- Joined
- Jan 7, 2003
- Messages
- 1,131
BEP BEP BEP. The clock gives its sound and the man hurries to turn it of not to awaken the entire family.
Last night has returned in the dreams. It was a reed skyed night in september, no wind and almost 10 degrees warm. The man and his stepfather had went out with the boat with 12 fishingnets. The last sight of the sun was disapearing behind the almost 1000 meter high slopes of the big mountain beside the lake. The lake is big, almost 50 km long but in this bay underneath the big mountain they feel at home. This is the time of year when the freezer is going to be filled with food and as its the heatperiod for the mooses and therefore pause in the hunting its now fishingtime.
The man rises from the bed and look out the window, a worrie comes to the stumach. Its windy and cold rain outside, its still dark outside and he knows its not time to sleep more this morgning. The wind will increese when the sun rises and it will be a hard days work with the nets. He mooves without much sound, not wanting to wake the sons, as he dont want them to follow a day like this in the boat. Its a little chilly in the cabin so he takes out his knife from the trouser hanging by the stove making some fussticks for the stove. The fire will varm the cabbin in an hour so its warm for the wife and kids to get up.
After a quick piece of bread and sheese he will go over to his stepfather for a cup of coffee and then off to the lake. As he puts his clothes on, the worrie in the stumach still exists. He knows his worrie well. The man is brought up in the forests far south from this place, In his home the forests is almost endless but the lakes are small and the hills not as wild as here. This sort of mountainweather still seams unprediktible for him. This worrie for big waters came to him more than ten year ago when his younger brother drowned during a wintertrip. When hes ready to go he checks out his knife. Its the old reliable homemade knife that he made some years ago for this sort of work. It has a handmade blade from the swedish mastersmith Baudin and a handle made of curlybirch and reindeerstag. Its rather dark in the colour by now since it seen some use by now, and stood its turns in the mix of linsedoil and therpentine for protection. The black sheath has lost the coulour in the edges. Its a pointy blade and an extra long handle to support use when the hands are cold. Its sharp as a needle in the point and has a razoredge. He also feels the stockman in his ziped backpocket that he bought himselfe all way from US for his 40 birthday some years ago.
When he opens the door he leeves the worrie behind as its for no help a windy day like this, and hear the wifes voice when she is saying good morgning, thanks for the fire and take care. She and the boys will meat up on the beach some hours later to help the men with the catch.
Bosse
Last night has returned in the dreams. It was a reed skyed night in september, no wind and almost 10 degrees warm. The man and his stepfather had went out with the boat with 12 fishingnets. The last sight of the sun was disapearing behind the almost 1000 meter high slopes of the big mountain beside the lake. The lake is big, almost 50 km long but in this bay underneath the big mountain they feel at home. This is the time of year when the freezer is going to be filled with food and as its the heatperiod for the mooses and therefore pause in the hunting its now fishingtime.
The man rises from the bed and look out the window, a worrie comes to the stumach. Its windy and cold rain outside, its still dark outside and he knows its not time to sleep more this morgning. The wind will increese when the sun rises and it will be a hard days work with the nets. He mooves without much sound, not wanting to wake the sons, as he dont want them to follow a day like this in the boat. Its a little chilly in the cabin so he takes out his knife from the trouser hanging by the stove making some fussticks for the stove. The fire will varm the cabbin in an hour so its warm for the wife and kids to get up.
After a quick piece of bread and sheese he will go over to his stepfather for a cup of coffee and then off to the lake. As he puts his clothes on, the worrie in the stumach still exists. He knows his worrie well. The man is brought up in the forests far south from this place, In his home the forests is almost endless but the lakes are small and the hills not as wild as here. This sort of mountainweather still seams unprediktible for him. This worrie for big waters came to him more than ten year ago when his younger brother drowned during a wintertrip. When hes ready to go he checks out his knife. Its the old reliable homemade knife that he made some years ago for this sort of work. It has a handmade blade from the swedish mastersmith Baudin and a handle made of curlybirch and reindeerstag. Its rather dark in the colour by now since it seen some use by now, and stood its turns in the mix of linsedoil and therpentine for protection. The black sheath has lost the coulour in the edges. Its a pointy blade and an extra long handle to support use when the hands are cold. Its sharp as a needle in the point and has a razoredge. He also feels the stockman in his ziped backpocket that he bought himselfe all way from US for his 40 birthday some years ago.
When he opens the door he leeves the worrie behind as its for no help a windy day like this, and hear the wifes voice when she is saying good morgning, thanks for the fire and take care. She and the boys will meat up on the beach some hours later to help the men with the catch.
Bosse
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