CHRISTMAS RUSH IN GOOD OLD DAYS

Advent time - after a war with black curtains. Illustration: Finn Bringsjord

Christmas tree with star and candles and golden spruce cones had dropped straight to the floor under grandmother's Christmas party 3. Christmas Day last year, and Christmas tree foot cracked in half.

It was really my twin brother's fault. I was almost sure he had pilfered one of the Smørbukk caramels which I had just won in grandmother's Christmas bingo, but when I sped up to intercept him in flight, I was unlucky and toppled Christmas tree with a crash.

Granny was old and wise - yes, almost psychic. She bought herself a perfect cabinet to radio long before anyone else on Bringsjord had thought of things - yes, long before broadcasting company began its first broadcasts for that matter. And although the radio now was invented it helped little, for she had no electricity, but fired with wood and lit up with candles and kerosene lamps.

Radio-cabinet stood in the corner against Kjerringdølda, and there had Grandma's Christmas tree its home place. But 3. Christmas Day last year cracked tree foot two, and that the tree should stand upright rest of the evening had to father splint it with knitting needles and wool.

Then it went almost an entire year, the frost was returned and a new Christmas pig was reluctantly dragged across the yard and into the coach house and slaughtered and scalded by boiling water from the huge, black coffee pot which even in time was used by China mission Female Association in Å parish.

When we second week of Advent went to grandma to taste america lollypops she had got in the Christmas package from Aunt Lydia in Chicago, and to hear a bit about the size of her Christmas tree this year, she was saddened capricious and sighed: "No and no ... This year will be no Christmas tree in the living room Grandma," she sighed again and fumbled for the apron collar.

"But what is it, grandmother," said Kjell absolutely horrified, "what is it that is wrong - it is not Christmas bingo rather"?

Then I remembered what had happened during the Christmas bingo last year, and it began to pinch in my stomach and I wriggled down the wicker chair and got in a hurry to tie up the laces on your ski boots off at the kitchen door.

But Kjell had no thought to lie low profile; he must with horror have looked for a Christmas without Grandma bingo, and did not give in: "Have you no Christmas three foot, Grandma, it's what worries?"

Grandma nodded and stroked his cheek. "Yes, Kjell, so it is. The good old Christmas tree foot which I received from Thorvald at Christmas in 1927, is no longer any good. It is divided into two, and not applicable to other than wood in the stove. "

She rose heavily up from the rocking chair, pulled together knit shawl across his chest and walked out into the cool entrée and brought the two sad plank pieces that lay ready in step three in the attic stairs. So she sat down on the stool in front of the stove in the living room, beat up the warm clasp on oven door with a stick of wood, and muttered, "Never so wrong that it is not ..."

"No and no, Grandma," I interrupted her, "you must not burn up Christmas three foot from 1827. If I could borrow it for a few days, so we'll probably get it fixed repaired. It should at least be as good as a brand new one! "

I promptly got plank pieces handed in my lap, and grandmother came in better spirits again and went to the corner cupboard in the living room and opened a pack of five Wrigley's chewing gum and pulled out one to each of us. Gum from the US changed us immediately to granite-jawed cowboys, and when we walked on the way home across the prairie in front of the house of Anna Kvavik we chew Wrigley in line with crashing of the frozen buffalo grass under the boots.

Grandma's Christmas-tree-foot was just two sad pieces of planks.

As soon as I had gotten off my overcoat out of the porch, I vent straight into the living room to the father who had taken a coffee break in work of splitting firewood, and sat in the chair and read about peasant party's solid progress in the neutral peasant party newspaper “Agder Tidende”.

"Dad," I said slighly cautious voice, "I promised grandmother that we should fix a repair on the Christmas tree foot that you made for her in 1827".

He folded the newspaper aside, and I was sticking the two wretched halves of the once so stately tree foot. He just threw a glance at them, but as long and searchingly at me: "Yes, Finn, you have promised something, you must also be a man to keep it. So it is." He turned the page and continued to read. Typical father! He believed always that one first had to hone their nose before one asked others for help.

That night the sky was dark blue, and out of the night it began to snow heavy. I know, because I lay awake pondering how to splice together the two halves so that involuntarily parted.

In our days had such a split not been a problem; a bottle of wood glue and a pair of clamps was all it took. But in my boyhood there was no wood glue around the farms. Glue was then made of animal drugs as horns, hoofs, hooves and fish waste. It had to be boiled before use, and was difficult and dangerous to handle, even for adults.

Later in the day I took the split foot of Christmas tree and spoke with Erling, son of Jakob, our neighbor. He had been around a lot in the US and on whaling in the Southern Ocean and knew what to do with this and that. He kept on checking antifreeze under the hood of Studebaker's, and had not the slightest objection to being distracted by the complexities of a young neighbor boy. "Initially, we must go for "wood-plug solution”, he said energetic," I drill holes and you make two plugs”. He took the two board pieces and turned them firmly in the mutilated clamps Jacob had in the workbench under barn bridge - let them exactly face to face with the fracture edges up. Then he put a slender three live in braces and away two by two holes in breach surfaces opposite each other, and I got in a hurry to whittle two plugs in the same thickness as drilled. So we hammered plugs in and faut parts together. Yay! The Christmas three-foot were spliced!

"You are a genius, Erling," I said admiringly, "you must apply for a patent on this" stopper solution "yours?" But Erling took the joke only as joke and laughed it off. He could later regret, for Swede Ingvar Kamprad "stole" the idea and founded a furniture empire built on wood plugs and flat packages.

IKEA was built on an idea taken from grandma's Christmas-tree?

Erling was not completely satisfied with the solution. He was afraid that the trunk of the Christmas tree would burst portions apart. And then there were questions about robustness. Should foot be sturdy enough to withstand a new fall to the floor, it had to "splint" with two flat iron bolted across the fracture line. "If they do not have such iron on Trade Store, you must go to Håskuld Seland and get him to make them in the forge. It is a good and solid solution, but it might look cakey? "He wondered out in the winter cold." I have an errand to Alleen in the morning, so you can get a ride if you want."

 I presented the problem for sister Plata standing in manufactories on Trade Store and knew all about the nasty and nice. She believed that such iron would not take so good up on the blanklakka radio cabinet, and that it would be best to hide them with a coating of textile. Since Plata always was kind down at the bottom, it ended with that she should knit a kind of "stocking" that we could pull over the Christmas tree foot.

That evening worked Kjell and I diligently to put up Christmas list and then cracked Erlings proposal iron fittings due to obvious financial difficulties. We had seven older siblings as it should be bought Christmas presents for. A financial nightmare every year. Altogether we had 30, - NOK to spend for gifts, and it was approximately four kroner for each. I could spend five million on iron to grandma's Christmas-tree, were therefore excluded. Such money did not exist, and I had to go to Erling and to cancel the trip to Alleen.

