The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her
blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over
the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on
River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging
words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please,
remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples'
stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this
one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need
encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 25, we were given
Concoction
Premises
Smoky
Genuine
Stronger
Grease
I used only strong, sorry maybe I should have worked in some of the other words, but I did not have the time. I am ending my dream-story of Peter's Time Travel here. If you want to read it in its entirety or just from one end to another without searching. it is here.
In the autumn I planted the
two last eaves in the dry end of the field. Winter was spent mostly
indoors, making tools and surviving the cold. In the end of winter, news
from abroad told of Napoleon. I of course remembered having heard of
him from my history lessons, but I had a hard time remembering more than
general outline, and furthermore I had to take care not to know things,
I could not know.
I wondered where the grandparents were, and I one day got up
the courage to ask Elizabeth. She told a woeful story of diseases,
accidents, and childbirth deaths. I soon learned that life on a farm in the early 1800's was not without dangers, as the
coming spring saw more accidents. In March one of the sows bit Hans in
the hand, and it grew infected. He turned very ill and Lars and Anna discussed getting the doctor. He came and ordered poultices to pull out
the infection. After this I asked Elizabeth to allow me to help her
treat the wound. She accepted, and soon I had us both wash our hands,
boil the rags and in general take hygienic measures. His condition did
not improve, neither did it worsen, but he was getting weaker by trying
to fend off the infection. Desperate measures were needed. I asked
Elizabeth if her father could let us have a small measure of distilled
spirits. He gave it to us, and I meticulously cleaned out the wounds,
liberally pouring in spirits to the intense discomfort of poor Hans.
Then we covered the wounded hand tightly with boiled rags, and repeated
morning and evening. After a few days the infected hand grew less red
and swollen. and slowly, slowly he improved.
Some
weeks later I fell off a wagon when the brakes suddenly failed, and broke my leg. It hurt a great
deal, but thank God the skin was unharmed. The bone knit, and the swelling went down, but the bone was not set right, so from then on
I needed a sturdy staff for walking. This was to my luck later on, when
the Napoleonic wars swept through Europe and first Hans, and later young
Christen was drafted, and I was rejected. Hans never returned, having been
killed while saving the life of a well known general, and Christen
returned, broken of body and mind, when finally the war ended.
One
pretty August evening in 1807 we heard far off thunder in the air. It
repeated next evening, and rumours were afoot that it was not thunder,
but the English bombing Copenhagen. Next Tuesday the paper told us that
this was in fact what had happened, and furthermore that the Danish
king had decided to side with Napoleon against the English as a result. I
knew from my earlier life that this would lead to no good end, but
when, how much, and indeed if it would affect our small hamlet I had no
idea.
Life went on mostly as it used to, but Elizabeth was not
happy. I tried to discern why, but never quite succeeded. I had slowly
fallen in love with the gentle yet strong girl. but my knowing that she
was in fact a distant cousin or something like that kept me quiet. After
remembering that my grandfather once told me that his family had
"always" lived on that farm, I figured out that Lars and Anna had to be
my ancestors. With the help of the slate, I found that they probably
were my 6 times grandparents. It was a daunting
thought.
One evening I found Elizabeth crying at the loom. I took her
by the shoulders and held her sobbing form close to me. Quietly she told
me that Lars would have her marry Mads, the young schoolteacher who
taught me the lettering. He was not a bad one, but she did not want to.
"I don't want you to marry Mads either!" I said, a bit more vehemently than intended.
"Why not?" she asked, looking up at me with tears still flowing.
"Because
I want to marry you, dang it," I said, throwing all caution to the
winds. "But I'm a joke of a husband, lame, inept and no good for
nothing."
"You are smart, clever and willing to learn."she replied, sobbing. "And what more is, I love you!"
"And I you," I said quietly, kissing her forehead.
The
door opened and Lars came in. Elizabeth grasped my hand, and I held it tight. Lars looked at us, first in anger, then with a growing
understanding.
"Do you want to marry that ... stranger?" he asked Elizabeth, "He is not a good farmer, being lame and ..."
"That's
exactly what he said too," Elizabeth replied. "But yes, I would like to
marry him, and he me!" I nodded vehemently, at a loss for words.
