Sunday. Morning. Fjällbacka.

It almost feels as if we have this quaint fishing village to ourselves, my buddy and fellow photographer Henry Arvidsson and I. Off-season travel is the name of the game.

Last year’s photo adventure took us to Svalbard. This year, we’re on a road trip through some of Sweden’s most beautiful places – Fjällbacka being just one.

Ingrid Bergman loved this archipelagic landscape, and her ashes were scattered in the sea here.

As I passed Ingrid’s memorial a little while ago, I found myself thinking of another Swedish woman with acting ambitions, someone who would have turned 95 today, April 26. Her name was Solveig Andersson and she was my mother.

While Ingrid rightfully became immortal, my mother didn’t. Not even close.

Solveig came from Dalsland, from the farm Moderud in a tiny village with the stark name Järn, outside the town of Mellerud.

It’s been said that you don’t grieve those you don’t love. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure out my conflicting emotions for my mother.

I would certainly have liked her to meet Elle, her granddaughter, and Charlotte. I would have wanted to show her that I turned out okay – that my life became better than the odds suggested. That I managed to build a decent life out of what she and my father left behind.

From what I’ve been told, when she was young, Solveig was bright, well liked, and a happy-go-lucky girl.

She was certainly adventurous to leave the relative safety of post-war Sweden to chase a career and life in Hollywood. It resulted in a few minor roles, a handful of television appearances, and not much more. But she tried.

How can I possibly not admire her adventurous nature and audacious goals?

I’m certain she would have understood my need to fill life with travel to places like this.

When she died in 1978, my mother was completely disillusioned, worn down by decades of hard luck, abandonment, and a series of hardships and disappointments.

Since I never got to experience her brighter, happier days, I don’t feel obligated to mourn on what would have been her ninety-fifth birthday.

I do feel gratitude that she existed. Without her dreams, there would be no me, and I would definitely not be standing here appreciating the beauty of Fjällbacka. Also, without Solveig “Sissi” Andersson, I wouldn’t have met Charlotte, and Elle wouldn’t exist.

So rather than mourn, I will celebrate my mother for giving me the gift of life.

Photo of me: Henry Arvidsson