Later in the morning came a dull, pink colored sun voted down in the blue and yellow horizon. There was no wind, and snow threatened to trees surface in Hasselnøttlia. Father cared for the birds, and took a walk up on barn hayloft and brought down two sheaves. One hung him up in the cherry tree in the garden, the second he set aside in the coach. "Be sure to bring this sheaf when you go to grandma with Christmas tree," he said in a fatherly, good-hearted tone.

This day would father use daylight to shoe the horse, and we helped to shovel away snow so there was work ahead barn wall. Then he fetched Freia from the stables. The young, reddish-brown mare had svarttaglet tail, mane and forelock, and a beautiful white BLES from the forehead down to the muzzle. She was as usual a little heady and danced away by the snow. Scent of blood for pig slaughter earlier this week seemed well nor soothing, so far let the mare take a few laps in the snow before he tethered her up to a hoop on the barn wall. Then he brought "farrier checkout» in the coach and began picking off her flat iron shoes she wore in summer conditions.

While father work with the horse, I trawled the "rote Checkout» bottom of the tool cabinet, but without finding what I was looking for; two iron with holes that could be used to reinforce grandmother's Christmas-tree. When I came back to the farrier, he kept on adapting the hoof at Freia left hind foot to the horseshoe. The new Count shoe was steel-forged shoes with three sharp crampons, one in front and two behind. Far cut "tiles" of the hoof by tapping on the knife back, and this triggered a characteristic odor of the hoof and filled a boy's mind with a kind of transcendental pleasure.

It was in such a paradisiacal atmosphere solution came falling from the sky. I sat with four worn horseshoe between my hands, four iron pieces with many nail holes. Aha! The iron was curved in horseshoe, but a blacksmith could well - against small money - flatten them. Purely to be throwing the idea like a world accustomed problem solver in line with Erling Jakobsen. 

"Dad," I said with assumed indifferent tone, "Could I get two of those old, worn-out horseshoes"?

He hammer the final nail into hoof, trick it off and went over with crumb, so he let Freia’s foot down and turned to me: "Two horseshoes? What are you going to do with two horseshoes? Is it not enough with one? " Then he picked up the cracked aspirin-box with chewing tobacco, took of a capable bit, and looked at me searchingly.

And then it came into ... A-ha! I grinned broadly, raised thumbs and nodded strenuously.

In the evening Plata has found red woolen yarn and knitted Christmas tree-stocking. I showed her the horseshoe and how the shoe should be fitted. Plata wrinkled her nose and pointed out some brown goo down the seam-furrow, but I put it away: "I don’t give a dam cat if there is a little dried horse shit here and there, for everything is hidden beneath the lovely, beautiful red tree-stocking which you now knits for accurate tailor measurement”. But the confession did not fall on fertile soil. She was quite flustered. "Shame on you, Finn! Should grandma having a shit-filthy horseshoe under the Christmas tree? Must not we all wash our feet on Christmas Eve, even if we go with stocking socks? "

I was stuck for an answer, and so she continued in a loud voice and emphasis on every word: "Besides, I do not like a horseshoe should lie in hiding under grandma's Christmas tree. Everyone knows that a horseshoe in hiding brings black accident into house!"

Everyone in the living room fell silent and listened to Plata’s assertion and she sighed so deeply exasperated over world foolishness and waving knitting up and down in front of my nose, "Whether you lower this horseshoe in river on seven fathoms, or so I stop to knit. One of the two! "

And I, - I had nicely creep to the cross and renounce any further thought on such a wicked use of a horseshoe. Fair enough those angels could descend into hiding around Christmastime, but a horseshoe in hiding? God preserved for black misfortune!

When my mother came up to our room to pray evening prayer with us that night, I asked her if it was biblical Testament that a hidden horseshoe would bring black misfortune to grandmother's house. To this she replied that Israel’s children had not horses, but used camels and donkeys, and that she had never heard of neither donkey- nor kamelsko. She thought, therefore, that this was superstition that Plata had from grandma.

Grandmother had been married to a sailor who sank off Haiti in 1902, and everyone knew that seafarers both were exceedingly superstitious and occasionally profane. Then she ladled up and pulled out the names of sailors here from Bringsjord who had gone ashore - without parting the hair and with gold rings in ears - and bestowed spirits to her innocent little brother, Uncle Anton. And we nodded into the darkness; for we remembered that last Christmas Eve arrived St. Anton so late and animated to dinner that mom had to get a broadleaf spoon so he could get the well-cooked lutefisk up to mouth.

The next day my father asked us to join into the cattle barn. He stopped in hallway and said, "Just sit down here on concentrated feed sacks, guys, there's something I want to talk about from the old days." We sat without a word down on the sacks, and father chose to be stand-sitting on the edge of the big, metallic water barrel. Kjell and I glanced in amazement at one another; it was so unlike father to act like an old schoolmaster.

"As you possible may recall we had during the war a horse named" Bjuty "? I had good hope that she would become a real trotter, but the Germans took her from us."

"Yes, I remember that you came home without a horse, just reaching the sulky," said Kjell, "and that mother and all of us kids ran towards you on Mail road - and so we stood there emptyhanded and cried."

Father was a little glossy eye and swallowed and chewed slant. He grabbed water bailer, turned up the crane, and took some good gulps freezing tap water before he continued: "But it was not the first horse named Bjuty here on the farm. When I bought the farm of Grandma, I took over also her horse and two cows and some sheep. Old Bjuty was a small, but good and strong workhorse that Grandpa in Garden (mother's father) had horse traded on a farm in Ryfylke. You've sure heard him in his heyday was doing horse-trading in great style? ". We nodded in recognition. "I have now heard most of the times it was charade in the game," I said and grinned manly.

"Now, yes," continued the father, "my first horse, eh ... old Bjuty, had only a blemish; she was never my horse." Father paused and swallowed. "A few horses have it that they only relate to one man. And old Bjuty was so. As long as she lived she was grandmother's horse."

Again he kept silent he swallowed a lump before he continued: "When Bjuty heard grandmother came into the yard to fetch water in the evening, she was elated and whinnied loudly. And grandmother know well that Bjuty shouted at her, so she took a trip into the stable with some goody in her apron pocket, one crust of bread, a carrot or most often a sugar."

Grandma did not have tap water in the house. She went with this yoke on her shoulders and brought water into two buckets. In summer she fetched water in a well down in Kjerringdølda, winter she fetched water at the farm. Photo: Finn Bringsjord

"When old Bjuty after four years became ill and died, it was hard for Grandma. We dug Bjuty down on the embankment in front of grandma's house; out on the edge against Kjerringdølda. And grandmother let into a habit of taking a rest there on the edge when she carried water up from the well."

