Embark on Carl Runefelt's remarkable journey as an investor, navigating through challenges, triumphs, and the ever-evolving landscape of finance. Source: https://carlrunefelt.com/

On sunny days, the light would peek through the gaps of the blinds which covered the glass sliding door. The rays of sunlight would block the iCarly episode I was watching, but the sound would still spill out of the small speakers on the sides of the viewing box. A rainbow would form on the crimson, vine-patterned carpet, and, later in the day, the rainbow would move to the milky walls, and my brothers and I would look at it with marvel. Mom and dad just watched and laughed at us as they wished to paint the white. But that was something we couldn't do in a place we didn't own. Some days, when the sun decided to leave and in its place would sit crying clouds, raindrops would slap the cars in the parking lot, and shadows would begin to cover the small space. When Mom and Dad were at home, they would speak in a language foreign to our ears. My brothers and I could not understand, but that was what they wanted, as they sat on the couch and made plans to move. Sometimes, my ears would pick up bits of their conversation, and I'd fantasize about a bigger house. But fantasies would fall from my ears as I raced my brother from their room to the front door through the long hallway in the middle of the apartment. How would we run in a bigger house without a carpeted hallway in the middle? My mind couldn't fathom the idea. Once in a while, on rainy spring days, the clouds and the sun would get along, signing their peace treaty with a rainbow. My siblings and I, along with neighborhood kids, would rush out of our home, exclaiming, "Rainbow!" as if we'd never seen such a bewitching display of color. We would all come together in the middle of the parking lot, or newly wet grass, discussing how to get to the end of the rainbow, and arguing the existence of leprechauns. Sometimes, we didn't have enough kids to argue as some of them would leave the neighborhood weeks prior. Their apartment doors a forgotten number among forgotten numbers. Their parents most likely found a pot of gold and used it to move. It's incredible how fast things change. When I was little, I promised myself that I would never curse. My friends and I promised we would all go to the same middle school. When the future is a blank slate, you can say whatever you want. It's like an artist describing a painting she hasn't yet painted. I would never have guessed that I would be the one to break those promises. One time, my older brother stood on the wrong side of the railing on the second floor. He was a pirate standing on a plane; the only thing that kept him from falling was the edge of the wood on which he stood. He looked down to the ground below him, and all he faced was blue concrete and the different colored faces of neighborhood kids. Then he let go and jumped. He fell past the second floor until the red rubber soles of his shoes touched the cold blue concrete of the first floor. The small group of pre-pubescent kids cheered, and some said they could do the same thing; what was once impossible was now the opposite. I wonder what I would've done if I knew I would never get the chance to attempt the same feat. I remember first moving to our apartment. I was less than half the size I am now, and my brain was too. Things are so much bigger when you're so much smaller! Our couch was a deep rich brown, and the TV was on the left wall. Above it hung forgotten gifts, cards, and posters, handcrafted by my parents' children. The dining room didn't have a large green mat yet. The kitchen wasn't even as big as the dining room, but it had more cupboards than I could count - cabinets that hid all sorts of roaches and crawly things that shouldn't be in houses. The place always smelled like tomatoes, spices, and oils. My mom always made stew, and the scent would cling to the walls, the furniture, and the fabric of our clothes. My mother would always wear a flowery perfume when going to church, and I would always ask why smelling like food was such a dreadful thing. Maybe I could've used that as an excuse to keep us from moving. "Mom, Dad, the apartment holds not only scents but memories too! What if it forgets about us?" I could never forget. The sun looked at us through the glass sliding door in our living room, and my brothers and I looked at my parents as they entered a small car with an unfamiliar blonde woman in a grey business suit. As soon as they left, we all sat together on the soft, vine-patterned carpet that we still have, and pondered where they were going.

Dearest Winter, Howdy Winter boy! How farest thou? (Isn't that a swell Shakespearian greeting!) I hope you are in the best of your health and joyous 😊 I write today, Winter boy, to tell you that I fathom not how the pages of Rainbow Valley dawn upon me a joyful sorrow. But trust me, Winter boy, Rainbow Valley is the best novel on childhood that I've ever read. The Blythes made me blithe and the Merediths made me merry. Though the dear children of Anne have always cast a magical spell on me, in the pages of Rainbow Valley my heart went out to the Meredith children, Winter boy. The Meredith children lost their mother at Una's birth. And Mr John Meredith, their father was an absent-minded preacher. He was a remarkable preacher that the Glen had had in decades, but his children were so poorly cared for. Not that he didn't care, indeed he cared and loved them much, but as I mentioned earlier, he was very absent-minded to the present world, and most often lost himself to the pages of theological books. But despite their deepest depths, they belonged to the race that knew Joseph and was soon acquainted with the Blythes as dear chums. Now, Winter boy, you might wonder what moved my heart to each of these children. Well, that's what's coming for you in my further narration. These children were young and wild and free. Faith would ride pigs, Jerry would attend the Methodist prayer meeting when he was a Presbyterian, Carl would put an eel in old Mrs Carr's buggy, and Una, the timid one was wont to dreadful thoughts on stepmothers. But you know what, Winter dear, I found their naughtiness cute. It reminded me of when we were small children. I'll now narrate an episode for you. The Meredith girls were oblivious to the gossips around their shabby manse in the Glen until Mary Vance brought them the news. So, Faith and Una decided to clean their manse. And clean they did. But, Winter boy, these poor kids got messed up with the days, that instead of cleaning on Monday, as they'd thought, they cleaned on Sunday. This arose a sensation in the Glen church and brought a bad name to their father. Faith was ambitious to clear her father's disrepute. She decided that she would clear it the forthcoming Sunday when her father was away to a nearby town to deliver the sermon. That Sunday held strange awe for Faith. When Dr Cooper had concluded the sermon and the organist had brought forth the music of the anthem for the collection, Faith got up from her pew and went to the pulpit platform. Instead of speaking bravely as she had rehearsed, her throat went dry. It was Bertie Drew who saved the situation. Sitting in the front pew, he made a scorning face at Faith, whence her bravado returned mightily. She promptly made a dreadful face back at him and clearing her throat began thus: "I want to explain something. People are saying that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of going to Sunday School. Well, we did–but we didn't mean to. We got mixed up in the days of the week. It was all Elder Baxter's fault because he went and changed the prayer-meeting to Wednesday night and then we thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday. Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha, so they couldn't put us right. We went to Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we thought we'd clean house on Monday and stop old cats from talking about how dirty the manse was and we did. So, it isn't right for any of you to blame my father for this, because he was away and didn't know, and anyhow we thought it was Monday. He's just the best father that ever lived in the world and we love him with all our hearts." This was what she quoted, Winter dear. And I love Faith and her siblings ardently for their cute naughtiness. But you know what, these young children had to follow when Walter's old Piper played his music. Now I'll quote something that Jem said: “Oh, I wish we had the old days back again, I'd love to be a soldier–a great, triumphant general. I'd give everything to see a big battle.” Winter boy, I'm now strangely emotional. For Jem and the other boys were to be soldiers and were to see a greater battle than had ever been fought in the world. These lads who were to fight and perhaps fall on the fields were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them and these girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. I now have no words to write further, Winter dear. For I'm unable to put a name to the weird feeling in my heart. Love you much. Write to me soon. I'm waiting eagerly. Take good care of your health. I'll make you a raspberry cake and a cream bun when you arrive this weekend. And, there's another charming thing about the Rainbow Valley, the children who remained alive, grew up to marry their childhood sweethearts, just like us ❤ With a kiss of love and a red rose, Your beloved.