrapped in woolen blankets listening to the ice cracking around the nose of my nautical friend, as my father captained her towards the deep blue horizon. My uncle was the most playful and fun-loving of the adults, and of course a favorite with us children, he would charge us varying amounts of candy to watch the morning telecast of BBC’s “Chronicles of Narnia” on his tiny black-and-white television, and roar with laughter when his tiny son developed the habit of emptying the little leftovers in the cast-away beer bottles into his small mouth. It was my uncle who invented all the games, like the Easter Egg Hunt. He hid a huge Easter egg filled to the brim with candy somewhere on the island, and then left clues for us to find that would eventually lead us to the treasure. We pretended to be pirates as we prowled around in my father’s rubber dinghy, named Rubber-Linus, looking for bottles with messages in them and crab traps bated with clues. When we eventually found the X marking the spot, we hoisted the Pirate Flag and hollered dirty songs, to the utter embarrassment of our poor mothers.

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My two youngest cousins and I in Rubber-Linus.

Whale Island is where I learned to swim, after being tormented and teased for years for not being able to master the craft. I had been splashing around like a maniac, terrified of sinking to the bottom of the sea, until my smiling calm aunt took over the training wheels, and encouraged me to relax and breathe. Under her gentle guidance I learned the dreaded task in a matter of hours, even though I never grew accustomed to being under water, and kept my head always above the dark dangerous deep. Both my uncle and father were certified divers, and we children would get in the dinghy and follow the bubbles as they went into that mysterious underworld that I was always so afraid of.

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The summer I learned to swim on Whale Island.

Long Island was our Bad-Weather-haunt, a small city island only an hour away from the urban coast. This island had a proper pier standing on wooden stilts, and under that pier was the “Death Chamber”. My brother and I would go exploring this dark haunting place in Rubber-Linus, listening to the echo of the many-voiced sea crashing against the echo of our own mysteriously dark hollow voices. When the sun shone its dim light into the openings between sea and pier it blanketed the surface in phosphorescent ghostly green making the orange corals, the pink starfish and the spiky sea urchins glow like some otherworldly creatures.

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Going on an adventure!

In the summers we were granted four blessed weeks on the sea, and we could sail a little further, exploring stranger tides and foreign shores. One year we sailed all the way to Denmark where we bought ten feet of licorice and smuggled boxes of Danish beer back to Norway. Another year we went north, discovering traces of UFO’s and conch shells singing tales of the sea. But it was the South Coast we loved the best. Every year we went island hopping along this beautiful coast of blue-doored white houses, little seaside gardens, red-topped lighthouses and tiny wooden towns selling seasonal ice cream and homemade cinnamon buns fresh from the oven. In the mornings we were greeted by boys in motor boats calling out offers of newspapers and breakfast rolls, and sometimes vanilla Danish or something called “School Breads”, a yeasty pastry with cream, coconut and powdered sugar. The summer my father bought a video camera was the summer I turned movie director/actress/screenplay writer. I wrote, directed and acted in my own films, filmed and produced by my brother. We made documentaries, animated movies and motion pictures. Later on, I casted my cousins in various roles in these movies, and these projects became elaborate productions featuring trolls, detectives, murder mysteries and dance numbers.

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My brother and I in one of the red-topped Lighthouses.

The year I became a teenager was the beginning of the end of my adventures at sea. Boys and parties and friends replaced pirates and sails and treasures. My last summer at sea, and the last summer of Linus, I compromised with my parents and was allowed to take a friend on board. But the sea didn’t agree with her, and she fell seasick on the very first crossing, vomiting into a bucket while holding on for dear life while Linus gave her all in the fight against towering waves splashing on to the deck. We spent a few days in a little sea port, boyspotting from the mast and making up secret knocking codes to indicate the attractiveness of the boys. My friend soon grew tired of the nautical life, and we were shipped home on a train by my parents who, I’m sure, longed back to the days when I would play quietly with Barbies on the deck. Not long after that summer, Linus was sold and replaced by a much bigger sailing boat equipped to sail around the world, a long-time dream my parents fulfilled when I was a student in college. But I will always treasure my childhood at sea, and the sea, with its moodiness and mysteries, will always hold a very special place in my heart, calling out to me to it like an open-armed mother every time I miss home.

A Fairy Tale

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A misty call from Dryad’s Lips
A tinker’s touch like feather tips
Brought upon a mighty roar
From magic steeped in fairy lore.

Sparkling light that Inspires Song
Chanting echoes from days long gone
Dance upon a Rainbows Wings
As Memory calls and Mystery Sings!

Such was the stirring, deep as yon’ pound
It shook the very forest ground
And our faerie hero came awake
A regal nymphadora from lovers’ lake.

His amber eyes with bejeweled glitter,
Colourful as Autumn’s litter
Sought the visage of his Dryad Bride,
But could not find her, though he tried.