Kjell was totally gripped and Choking back tears, "I do not feel sorry for old Bjuty for she came to"the eternal pastures" and trots around with Manitous mustangs at the heavenly prairie, but it's so sorry for poor grandmother; First she lost her grandfather and then she lost Bjuty."

"Yes," I said, and continued in a tone of voice that suited for a repentant sinner on neighbor Jacob witnessed meetings, "now she just have us twins... and we must be much better to visit her, and much better to take us time to tell news from houses and stables and fields, not just run away as soon as we get some of the corrupting good candies in our hands."

There was an eloquent silence, and father turned away and took another sip of water bailer before he continued: "I have a memory for old Bjuty and it is the horseshoe hanging there over the doorway. It lay behind in the stable when the neighbors came and dragged her out. If you want to brush it up and give it as a Christmas present for Grandma, I'll take it down now with the same. "

And I jumped up from the sack and started jumping up and down after the horseshoe, "Oh. Yes, father, please father, we will refurbish it as shiny as the brass to mother! "Father turned away and went and went for the pincher. 

And we got a busy evening with soapy water, scrub and steel wool.

The next day Mom and Dad was going for Christmas trading in Alleen, and we vent along with them. Father fetched the slender, dark blue frame sled down from the barn hayloft and feisty Freia from the stables. Now she was perfectly equipped for winter driving and sleigh.

Mother came out with a rag and dusted off the sled and goat skin which was attached to the front as foot cover, and father fetched jingle bells inside the bowl and tied them firmly on horse harness. With tinkling bells we turned onto the post road and let optimistic about the way to this year's holiday shopping.

Freia was parked with mates on a designated deposited somewhere behind Trade Store. It was very close to the back door to the slaughterhouse, so horses thrived not so well there. Freia got a warm blanket over her back and a sack with high hanging under the nose, and the father asked us to go and see her as often as it crosses so.

Although we never felt particularly high in the hat inside the shops, purchases this year went unusually smoothly. Gift shop "Diversen" was groaning of affordable gifts, and some little things we had made ourselves, and such could be attached to the purchased gift whenever it evened out. After a while disappeared mother over to sister Lillian standing on Glassmagasinet, but then we had been warmth and on good speaking terms with shop lady. The result was that when the day of reckoning pling in front of the blank cash register, we were left with seven packages and a red two crown banknote to spare.

Before we went to Trade Shop to see how it went with our father, we stuck backside and visit Freia and assured us that she was fine. Inside Trading Shop smelled heavenly of freshly baked raisin buns and pastry from the other side of the counter, so we got ourselves in line with the red banknote lifted. But luckily father came in time and treated a bag of bowls on himself and his family.

A while later came the mother in the door, but she disappeared right into the manufactories where sister Plata was working. When we carefully glanced at the door in there, we saw that something white was wrapped with twine around brown paper, and we immediately realized that also this Christmas would be the package with solid underwear under the tree. Fair enough. The old from last year was cramped and small and stopped at the knees.

Something strange happened then. On manufactories appeared sister Plata in a new light. She handled customers, rolls of cloth and surveying as a tanned shopkeeper, and I got strong doubts about this lady would approve old Bjutys worn horseshoe planted outside Christmas tree foot. Throughout last night we had refurbished with sandpaper and steel wool, but it was impossible to get the shoe so fine that it really looked shining on the red Christmas tree-stocking.

I pulled Kjell aside for a brief consultation, and he agreed that we still had to share fraternal at all costs. "Yes, for you know, whoever is in the game - must share the roast ... ', and Kjell nodded and agreed and clucking a little in terms of pork roast 1. Christmas Day with brown sauce and crispy rind. (It was only in 6th grade that Thorvald Haugeland taught us that "roast" aimed at purgatory). We went back to father inside the large store between manufactories and meat shop, and for the last two crowns we bought a bottle of gold gilding. Then it was home to Bringsjord and Freia was perhaps the most relieved and happy and lashed out in cheerful trot.

Out in the morning tiny, tiny Christmas Eve, my father said that today we had to dress well for now we were going to the woods and cut Christmas trees. This time he spent Freia for “sluffe”, one sleigh that was wider and heavier than the elegant frame sled, and with clanging bells we turned onto the old road towards Strømnes and waved nice grandmother who had thawed away frost in the middle of the kitchen window .

 As usual we had difficulty finding a small Christmas tree that guarded grandmother radio cabinets, but it was not so importen. Having shaken the snow off 20-30 trees, we chose out the prettiest to us, and one which was just nicely in the top to grandmother. "It is not dangerous with icing that is too long," said the father, "we use only the upper part of the tree for grandmother, branches at bottom we can put on the porch."

It was real Christmas atmosphere around us. Frozen fresh snow lay thick on the branches. An occasional crimson-breasted bullfinch got snow to sprinkle the crisp tones of falling snow crystals where he flew around and light up food on their hideouts.

Father placed Christmas trees gently back in sleighs. So turnout ourselves optimistic and excited at the center seat, and while Freia lashed out homeward, we let the song reverberate in cloud:

Oh jingle bells, jingle bells
jingle all the way!
Oh what fun
it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh, Hey!

On Bringsjord we were stopped by Grandma at front porch. She cast a satisfied glance at the two spruces sticking up from sleighs and shared four hot donuts. Three rings went to us man folks; the fourth disappeared into the muzzle of Freia and all four thanks to his show and munching pleased the last hundred meters up to the yard.

After dinner father vent to the barn and cut Christmas trees in the right length and put them on foot. (He pinned splice against slipping to hammer 4 small diver nail down in the wooden plugs). When he had fastened the tree to grandma on Christmas tree foot, he turned to me and said, "Yes, Finn, now you have kept your promise to grandma. The tree is ready to deliver. "

"But Dad," I said, "I cannot disappoint Plata and Laila who have shifted on knitting overdrafts to three foot ... and then Kjell and I thought that ..." I took a deep breath and paused. He also had to wait for some surprises.

That evening we leave well with newspaper out on the kitchen table, and gilded horse shoe to old Bjuty ... and some fingers and nails and something here and there on the old aprons mother had forced on us. The golden horse shoe was "gårsens fine" if I do say so myself, and we were absolutely certain that Grandma would be satisfied.

Inside the living room had Plata begun to shed the "ankle" on the sock, and the discussion went loudly between mother and the girls about how she would get it on the Christmas tree foot. "You have to cut into the base," said mother, "so you can sew again the opening afterwards." But Plata did not think it was necessary. She had ribbed ankle, and it ought to keep. The discussion ended with that I was summoned and they demanded to get the Christmas tree foot on the table promptly. I went to the barn and fetched grandmother's Christmas-tree stand with an attached Christmas tree, and to save the five fixture hanging lamp with the decorative glass bowls, I placed the tree gently out on the end of the dining table.

