Serina taught me how to write on a picture.
Gunnar shot the pic.
David wrote the words.
God made it.
I live here.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
HOME IS WHERE YOUR HEART IS
This is the hallway in the home where I grew up.
From the secret garden with the little birch tree where we used to hang our hammock.
I made my mother an angel for Christmas four years ago. She will not remove it even in summer.
From the secret garden with the little birch tree where we used to hang our hammock.
I made my mother an angel for Christmas four years ago. She will not remove it even in summer. We need angels all of the year, she proclaims. 
My mother of age 82 has got a tumble dryer, and she is tired and does not move easily. Nevertheless she insist on carry her wash and hang it up outdoors.
My parents spent lots and lots of hours gardening. 
We were not allowed to come down until the fencing was done.
I used to sit on that moss grown stone right and get all absorbed by the sound, smell and sight of the foaming river, while writing poems in my diary.
My mother of age 82 has got a tumble dryer, and she is tired and does not move easily. Nevertheless she insist on carry her wash and hang it up outdoors.
My parents spent lots and lots of hours gardening. My mother always had a wish of a pond for waterlilies. My dad used a chisel and crowbar to dig deep into the mountain. In between Serina was born, and the pond was made as a safe place for her to play. 
My dad told the fairytale about the castle with a thousand footsteps. I was enchanted when he started building a similar road down to the river which flows about thirty metres below the rest of our garden. 
Two summers my father spent to make this road, not waisting the soil, but carrying away buckets for mom's flowers.
My dad told the fairytale about the castle with a thousand footsteps. I was enchanted when he started building a similar road down to the river which flows about thirty metres below the rest of our garden. 
Two summers my father spent to make this road, not waisting the soil, but carrying away buckets for mom's flowers.
We were not allowed to come down until the fencing was done.
I used to sit on that moss grown stone right and get all absorbed by the sound, smell and sight of the foaming river, while writing poems in my diary.
My father must have watched from above, 'cause he fenced out the stone.. I had to find a more secure sitting place,- at least half a yard inside.
This is called "Kitten's garden", wild strawberries and white anemones are blossoming there, and it is and wild be my place of peace on earth.
Backside of "my" garden where my father has piled a mountain of stones when he made our lawn.
The upper part of "secret Garden" where my mother and I long time ago built a fire place. My father coming home from the office, was not impressed.
Backside of "my" garden where my father has piled a mountain of stones when he made our lawn.
The upper part of "secret Garden" where my mother and I long time ago built a fire place. My father coming home from the office, was not impressed.
"It will fall down next winter," he prophesied.
Mom was determined to prove him wrong, and put in a dash of concrete now and then. many a kettle of coffee is boiled here, and heaps of hot-dogs grilled.
One week ago. Gunnar is showing Mom the pics I made with my cellphone N73.
One week ago. Gunnar is showing Mom the pics I made with my cellphone N73.
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