"But
what am I going to say to Mads and his parents?" Lars said, looking for
all the world just as my granddad looked when he had to scold me and
did not mean it.
"Well," I risked, "Maybe ask them if they'd like to
have an unhappy bride and if that's not enough you could tell them what
you though had happened here tonight. How do you think they'd like to
not be certain that Mads' offspring was really his own?" It was a
statement at high stakes, I had learned the punishments for adultery
during my work at the church registers, I had also learned that the
monetary punishment was halved if the guilty parts married, which I had
found a very wise solution.
"I have seen what you think of my
'It's not done'. And I'm sure you mean it now, but what about in the
years to come, when war and diseases will graze the lands?" Lars asked.
"We
will survive, and even prosper, just as my outlandish grains did," I
replied, the certainty from knowing that I was destined to become my
own several times great-granddad, colouring my voice.
Form then on it
went smoothly. That same evening w stood in the gate, my arm around
Elizabeth's slender waist, looking out over the lands and the view I had
always loved as a child, 200 years in the future. I would never return
to my old life. My destiny was to stay here, to become my own ancestor -
how was this even possible? My head spun. But the view was as great as
ever, clear and bright in the pre-industrial air, Elizabeth was sweet
as honey, perfect in every way, and my wheat was thriving in the small
field I had made for it.
I was in the unique position of knowing
beyond any doubt that my great-great-great-great-grandchildren would some day play in
these very fields.
Life was, if not perfect, then at least very good.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Notes:
I dreamt this in the night from Sunday 15th to Monday 16th. It was a very vivid dream, and I woke up still feeling the semi-coarse fabric of Elizabeth's dress under my fingers and the worn timbers from the gate along my other arm. The dream stayed with me all of Monday; whenever I closed my eyes I was transported back to 1800 Riisbye. Tuesday and Wednesday residues still lingered; so much so that when we passed a barber shop Ash Wednesday - the 18th - I thought 'just fine, I do need a haircut!' Only it was my dream-person needing it, not me.
Normally I am not superstitious, or believe in earlier lives, messages from the afterlife or any such.
But ... a hamlet named Riisbye does in fact exist, consisting of four farms, along with a big parish church and an ancient baptismal font. Furthermore my paternal grandparents do come from somewhere around there ... I never succeeded in getting much traction with them, but now I think I'll have to do some genealogical search to see if I have any ancestors back there and then.
Dear readers and co-bloggers, now commenting is again possible on almost all blogs.
We're still waiting for the blogrolls to update, so if you think I'm slow in commenting this might be why.
While waiting for an update on this, know that I'm still reading and enjoying your blogs, albeit a bit later than any of us would like.
Viser opslag med etiketten Drømme. Vis alle opslag
Viser opslag med etiketten Drømme. Vis alle opslag
onsdag den 25. marts 2026
onsdag den 18. marts 2026
Peter's Time Travel ~ Part 6
The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 4, we were given:
Chips
Herd
Clamped
Walk
Over
Cheese
Still continuing my dream-story of Peter's Time Travel.
Next day we walked to school, a trek of about one kilometre through woods and over fields. The children knew the way, but it was hard on me to walk this far in the snow. In school, the teacher already knew about me, and placed me in the back of the classroom with a slate and a book containing the alphabet and writing exercises for beginners. I blushed, and felt utterly uncomfortable with my long legs cropping out from under the table no matter how much I tried to keep them in. And my hair was still too long. Paul, the farmhand whose chamber I slept in, had promised to cut it for me, but not on a Sunday. Tomorrow, maybe.
The classroom incidentally rescued me from any faux-pas, by solving the question of who was king, as a portrait of king Christian 7 hung over the door there, I had been one king too far.
After starting the younger children off, the teacher, Mads Laursen, came and sat next to me. He was very young, I think not much older than me, and we both felt the awkwardness of the situation. I felt his warmth and his breath crowding me, now had he been a young woman ... the thought made me blush, and I hurriedly fastened my attention on the letters at hand. It did not last long till I could write all the letters to his satisfaction, and after going to school Wednesday as well, he declared that by Friday I would be ready for work, I was less certain, but I felt restless and misplaced in the small school chairs, and I itched to be of use, to prove myself valuable.