 Once Plata finished trap of, began an operation that might be compared with a reverse calving; as if a sped calf should be placed back in the cow. But with luck and patience, everything went well, and Tordis went in the attic and brought a blue ribbon which she tied around "ankle" with a pretty ribbon knot. The following day was gilding dry, and I attached gold shoe on the red foot with four severed, golden horseshoe seams. Mom and Dad praised the result and father believed that such beautiful feet on a Christmas tree did not exist in seven parishes.

And we guys boys were happy and relieved. Thank God! Another year it would be Christmas bingo in grandmas house.

Thank God! Another year it would be Christmas bingo in grandmas house.

In the afternoon the day before Christmas, we bound newspaper on Christmas tree foot and went to the grandmother. Kjell bar corn sheaf and I carried the Christmas tree. There was a lot of snow, but the skis were left home for urgency to get to grandma before the sun went down. In twilight she looked poor and we had certainly something to show off.

We tramlet into the porch and knocked on the kitchen door. Grandma was going to drink coffee after dinner rest to her room, and was very happy for such an unexpected early Christmas visit.

"Good day in the house," said Kjell and got rough in voice, "we come with Christmas sheaves and Christmas tree to the kind grandmother our». Grandmother clapped her hands together, and I hurried to continue in the same tone of voice: "And then shall we say - courtesy of Mom and Dad ... and all the kids - you are very welcome to the farm on Christmas Eve - tomorrow night ... when the church bells have seeded and resounded a good hour between marsh and mountain."

This last was something I made up when I think it sounded extra fine and holidays.

"Oh no, oh no, so kind you are against an old grandmother," she said and sat down on a kitchen stool and took a glance at the gifts, "oh, so fine a Christmas sheaves ... oh, so fine a Christmas tree ... but why have you wrapped Christmas tree foot in newspaper? Do you have any secret scare matters for me "?

"Yes, just a little bit," I said, "it's really a kind of Christmas present, and we think it's best to unveil the artwork when tree stands on radio cabinet."

"Yes, we hope you will be completely thunderstruck," supplemented Kjell. Grandma looked like a big question mark, and we realized that it was best to start now with the same, so we kicked off ski boots and bar tree into the living room.

Grandmother hurried to move away a hydrangea from top of radio cabinet in the corner against Kjerringdølda, and so we placed gently tree on the available space. "Now the best you sit in the rocking chair, and I'll pour a cup of coffee," said Kjell carefully and turned the chair toward the kitchen door. "Yes, grandma, you can be absolutely confident that we say when you can turn around," I said, "this is a lot better for you than that you have to be blindfolded as another" blind thief," he he -he ".

Grandmother realized it made sense and sat willingly down in the rocking chair - and waited well slowly to get a small cup of coffee, but the move was this refreshment forgotten. While Kjell gently lifted the tree up from the cabinet, tore I newspaper of foot and rolled the remains into a ball that was thrown in the direction of firewood basket.

As we whispering agreed there and then we went to either side of the rocking chair, grip firmly grasp the chair back and shouted, "Sim sala bim-»! But grandmother had suspected some surprises and planted felt-slippers well in the floor, and it became part the hassle before rocking chair with grandmother was waving around.

"Oh, what a nice Christmas tree!" said grandmother elated. She did not see much more than the top. I was in a uplifted state of mind and had put me in the face between her and Christmas tree foot. I had thought a lot about this moment and pondered me to the conclusion that it was best to serve her excerpts from the lecture father had kept in cattle barn.

I cough and began: "It was in 1827. The horse Bingo ... AEH ... Bjuty, came with the purchase along with a sheep and a Christmas pig ... when your beloved son Thorvald, so to speak ... AEH ... AEH ...", the so-called "Iron Curtain" rolled down. Puzzled, I went away to Kjell and said: "I've lost the thread ... '. Kjell just shrugged and thought that it was best that we sang the verse brother Ludvig had helped us to put together, and we went and lined up in front of the sliding door to the consist room and captured the "Silver Boys" songs pose; open-O-shaped mouth and flexed neck - as they were depicted in newspaper "Lister"

This move meant that grandma got sight of the red fairy foot with the blue loop around the ankle, and she was SO excited: "No, this has to be the finest Christmas tree foot in seven parishes," boasted she without shame, "but what is it that flashes like a golden ring around the base "?

She got up from the rocking chair and walked over to the tree. "No, you should have seen; a gilded horseshoe! ... You mentioned old Bjuty in the short speech Finn. It is not the shoe for old Bjuty? No, I cannot hope "?

We nodded eagerly behind her back, and she must have mirrored us in the window. Circumspectly she stroked back and forth across the horseshoe with her fingers before she staggered backwards down into the rocking chair. And we went equally well back in front of the Christmas tree and with serious, shiny, blue eyes, we lined up and began to sing:

Old Bjuty, good friend that pulled the plow.

Old Bjuty, you were the best horse in the woods.

When you would not have to struggle anymore,

waiting green flower meadows,

on you, my good old friend.

Race now freely good friend, Manitou stand and show you the way.

Dance away old good friend, grandma standing and waving at you.

Far to the north, where the road disappears,

it stands only open gates ...

Now be quick, good friend, the road goes straight over marsh and hills.

(Tone: Old Blackie)

It was certainly too many memories that came up from oblivion by our old grandmother on bit Christmas Eve that year. She hid her face in her worn out work hands and began to weep, and we looked lost at each other, slipped quietly into the kitchen, found boots and outerwear and ran home.

"Far to the north, where the road disappears, it stands only open gates ..." Illustration: Finn Bringsjord

This story was printed in the newspaper "Lister" on Christmas Eve, 24. September 2015.

HEAVENLY CHARIOT

We built an eagle's nest in the oak behind the barn

Late winter 1952 we hovered long and loud. It was the Olympics in Oslo and as far as I remember enthroned Norwegians on top of the victory podiums in every sport branches that mattered in our world.

In mid-May came the heat, and the trees were green in Hasselnøttlia and migratory birds returned and sang with full throat, and we tapped the sap of the earliest birches and drank greedily of the half-filled bottles. And in competition with magpies in a spruce tree down at Grandma in Nyhus, we built our "eagles nest" in a high oak that stood on the triangle against Hasselnøttlia.

The first years had the oak grown long and ailing in the shadow of the barn. Proper crown and foliage was only when it reached up into the sunshine. But then it grew far beyond the barn roof.

There were little branches below the tree, so these were replaced with "claim clamps" that we periodically nailed up the stem. Thus was all ready to start this major project; building cottage in oak tree, a real "eagle's nest" for guys boys. It was a daring work, but everything went well, and a few weeks later we hoisted wreath over corrugated iron roof and ate cake down the yard with parents and siblings.