A gust of muddy darkness brought
The sound of broomsticks from abroad
And witching hour’s wishful sight
Showed to him his captured bride.

*******
Upon the Midnight’s brazen tide
The shimmering aspect of his Beloved Bride
Bound with gnarled ropes of leather
Captive to the loam, a Trollish Treasure.

A distrusted moon on the edge of things
Told a tale of magic rings
With Light that mourned the darkest night
And Sirens’ song to wrong the rights.

Our Hero arose with sabre glinting,
Baleful expression less than hinting
His wrath kindled, Wings ablaze,
His vision naught but crimson haze.

He sliced the ropes with his winged pride
And gazed into his lover’s anemonic eyes
She dipped her hand into his scaled-up chest
And stirred the bottom to retrieve Magick’s Amulet

The Magick sang it’s Sweetest Song
In spite of anger and in the face of wrong,
The Magick Whispered of Finer things,
Of the Mystery that only Magick Brings.

He spoke finally: “There is a prize.”
She drifted slowly, like a ghost, from his side
And nodded, while leaves grew from her eyes.
He faintly smiled, and kissed his bride goodbye.

Yet as the Magick played its melody
His wings grew rigid; then tinted green
As their Sweet embrace became eternal Rhyme
Twain became One, Clasped throughout Time!

This poem was written in collaboration with the magical Morgan from Booknvolume (https://booknvolume.com/). She is an amazing author and poet who has published a fantasy trilogy called Dark Fey, which you can read about here: https://booknvolume.com/dark-fey-trilogy/.
Morgan also writes amazing fairy poetry, please check out her blog, you won’t regret it 😊😊😊.

Granny’s House – Memories of a Norwegian Childhood

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My grandfather and great grandfather built a house for my grandmother as a wedding gift. The house had, as per my grandmother’s request, a big garden with apple – and plum trees, a strawberry bed, a patch of potatoes, and, my granny’s favorite, a lush Lilac tree filled with soft lavender blossoms.

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Granny’s Garden at the peak of Summer.

The house was fenced in by shrubs and hedge, so that my granny could tan in her shorts and bra, like she was used to do on the secluded island she grew up on. The underground basement had a laundry room, a carpentry workshop, and a small toilet in which my great grandfather decorated the walls with calendar hangings from national romantic artists depicting scenes from the island life my granny came from. The basement later became the place of ghosts in our, the grandchildren’s, imagination. The attic, with its slanted roof attic window, housed the girls’ bedrooms, the girls being my mother and her two sisters. This attic later became the grandchildren’s’ haunt, a lair for spy headquarters and secret meetings. But the best part of the house was the hidden tunnels, snaking around the interior of the house. They were so narrow that even as children we had to crawl to get through them, and so deep (around 10-15 meters) that no grown-up had the will or the elasticity to crawl into the very end. My grandfather made them for storage purpose, and they were filled with delightful olden-days treasures, like antique toys, sleds, clothes, books and postcards dating back to wartime. We grandchildren built ghost lookout posts in every single one of the tunnels, without our grandfather’s permission of course, but with granny’s blessings in the form of a wink and crossed fingers behind her back.

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One of the many toys found in the “tunnels”. This particular doll is over 100 years old!

The house, my mother’s childhood home, never changed. It remained the same from my mother’s girlhood up to the arrival of the six grandchildren and beyond. It became a place for the girls to drop off their children when they needed a much deserved break. And the girls needed lots of breaks because my cousins and I spent almost every other weekend in granny’s house, and two weeks of summer holiday. In bad weather my grandfather rented a VCR player and let us grandchildren choose one movie on video cassette each (these were the glorious 90s!). There was no restriction on which films we could rent, and we watched Jaws and James Bond, Gremlins and Police Academy, and other highly inappropriate movies, while munching store-bought pastel-colored candy and drinking liters of mixed soda into the wee pre-dawn hours.

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All us grandchildren eating sweets and watching a movie at Granny’s House.

When the sun was out we loved playing horse. Well, it was mostly us three girls who enjoyed this game; the three boys did not participate. All us girls had inherited the original three girls’ love for horses and horse riding, but it was only Annie, the oldest, who were big enough to actually take riding lessons, so Cecily and I, pretended to be horses while Annie instructed us to run and run and run around grandfather’s meticulously mowed lawn. Well, let us just say, there was not much lawn left after a three days visit, but granny just winked and crossed her fingers behind her back, and we took no heed of grandfather’s angry warnings.

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My grandfather desperately trying to arrange us to pose for a photo. The only one who is really listening is my brother, here about 14 years old.