I spent some weeks doing taxation papers and other accounting jobs for the farmers nearby. My maths were far superior to theirs, and I was happy for the back story of my father being a well to do merchant to explain this proficiency. Most farmers had a hard times doing simple sums in their heads, only when it came to grains and bushels they lit up. By the time I was done doing this, I was know by, and knew most of the bigger and smaller farmers in the parish. I had learned to ride a horse, and I had grown stronger.
The winter had been unusually hard, and the night still were frosty. I recalled something called The Little Ice Age from the news, maybe this was it? Selfishly I felt happy about it. More time for paperwork meant that I would be fit for the field work once sowing season started, which could not be long now.
That Sunday the chaplain approached me and told that the scribe, which I knew from the 'grilling' as I still called it, had fallen ill, and asked if I was able to give him a hand with the church registers. He had gotten behind, and now he was looking for a vocation somewhere else, he would prefer to leave the registers in order. I asked Lars if it would be OK, and he approved. The next week I spent my mornings doing farm chores, then I rode to the church, where we sat in a room in the vicarage and brought all the church registers up to date, I learned much abut the people in the community and about human kind in general during these sessions.
By walking, riding and helping with household chores, mucking, cleaning, chopping, cutting, planing, threshing and so on. I grew stronger. Actually stronger than I had ever been.
I was still homesick and cried myself to sleep most nights, but I was slowly learning the ropes.
Then Spring came. And with it sowing of barley, oats and rye.
I asked Lars why we did not grow any wheat. At first he just gave me the expected: "It is not done," but then proceeded to tell me of types of soil, too short periods for growth and the larger fertilization needs of wheat.
WHEAT! I had walked through the fields the day my former life ended. I had tasted some ears of wheat, and put some in my pockets, I had always loved the taste and feel of ripe wheat. And I had listened enough to my granddad to know that modern wheat would be vastly superior to anything grown in 1802. I asked to be excused and went to the attic and looked, and yes, my pockets were still stuffed with golden ears of wheat.
What now. Could I ask for a small field of my own, could I just sow them somewhere or what should I do? Of course I ended up in Lars' office. Riisbye was a small, dying town, more like a hamlet. Four farms in all; two big ones, Lars' being the smaller of the big ones, and two smaller. Apart from the farmer's families it housed the ususal farmhands. a beggar and a tailor. Nothing much ever happened here - much to my luck. Later in the afternoon he told me, that I could have the furthest of the fields for my experiments, it was no longer in use and had fallen into disrepai. I was free to try my hand at it if I liked to test out my "foreign crops" there. The only condition was that I did not neglect my duties on his farm. Next day, while Lars and a trusted hand were sowing his fields, I tried my hand at ploughing. It looked so easy, but man, it was tough. Horses are not the same as a reliable tractor. They get shy, they try to avoid the hardest work and my furrows looked like they were made by a drunken sailor. I sowed almost all my wheat, sawing only a couple of ears for an experiment in autumn sowing. Another "It is not done" this earned me.
Then came fencing and weeding. I had to do my part on Lars' fields as promised, so often my field was weeded and tended to in the late evening hours or just before dawn. The wheat prospered. I took to watering it with the contents of my chamber pot diluted with water.
During summer I also helped Elizabeth wash, bake and even weave. All of this was hard work. She also taught me of candle-making, soaping and conserving. I picked many fruits for her, cherries, strawberries and apples, lots of apples. Conserving was hard and hot work, and not menfolk's work, but I liked to be around her, and she often appeared in my dreams, slowly replacing my first love, Lucy, and after a while appearing more that friends and family from my old life.
I harvested my wheat by hand after the rest of the harvest had been done, All alone, because no-one believed in my foreign crops. I had learned to use a scythe, and my small field was soon done. I dried it in the threshing room when nothing happened, threshed it on the sly one Sunday after church and put away one small sack for sowing next spring. I was vary of mice and other rodent, so I asked for, and had the old trunk I came in. Helped by Lars and one of the farm hands I repaired it and stored my grains in it in the room, I shared with some of the menfolk. Later I took some of it along to the mill to be made into flour. We tasted it for Christmas and Easter baking, and I was promised more land for my foreign crop next Spring. It really was tastier, and whiter, which seemed to be a determining factor for Lars and his family.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 4, we were given:
Chips
Herd
Clamped
Cheese
Still continuing my dream-story of Peter's Time Travel.