Overview between good neighbors

An eagle's nest in the top of a solitary tree has a strategic weakness; if one becomes a victim of the siege, one has no retreat option - then sitting one in Scissors. Our three were particularly vulnerable when the enemy could only knock down climb clamps at the bottom - and then go away.

For days we sat upstairs in the Eagle's Nest and pondered retreat problem and envied magpies in grandmothers spruce tree who only took to the wings. The thought of a winged solution with glide seemed alluring, but it belonged to category "High voltage danger." A more moderate solution we found accidentally in a brochure father had left in the cabinet in the living-resistant. It was a picture rich publication he had brought from the trip with Axel Aubert to Rjukan. There had the Director General ensured that it was built a cable car from the valley floor and up the mountainside, allowing residents of Rjukan could move up the sun during the winter.

We took a collection with Harald in Garden and discussed the matter in depth. He was two years older than us and knew about a little of each. Our thought was never to construct a gondola orbit that could carry us up the tree. No, the strategic solution was to construct a surprising escape route down from the Eagle's Nest. And it was a much easier task and had to be arranged with limited technical means. All we needed was a rope, a suspension and a gondola wagon.

Tau and suspension were okay and provide; a new 30 meter long hemp rope was just purchased for the salmon seine, and a sliding hoop we could use a “hegde” or sheep enclave. Worse was to find something resembling a gondola wagon. It had to be as light weight as possible for a heavy gondola would crash into the post at high speed.

A hegde of juniper.

Harald in Garden, who had just borrowed "Five weeks in balloon" by Jules Verne from the bookcase behind in the classroom by Thorvald Haugeland, came with a brilliant idea: "A balloon basket," he said excitedly, staring through foliage on a white cloud that drifted past, "a balloon basket made of wicker plant real and easily as a magpie."

"Brilliant idea, Harald," I said and thumped him in the back, "but ... but do we know someone who knows the art of plaiting balloon basket?"

"Yep," said Harald, "Anne Larsen in road bend. She weaves at least baskets to wine balloons. "

"Steike!" said Kjell, in his laconic way. So we climbed down and threw us on bikes.

Harald led the arrival in the yard of Anne Larsen. He knew her best when she every spring helped Harald & putting potatoes and every autumn with record crop. We rolled past the low windows of the old longhouse of her, where we glimpsed the head watchmaker Kalhovd who sat behind the living room window with monocle and repaired watches, and just off the chopping block in the backyard where Anne had cleanup on her twig pile.

"What are you looking for?" She asked with a hint of wonder in her voice.

"Well, we were wondering if you can make balloon basket for us," said Harald.

"No, far from it," said Anne, "you are far too young to add wine."

"But …, you misunderstand," said Kjell, "it is not to wine balloons but a basket of such a balloon that sails in the air under the white clouds - we will use the curve gondola down from the Eagle's Nest."

Anne Larsen looked now like a question mark, but after some explanations and forth and streaking with a stick in the gravel in the yard, she realized drawing.

For Anne was a sharp one, and it was we who were green punks, especially when it came to negotiation about price.

"I can make a basket that is large enough that two men can fit in it, but there's a lot of work and will take a long time - at least five days. Give me fifty kroner, so we have a deal. "

"Fifty kroner?" Said Kjell thunderstruck and turned to the bike; "We have not." I supported dumbfounding viewpoint and beat specified out with my hands: "The only thing we earn money nowadays is to sell cherries to car-tourists. We get 25 øre for a triangle bag cherries. So we have to sell, er ... two hundred bags until we have earned fifty kroner. It is not possible! Rogalendingene is not that hungry for cherries".

But as soon as Anne Larsen realized that we "waded" in mature cherries, she hip left shoulder and had the solution ready: "If you come with a ten-potty-pail filled with cherries on Wednesday, the gondola cart stand ready. But then you must promise to come on the back of the barn so Kalhovd not can see what goes on. I want this winemaking in peace. "

"It's a deal," said Kjell. "Oh Yess," I said, "we will do like requested." And Anne looked brighter in existence, and with a new hip on the left shoulder she continued the work with her sprig ax.

At supper we told Mom and Dad about the agreement with Anne Larsen and the proposed gondola down from the Eagle's Nest, and the mother stood a bit dubious to her son’s raw material deliveries to winemaking in Vestigarden, but our father saw only positive that they in Vestigarden consumed wine of cherries instead of the hazardous fluid they otherwise shrouded therein.

Father also came with a useful input. "At the terminus should rope tied in the middle of a horizontal boom that is attached to one end of the barn wall, and at the other end placed between two X-shaped logs." He showed with forefingers what he meant, and continued: "The boom means that the caravan ends up in a free pendulum movement - as in swing sets. A single vertical end post will be mortally dangerous. "

Anna Kvavik was our good neighbor. She had a pedal organ and a good eye for Kjell who she believed had the talent to become an organist in Lyngdal church.

It was therefore natural that Kjell was talker when we next morning knocking on her back door and asked her to come out into the yard to look at a case we had to talk about. And she was aflame when Kjell told about the projected cable car from our oak and down to a terminus on the edge of the her backyard. Anna could not forget how nice it had been when Bianca strangled the infamous concentrates-rat that had bitten Thorvald in hand, and asked us to notify her when the path should be used.

Kjell was born with a mind for older ladies lonely days and promised that since we got set up crosslogs on her due, we could always conduct a new "acting" behind in the yard of her. Anna was so excited and promised to make buns and lemonade to all onlookers that might come.

A few days later were both "terminus" and "home station" established and the rope was stretched tight and a “hegde” strung catching up. Now only gondola that was missing and we picked ripe black cherries and slithered and waited for Wednesday would come, and it did it finally and swap with Anne Larsen went into box. The gondola was hung up in hegde with rope from each corner, and a sturdy fishing line was hooked firmly behind the gondola so that we could stand up in the tree and crank this tilting back.

We test-drove the gondola wagon once for each of us, and I knew well how it tickled my stomach when curvatures plunged downhill, and although it was a little crank up and down the "terminus", everything went as planned.

All in all we would have been very satisfied with the way things are if it had not been for the thoughtless promise to erect a "spectacle" in Anna’s backyard.

I knew well how it tickled my stomach when curvatures plunged downhill...

On Saturday, when Ludvig came home from teaching certificate school in Kristiansand, we shared our concern with him. And it was wise. For after looking at the new facilities in Anna’s backyard, he was aflame and took over most of the responsibility for the script and instruction. Heaviest was to persuade Tordis and Laila to participate in important leading roles, but finally they gave in - and got mother involved in creating costumes. Kjell and I borrowed two well-worn white shirts of the father, but the rest of the costumes had to arrange ourselves.