Ghosts and Witches were welcome inhabitants of granny’s house. One weekend, after watching the movie “Witches” based on the book by Roald Dahl with the same title, we went looking for hidden witches inside grandfather’s old paintings of traditional Norwegian farm life. Of course, we discovered that every painted milk maiden was a witch in disguise, and if we tapped her with our fingers she moved! Cecily, the youngest of us girls, were not a bit fond of these frightening games, and today’s date she will narrate nightmarish childhood memories of being forced to enter a haunted basement to listen to a ghost playing the piano, or look for witches in wardrobes with old smelly fur coats.

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Cecily as an adult dressed up in one of Granny’s favorite dresses from the 80s. For some reason my granny loved the 80s and never modernized her wardrobe after that beloved era.

Of course, after reading Nancy Drew and Enid Blyton’s Famous Five we had to establish our own Spy Club. My brother, the oldest and most adored of the grandchildren, became the boss, or the Chief as we called him, I was the planner, Annie was the accountant and secretary and Cecily was the assistant. The two youngest boys were too small to be appointed any specific role, so we decided that they could be door guards (standing outside the door while we held meetings, making sure no adults were allowed to enter). The Spy Club’s main concern was environmental issues, such as car engines being left on while the designated driver was grocery shopping. We made our own tickets to put on the wind shields, warning the driver of a fine if he did not improve on his environmental protection awareness. We even made our own monthly newspaper with crossword puzzles and short stories, mostly edited by myself and printed in my mother’s office. I proudly distributed these newspapers to all my classmates in school, and even convinced some of them to sign up for subscriptions.

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Here I am at school 😀 Perhaps 11 years old.

My grandmother was a lover of all animals and wildlife. This was an issue of constant annoyance for my grandfather who hated flies in particular. My grandmother would hide his Fly smacker, and try in her sweetest voice to coax the flies to fly out the open window. Spiders were much loved by granny, she would name every single one she saw inside the house, and referred to them fondly as spinning ladies. But it was cats that she loved the most. There must have been around 10-15 homeless (both by choice and not) cats living in granny’s garden at the most. Of course they all had babies, and soon my grandfather had to put his foot down and set out to find the cats’ owners, while my granny secretly let them sleep on her sofa and eat biscuits from a silver plate. We grandchildren loved the wildlife in granny’s garden of course. Cecily and I had a particular fondness for the hedgehogs, and one night we hid under a huge blanket spying on the nocturnal animals drinking milk from a rosy saucer.

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One of the many cats who roam Granny’s Garden.

My grandfather was a huge book worm, he read every book he could find, including our pony books, fairy tale books and school ABCs, but his favorite was 1001 Arabian nights. He had a beautiful hardback copy of the book given to him by his grandfather when he was little, and from that book he read us stories of Aladdin and Alibaba and enchanted caves and robbers being chopped into pieces. This all went over our heads, and I cannot remember feeling any particular fear or dread from these fantastical but grotesque stories. Fairy tales, by H.C Anderson, the Brothers Grimm and the Norwegian folktales, were popular, but our favorite was a book about children growing up in the olden days in Norway called “The Kids on the Block”.

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My brother making a funny face to get me to smile. My grandfather at the end of the table, and my grandmother in between us.

I was particularly enchanted by the olden-days, and I would beg granny to tell me stories about her childhood on the island, and she never disappointed. I listened, completely enthralled, to wartime stories about German soldiers trying to eat paper Christmas apples, or looking for the secret radio my great grandfather hid under the floor boards, or other stories about a vindictive Sunday school God sending little girls to hell for stealing carrots or for dipping their chewing gum in the neighbor’s sugar sack.

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This is the house my granny grew up in. Built by her father.

Summers at granny’s were magical. We would run free the whole day (and night) without anyone telling us what to do (well, my grandfather tried to, but he was overruled by my granny. It ended with him going to bed at 10 pm and leaving us up to fend for ourselves). My favorite summer game was to play Christmas. Playing Christmas meant taking down all of granny’s stored-away Christmas decorations and adorning the whole house with santas and angels. Granny would play Christmas CD’s, and let us make Christmas cakes by sandwiching jam and nutella between marigold biscuits. There was something so magical about seeing all those forbidden decorations in July. When summer ended, we children had often prepared songs and plays we would perform for our parents when they came to collect us. These were most of the time authored by yours truly and was of varying quality, but all of them typed neatly on grandfather’s typewriter, to be taken out and laughed over at later teenage years.

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My brother and I enjoying a juice box on the way home from Granny.

After the summer was over and we drove away, passengered in three cars behind three sets of parents, granny would always stand in the kitchen window and wave goodbye with a sweet smile on her face, while my grandfather was nowhere to be seen. And we waved eagerly back, reassuring our parents that of course we had been good and listened to grandfather and gone to bed when told so, while we crossed our fingers behind our backs and winked happily to each other.

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Granny in her garden, relaxing after a weekend of grandchildren bonanza! 😀