Next day we walked to school, a trek of about one kilometre through woods and over fields. The children knew the way, but it was hard on me to walk this far in the snow. In school, the teacher already knew about me, and placed me in the back of the classroom with a slate and a book containing the alphabet and writing exercises for beginners. I blushed, and felt utterly uncomfortable with my long legs cropping out from under the table no matter how much I tried to keep them in. And my hair was still too long. Paul, the farmhand whose chamber I slept in, had promised to cut it for me, but not on a Sunday. Tomorrow, maybe.
The classroom incidentally rescued me from any faux-pas, by solving the question of who was king, as a portrait of king Christian 7 hung over the door there, I had been one king too far.
After starting the younger children off, the teacher, Mads Laursen, came and sat next to me. He was very young, I think not much older than me, and we both felt the awkwardness of the situation. I felt his warmth and his breath crowding me, now had he been a young woman ... the thought made me blush, and I hurriedly fastened my attention on the letters at hand. It did not last long till I could write all the letters to his satisfaction, and after going to school Wednesday as well, he declared that by Friday I would be ready for work, I was less certain, but I felt restless and misplaced in the small school chairs, and I itched to be of use, to prove myself valuable.
I spent some weeks doing taxation papers and other accounting jobs for the farmers nearby. My maths were far superior to theirs, and I was happy for the back story of my father being a well to do merchant to explain this proficiency. Most farmers had a hard times doing simple sums in their heads, only when it came to grains and bushels they lit up. By the time I was done doing this, I was know by, and knew most of the bigger and smaller farmers in the parish. I had learned to ride a horse, and I had grown stronger.
The winter had been unusually hard, and the night still were frosty. I recalled something called The Little Ice Age from the news, maybe this was it? Selfishly I felt happy about it. More time for paperwork meant that I would be fit for the field work once sowing season started, which could not be long now.
That Sunday the chaplain approached me and told that the scribe, which I knew from the 'grilling' as I still called it, had fallen ill, and asked if I was able to give him a hand with the church registers. He had gotten behind, and now he was looking for a vocation somewhere else, he would prefer to leave the registers in order. I asked Lars if it would be OK, and he approved. The next week I spent my mornings doing farm chores, then I rode to the church, where we sat in a room in the vicarage and brought all the church registers up to date, I learned much abut the people in the community and about human kind in general during these sessions.
By walking, riding and helping with household chores, mucking, cleaning, chopping, cutting, planing, threshing and so on. I grew stronger. Actually stronger than I had ever been.
I was still homesick and cried myself to sleep most nights, but I was slowly learning the ropes.
Then Spring came. And with it sowing of barley, oats and rye.
I asked Lars why we did not grow any wheat. At first he just gave me the expected: "It is not done," but then proceeded to tell me of types of soil, too short periods for growth and the larger fertilization needs of wheat.
WHEAT! I had walked through the fields the day my former life ended. I had tasted some ears of wheat, and put some in my pockets, I had always loved the taste and feel of ripe wheat. And I had listened enough to my granddad to know that modern wheat would be vastly superior to anything grown in 1802. I asked to be excused and went to the attic and looked, and yes, my pockets were still stuffed with golden ears of wheat.
What now. Could I ask for a small field of my own, could I just sow them somewhere or what should I do? Of course I ended up in Lars' office. Riisbye was a small, dying town, more like a hamlet. Four farms in all; two big ones, Lars' being the smaller of the big ones, and two smaller. Apart from the farmer's families it housed the ususal farmhands. a beggar and a tailor. Nothing much ever happened here - much to my luck. Later in the afternoon he told me, that I could have the furthest of the fields for my experiments, it was no longer in use and had fallen into disrepai. I was free to try my hand at it if I liked to test out my "foreign crops" there. The only condition was that I did not neglect my duties on his farm. Next day, while Lars and a trusted hand were sowing his fields, I tried my hand at ploughing. It looked so easy, but man, it was tough. Horses are not the same as a reliable tractor. They get shy, they try to avoid the hardest work and my furrows looked like they were made by a drunken sailor. I sowed almost all my wheat, sawing only a couple of ears for an experiment in autumn sowing. Another "It is not done" this earned me.