Last weekend in June used father and mother holding a garden party when they were both born on that time of year. What could fit better than combining this with a theater performance in neighboring Anna? In any case matched the fine for Anna, and it was important. I wrote a piece with crayons that were fastened on the pole over the shared mailbox in Austigarden:

Theater Imagination

by Anna Kvåvik Sunday, June 30, 1952 at 5 o’clock.

Catering. Free admission. Small collect to Zuloland and Cina.

ALL wery Welcome !!!

The patch was diligently read and commented on by many, and postman and emissary Georg Drageland thought almost that he would come.

Sunday dawned with glorious weather, and nerves were on edge already when we before noon rigged in place scenes.

Ludvig had come home with last bus from Kristiansand, so there was little time for practice and coordination of the presentations. In addition, Laila dissatisfied with her assigned role of Revelation, and Plata had to step in instead. Now did Laila get hands on the important co-starred as bell ringer "Notre Grange", a task that really demanded absolute pitch - something she had not.

Scenes were shot as shown. To the right stood a large herring barrel that served as a bridge piers, and left stood the noted "shoal boil Checkout for potatoes» as Kjell hid in a whole day. Checkout lay on his side with the lid facing the audience, and on the lid had Ludvig burned into Roman numerals; VI - VI - VI. Treasury acted as the second pier. A wide plank was the bridge that led across a dangerous ravine, and on the bridge had a malicious being posted "stumbling stones".

A wide plank was a bridge that led across a dangerous gorge.

In the yard we set up 14 chairs + two wicker chairs; one for grandmother in Newhouse and one for grandmother in Garden, and with the help of Alf Opsahl and Peder Sandal we had been moved organ from Anna’s living room and into a room at back where the windows were opened wide. Ten to five o’clock had come so many audiences that Alf and Peder let out long planks between the kitchen stools for everyone to get a seat. Glass with lemonade was put forward on a table, and Alfhild and Kari went around handing out warm raisin buns.

Kjell and I sat silent as mice up in gondola wagon outside Eagle's Nest and was too nervous to envy the audience the good stuff we missed.

Session opened with Anna Kvavik played "Prelude" by Bach, and all chewing buns and applauded so long that Anna had to get out on stairway at back door and curtsey.

A little while later rattled heavy hammer blows from our barn, where a window was set ajar to the audience. It was clear that "Hunchback of barn" struck on the ore of a heavy water barrel with a heavy hammer, but since the father unknowingly had wells horse and the water level was now adjusted too low, oscillating sound a damn frequency just below the giss / ass and howl sounded from pigpen until the hammer was thrown out - and the window slammed again.

And the audience looked a bit around at each other and nodded and smiled for everyone knew that now it was Sunday morning and church time. And Anna sat down again to the organ and the familiar tones of "None is so confident in danger" emanated from the window.

So began matters and things to be arrived at the scene, some twigs snapped on forest trail, and an innocent, young girl came slow moving in from the right with steady course towards the bridge over the frightful ravine. She was dressed in dark, low heels shoes with white knee socks and checkered pleated skirt, and over her white blouse she wore a beautiful home knitted jacket. Her head was covered with a light blue scarf tied under the chin, and in her hand she carried a white handkerchief folded over the hymnbook.

When the girl began to walk up the slope to the bridge, played Anna even higher, and sister Marie, who sat with little Arnfinn on her lap, joined in and sang "Nobody is so confident in danger, as God's little children crust ..." and many others fell into in song with her, but even if they conjured in minor as best they could, many realized that this would still go into wrong direction, and 9-year-old Liv with Leif cried in despair: "Beware of rocks, Tordis!"

But the well-intentioned warning came too late, the girl stumbled and while Hymn Book and handkerchief flew through the air, she fell badly down the gorge behind the bridge where she desperately lay sobbing, and everyone could see that she took care of two broken adds under the white knee socks - and that she therefore failed to stand up. Anna heard gasping from the crowd and stopped playing, and one could hear pin singlet in the gravel. Those who sat at the rear rows, and half had risen from the pews to better see, smiled now a little embarrassed to each other and sat down again.

Farmer, postman and emissary Georg Drageland that were related to grandmother in Newhouse, sighed heavily; he had the act read his Bible and was quick to crack the code with Roman numerals "VI - VI - VI." No, they needed certainly not teaching certificate in Kristiansand to know that 666 stood for "Beast of Revelation" (Rev. 13, 18). Then he turned to his neighbor at side, Uncle Anton, and said: "I'm afraid this drama has only just begun." Anton looked a bit confused, and for him and most others, came next fixture as a big surprise.

A terrible commotion, with glam, bleating and milling, suddenly broke out inside the pier of the left side of the gorge, and trapdoor with Roman numerals after loud uproar outright kicked out.

The two grandmothers in the front row gradually began to regret their prominent positions, as a monster, dressed in an old, moss green portiere curtain, which had hung over the door to consist the formal living room, came crawling out of the box on all fours and stuck a yellowish green mask head forward under the curtain edge. Beast opened drake gap and snorted with twofold tongue around in the air by Christian human blood. Then turned animal abruptly against the girl down in the gorge, grinned satisfied from eye to eye, and began waddling towards her.

The girl, who immediately saw the evil beast come drooling on themselves, eventually managed to get up on his knees. With her back facing the audience and hands folded flush against the barn wall, she began to pray with a dilute, trembling voice: "Our Father, who are in Heaven! I've broken both my legs, and cannot run from the beast ... eh, in Revelation, so save me from the evil, for yours are the power and the glory, forever and ever! Amen. "

Then the Lord appeared to her in a vision in the hatch on top of the barn wall, dressed in white as an Arab sheik, but with a golden radiance of Christmas tree glitter around his head. And the Lord stretched his arms toward the girl, and said in a deep voice: "Verily, verily, I say unto thee; I have heard your plea for help. And see; Now I send my trusted archangels; Michael and Gabriel, to earth to rescue you from Jammer Valleys misery. "

And the audience, who had heard everything the Lord had said, clapping hands with excitement and stared anxiously toward corner of the house and waited for the angels, but it lasted and slid and poor Liv by Leif bet nails and kicked nervously with her legs, for animal had almost reached the wretched Tordis which many a time would pass her when she was little.

Then drew gasps through theater-yard; a "heavenly chariot" came in an elegant swallow dive down from the big oak tree with two angels in white board and the liner just past the girl and the Beast, but then stopped abruptly at the end station where the wagon for a while wigged back and forth around the boom before the angels dazed and confused managed to crawl out.

Both Archangels went in sandals with bare legs and was dressed in white shirt coats with sleeves rolled up and their heads had white handkerchiefs knotted at the corners and a single wreath of Christmas glitter. The most impressive was that they still in braces behind their backs with many clothespins had attached wings that were cut out of white cardboard from large long booths boxes.

