I grew up in the United States, but my mom is from Sweden, and when my sister and I were

little, we'd get on a plane every other summer to fly back and visit our grandparents.

On the way from the airport, my sister and I would cram in on either side of our grandmother

in the backseat of my grandpa's Silver Ford sedan.

You had to hand crank the windows down with a plastic handle.

I remember sitting in a booster seat and staring out of the window until I felt car sick.

There were acres upon acres of farmland, fields of bright blue flaxseed flowers that looked

like lakes, bales of hay wrapped in white plastic, and I used to think were giant balls of mozzarella.

And on every trip, my grandmother would point at one thing in particular, a stack of rocks,

painted red, and fenced in, and she'd tell us the same story.

The farmer who lived here had to repaint those rocks every time he repainted his house,

because if he didn't, everything would all burn down.

I'm Sarah Wyman, and this is Atlas Obscura, a celebration of the world's strange, incredible,

and wondrous places.

As a kid, I never questioned the stack of rocks or its story.

We always just kept driving.

But today, I'm pulling over.

Jod stands good-bound, red, stone, man, his story, and some Swedish superstition after this.

Saks och nål och neiv, vannan aldrijeiv, Saks scissors, needle, knife, never gift a friend

or wife.

The scissors cut the needle pricks, the knife slices into the loving bonds between them

and you.

...