Several years ago I first saw Jöte from my study window. He used to pass before seven-thirty in the morning and return a couple of hours later. His routine has been the same every day, even in the depths of the Swedish winter and he always wore a jacket. I have often wondered where he went at that time of the morning. Perhaps there is a communal breakfast for single retirees or he goes to the home of a relative or lover. I noticed that he dragged his right leg and his arm seemed to hang. I wondered if he had had a stroke, similar to mine.
Jöte has only one tooth. Now that is quite rare in Sweden. Swedes seem to have excellent teeth and if not, they have had cosmetic dental work done. It is strange to see somebody, who is not a drunk or a recent immigrant, have only one tooth.
Jöte has a plot at the nearby communal gardens. He only grows potatoes and occasionally red beans. When one has only one tooth, they are easy to chew.
Jöte is a retired fireman. I guess that he is well into his eighties. He loves fires. Every year at the springtime clean-up at the plots, he is responsible for burning the mountain of waste that has accumulated from the previous year. But despite his fire department permit, he can encounter unforeseen problems. One year a local woman was very angry with him and gave him a lot of abuse because she could smell the smoke in her apartment. Another year he was attacked by a vicious hedgehog, prematurely woken up from its winter sleep. And this year a passing dog startled a hare, which cowered behind Jöte, until the owner took the dog away.
Jöte is a gentleman. If one of the older ladies has a problem with her plot, Jöte is at her service. He digs, he cuts, he carries, he gives advice. On a warm day he can often be seen sitting at the big table in the shade, being served a coffee with a slice of cake by a grateful lady. With only one tooth, the ladies know that Jöte prefers crumbly cake to a hard biscuit.
I saw Jöte again early this morning. It was just after seven. He now has a little walking frame that he pushes along. It is like a Zimmer frame on wheels, with a seat. He walks more slowly now and his limp is much more pronounced. He still wears the same jacket and usually returns by nine-thirty.
The Irish Rover 