The blonde angel wore nameplate "Mikkel" and the dark "Gabriel." Mikkel wore a saber, and now he pulled it and went contrary to the slick animal. The fight waved back and forth down the gorge, but finally got Mikkel into a murderous cut that separated the head from the body.

When the last convulsions had ebbed away, pulled Mikkel the evil beast back to the pier and pushed it firmly into the box, so he picked up the trapdoor with Roman numerals and the hammer used by hunchback and nailed trapdoor into place with five toms rusty nail.

This garnered tumultuous applause at the theater courtyard, and even the two old grandmothers stood up and clapped and angel Mikkel sat down on the box and bowed and bowed.

Meanwhile the angel Gabriel lifted and dragged the young girl away to the heavenly chariot. But when she realized how the wagon would have its next stop, she fell again on her knees and begged Our Lord to let her live down the Jammer valley for a while, and the Lord was in good spirits that afternoon and showed compassion, and in a vision revealed He appeared to her in the top skylight on the barn wall and said with paternal, educational pathos: " Verily, verily, I say unto thee; Comfort, comfort my children. Your prayer is heard! ".

So the Lord turned against his archangel Gabriel and he commanded him to give the young girl new, healthy feet, and angel coats of carefully hand over the white knee-highs, and immediately she stood up and danced tentatively back and forth, so she picked up handcar shift and hymnal book and danced upon Church way towards the bridge. And when she again stepped out on the bridge over the dangerous gorge, stood an angel on either side with flowing, protective wings and chimed Lina Sandells old hymn: "None is so confident in danger ...". Mikael the archangel, had in the heat of battle lost both wings, and now he stood as well and sang and waved rate, with one wing in each hand.

Session ended with wild applause for Anna Kvavik and the entire theater troupe, and the hat of Alf Oppsahl was carried round and “small Collect” were collected. It brought in 66 kroner and 60 øre, which was divided equally between the two grandmothers woman associations.

It was often the small experiences that created solidarity and good neighborliness in those days.

This story was printed in the newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 24 October 2015.

SWEDISH ELKHUNTING IN BRINGSJORD FOREST

My niece, Liv Bringsjord, is proudly showing off the trophy from the hunt in 1947.

Photo: Find Bringsjord

For a long time we lived in the belief that the antlers on the photo above originated from the first moose was shot at Bringsjord in recent times. But then Uncle Anton told a completely different story.

A gray and rainy afternoon in the year 1948 approached Kjell and me Uncle Anton in Garden to hear if there were any new developments in relation to the widow of Kvås. We knocked on the divided front side door in the middle of the old house, but without result, so we opened and went into the hall. There sounded the vociferous mood from the living room, and when we opened the door, sat a bunch of men around the large oval dining table eating nice dinner.

Uncle Anton wore broad, red striped suspenders and white, non-sassy shirt, and thrived as salmon in the water as host and master of ceremonies at the top of the table. Our appearance was reason enough that everyone had to raise their glasses with cider (?) and make a toast for the twins to Lina and a bowl for Degner Brinch; as Anton in straight associated line descended from.

It may be briefly mentioned that the others who sat around the black cauldron in the middle of the table with elk meat and gravy, was Uncle Thorvald at Vollen and his son; cousin Alf. Then it was Arian and two bachelors that we didn’t knew so well. One lived in Vestigarden - the other on Neset. Later on Uncle told that both had been snipers in Swedish forests during the war.

We realized immediately that this was not the time and place to talk to Uncle of the widow of Kvås, but we had become very curious about what kind of festivity this was, and promised to return on the first and best rainy day.

And there we were lucky. On Sunday poured it down, and mom and dad were having dinner nap and sent us off place. It is not always so easy to be delegates, but this time it was a cream job. Uncle ate residual dinner from the day before and picked up plates and cutlery so we got to taste moose meat, which is of course the best real men can eat, and so was the sauce that the pieces of meat was swimming in ...

I had learned that around a nice covered table one should keep the conversation going, and asked with assumed interest: "How did you manage to make such a good sauce, uncle? Is it the widow on Kvås who have been here? "

"No, no, Finn, this house needs no sauce cook from Kvås. Moose stew is made best by men! "He now had plenty of water on his mill and explained with a familiar voice: “Broth is boiled on a broken leg bone with carrot, onion and cut fat and pieces of meat in several hours on wood stove. This would provide 1st class elk-craft (broth) as the base in the sauce.

I did this already on Friday. On Saturday morning I took out the frying pan and browned meat - rolled in flour, onions and porcini, and poured this, along with the frying juices, over the stock pot. Salt and pepper? Yes! And so, the most important thing; a large fistful of rowan berries, that are picked directly from the tree after the first frosts, and a large pinch of blue-black juniper. After three to four hours of careful cooking on low heat from humble, semi-dry birch sticks, stir in the cream skimmed from the top of a large bowl of milk, and so; sim sala bim: we have the world's best moose stew! "

Uncle Anton smiled from ear to ear over his eminent art of cooking, and we bowed in the dust for his infinite knowledge in all manner of areas. But baking bread was not for him - possible that he had no baking-oven in the wood stove - so we got handed wort bread slice to mop up sauce with. And the job was done thoroughly, I can promise; game sauce cooked for real men! Heavenly...

A little later, when the table was cleared and the coffee pot and sugar bowl was put forward, asked Kjell: "How is it that you have got hold of as much moose meat, Uncle? Is it one that's been hit by a car up in Møskedalen? "

"Hit in Møskedalen! HIT IN MØSKEDALEN!!! "Uncle rose halfway up of the chair; "I should serve dinner from a moose that for hours have been injured and half-dead in Møskedalen? Such meat fibers are woven together like a ship hawser from Rope Factory in Mandal ".

He struck out his hands in a resigned gesture and sat down on the chair: "No, no, Kjell, this is prime moose from Uppsala in Sweden. This moose is shot by none other than Jöns Lejonstjerna, Archbishop of Uppsala, and sent refrigerated with "Legati missi» to Anton Olaussen Bringsjord in the Royal Swedish Elk-hunter Union’s blue Volvo Amazon.»

"Huh?" I said, "How did you managed to get it?"

"Now you just dip piece of sugar in a cup of coffee here - and listen carefully - I will tell everything about how that occurred."

"Early in the World War - at least one year before the twins to Lina were born - demanded the German occupiers that all firearms should be submitted. Especially they controlled that rifles to members of shooting teams were filed. But on Bringsjord were at least two bachelors who knew that they could not sleep without their beloved "Lange Krag" (Krag-Jørgensen rifle) at bedside. So they packed together rifle and ammunition and fled to Sweden, where they lived by shooting elk in the large Swedish forests. Yes, they shot so much moose over there, that the illicit Norwegian police troops, which were trained in Sweden under the war, got served elk on the menu at least twice a week."

This was naturally disastrous consequences for the moose population. The result was that in 1945 there were only a handful of moose back throughout Swedish Uppland, while in Norway - after six years without hunting - was practically overrun by elk, yes on Bringsjord could womenfolk not hang out white washing on the clothesline without a moose ran off with the embroidered tablecloth fluttering between horns.

... A moose ran off with the embroidered tablecloth fluttering between horns.

As soon as we became aware of the sad state of our sister nation, the men sat down around this table and discussed what we could do for the Swedes as thanks for their help during the war. The result was that we in summer 1946 wrote a letter to "Royal Swedish Elk-hunter Union" where we offered board members three days free elk hunting in Bringsjord-forest that autumn. We were given a solemn letter back where the three who sat on the Board promised to come to Bringsjord Lyngdal pr. Farsund in September.

Since it was I who signed the letter, came a beautiful morning a yellow Volvo with blue trailer into the yard. The driver got out, bowed and said he had the honor of driving Agency in Kungliga Svenska Älgjägarforbundet to the big moose hunting on Bringsjord, and if I could please show them the way to the hunting ground?

I threw my bike and trampled away into Silje Vollen in Strømnes. There driver parked the yellow car with blue trailer and opened the doors so that the three gentlemen could rise on Norwegian soil and greet rigid; "Good morning!"

So I showed them the beginning of Skoddeveien (Mist Rroad) and recommended them to follow this through to the hunting ground.

Two of the men were wearing blue mössor *, one had a yellow. They unpacked rifles and loaded them up with sharp hunting ammunition, before they went up Mist Road in good Swedish hunting scheme, i.e. so that whoever had yellow mössa went in the middle.

* Mössor; Swedish for hats.

Now it well so that the distance from Bringsjord to the Swedish border is bigger than most other places in Norway, so nobody here had heard of Swedish hunters' mössor-performances" and beast, and all sorts of creatures poured therefore out to get a glimpse of the quirky troupe. And as usual in heath race reputation far ahead of the hunters, so on a small hill top in Egeland valley stood the big elk bull and waited for them.

Swedes were so flustered when they finally looked up from the rocky road and saw the majestic moose enthroned before them, that they got the disorder in hunting scheme. When the first bluemössan halt, was yellowmössan inattentive, and suddenly he was foremost, and everything was just crazy and they did not know who was in command, and the guns fell down from the shoulders and several shots went off and ricochets buzzed wall between, and both moose and hunters prostrated. The three Swedes drew mössorne well down over their head, and moose drew his last breath and died on the spot.

A few minutes later pulled 1. bluemössan the hat up on his forehead, looked well around and whispered, "All clear!". And great was the amazement when they all saw the king of the forest lie flat out in front of them; stone dead.

"This must be the biggest moose I've ever seen," said last-bluemössan, "wondering how old he is?" Oh, "said yellowmössan," it is easy to decide, we just count the tags on the horns. "

Then they began to count, but always came forward to different numbers; one got 15, one with 18 and the third 13. "This was difficult," said the last-blåmössan, "we'd brought with us the blue tape is in Volvo, so we could have marked tag where we started to count. As it is I'm afraid we do not stop the count on right tag ... ".

A while later shook 1. Bluemössan discouragement off themselves, "We will take the elk down to the car, so we can use blue tape and count."

After the moose was relieved stomach and intestines, tied a rope around the hind legs and began pulling it toward the car. But it went very slow and sluggish and heavily, yet it went mostly downhill, and soon they had to sit down to take a breath and drink blueberry juice.

Then there appeared a Norwegian. Suddenly he was just standing there, right next to the moose. "This is an unusually fine elk," he said, nodding approvingly, "full grown nine-year-old, I see." The Swedes looked puzzled at each other. This Norwegian man was obviously a proper sharpening.

"It's something we're wondering," said 1st bluemössan. "We do not know who shot the moose, or what he died of, for that matter. There are no bullet holes on the moose. Could he have died of fright and heart defects when bullets riddled around us?"

North man bent down and examined the moose briefly, and then he straightened up and asked: "Is one of you priest in Church of Sweden?" Yellowmössan nodded diligently; He was bishop of the Church of Sweden.

"Bishop! God heavens, then it is surely that it is you who has shot the moose, "said the Norwegian confidently, "you see - the bullet has gone straight in one ear and right out the other." Now the bishop was so happy that he spontaneously offered north man a glass of blueberry juice.

Yellowmössan was so happy that he spontaneously offered north man

a glass of blueberry juice.

"It's one more thing I could mention to you," said the Norwegian, "I see you draw the elk wrong way; you draw it against the hairs; pull it either with the hairs - so it goes so much easier! "The three of Agency for Kungliga Svenska Älgjägarforbundet, missed again to thank for the good advice, before north man was gone away, just disappeared.

The three “blue and yellow” made as north man had said, loosened the rope from the hind legs of the moose and tied it around the antlers. So they started with new powers; and now everything went so much easier, although it mostly went uphill.

A while after they had passed the place where the moose was shot, said the 2nd bluemössan: "It was a very intelligent man, this northbagger; there is no doubt that we pull the moose wrong way".

"Yes, he was a royal genius. Thanks to him everything now runs so much easier," said yellowmössan.

"Yes, he was unusually sharp," said 1st bluemössan, "but ... in this way we comes further and further away from the car ...?"

This amazement got everyone to sit down in the heather and think it over again. After a while, grip 1. bluemössan the word and concluded something like this: "The most important thing is that we get the elk down to the car." The other two sighed heavily, but agreed.

Then they loosened the rope around the antlers, tied it around the elk’s hind legs and began pulling him toward the car. It went very slow and sluggish and heavily, although it was mostly downhill, and it was dark night before they were down at Silje Vollen.

Uncle Anton looked over at Linas twins sitting with big eyes and chin drop and swallowed every word. Then he threw his head back in his chair and laughed and laughed and laughed till he nearly tumbled to the floor. We looked at him with sheepish smile around her mouth and wondered if it might have gone mad, so we thanks nicely for the food and ran home.

When we tramping and soaked came home and told my father that he was not the first shot moose in Bringsjord-heath after the war, but that first one was shot by  Jöns -archbishop of Sveeden, he sat chewing tobacco in his throat and could have been strangled.

 "And this year, the bishop sent several tons Swedish moose meat to Uncle Anton with refrigerated with legati as thanks for heart-heat we here at Bringsjord has shown to our Swedish sister nation ... is not it great?", said Kjell excited, while his father coughed in the way and raise for breath.

"This Uncle ..." dad said when he finally rediscovered the power of speech, "this Uncle can imagine you anything. Uncle Anton has got hold of some cheap meat from a moose cow which was hit by the route bus in Kvås. The widow would not have it. "

This story was reprinted in the newspaper «Lister» Saturday 10th October 2015.