Then came fencing and weeding. I had to do my part on Lars' fields as promised, so often my field was weeded and tended to in the late evening hours or just before dawn. The wheat prospered. I took to watering it with the contents of my chamber pot diluted with water.
During summer I also helped Elizabeth wash, bake and even weave. All of this was hard work. She also taught me of candle-making, soaping and conserving. I picked many fruits for her, cherries, strawberries and apples, lots of apples. Conserving was hard and hot work, and not menfolk's work, but I liked to be around her, and she often appeared in my dreams, slowly replacing my first love, Lucy, and after a while appearing more that friends and family from my old life.
I harvested my wheat by hand after the rest of the harvest had been done, All alone, because no-one believed in my foreign crops. I had learned to use a scythe, and my small field was soon done. I dried it in the threshing room when nothing happened, threshed it on the sly one Sunday after church and put away one small sack for sowing next spring. I was vary of mice and other rodent, so I asked for, and had the old trunk I came in. Helped by Lars and one of the farm hands I repaired it and stored my grains in it in the room, I shared with some of the menfolk. Later I took some of it along to the mill to be made into flour. We tasted it for Christmas and Easter baking, and I was promised more land for my foreign crop next Spring. It really was tastier, and whiter, which seemed to be a determining factor for Lars and his family.
... to be conlcuded next Wednesday.
onsdag den 11. marts 2026
Words for Wednesday :: Peter's Time Travel ~ Part 5
The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 11, we were given:
Trembling
Bobbing
Rescue
Green
Redhead
Potato
In Lars' office he first told me that we had to decide on a story for me to tell about why I was staying here. A mystery journey in a chest was not done, and I was happy to oblige.
Lars suggested that I was to pose as a distant cousin of Anna's, as she had family in Elsinoer. I had allegedlly fallen off the hayloft when visiting and now was staying to get well again and learn about farming first hand. I readily agreed. It was not too far off the mark, and would explain any oddities with big town mannerisms.
I found my work cut out for me. I was, or at least had been, good at maths. But the monetary system was not the logical units I was used to where 1 Krone equalled 100 øre. In 1802 we had 1 Daler equalling 6 Mark, and 1 Mark equalling 16 Skilling. I had always found hexadecimal and company fun and challenging, and some of us boys had competed in doing maths in our heads testing one another with pocket calculators and 'phones - what would I not give for one of those solar powered calculators now. I had not been the slowest, so quite soon I was skilled in these conversions. The lettering was worse. I could by now read books and even the newspaper printed in Fraktur with no more errors than what the convoluted language of printed matter led me into, but the handwriting often confounded me. And when I tried writing in Latin script, Lars scolded me for 'playing the vicar'. In the end I made up the ledger using my own lettering on old scraps of paper and on a slate, once I got hold of one. Then when I was sure I was right, I carefully and slowly copied the text of Lars' former entries adding my new sums.
I was fast and efficient and Lars suggested that he should offer my help to the other farmers in the vicinity.
"Gladly," I replied, "but I'll have to learn to read and write normal handwriting better first, My parents were quite progressive in only teaching us Latin cursive."
"You must have lived far off to avoid school?" Lars mused.
"I think we did" I replied, "I just had a glimpses of my mother teaching me, using just such a slate." What I did not tell was that yes, she had indeed done so, but as a part of some re-enactment scedule of hers. I now wished I had paid better attention to her lovely, flowing German cursive back then.
"Tomorrow is Sunday, We go to church," Lars stated. "But Monday's school, and you will go there with Christen and Johanne. You do need to learn."
I sure needed to learn. But church, I had forgotten that I was supposed to attend church tomorrow. Everybody from this village, and from the five or six other, bigger villages belonging to the parish would be present. And every single person would want to know about me, would look at me, scrutinize me, assess me, and ask me questions. Furthermore I was not used to going to church, I feared to bungle up something and make everybody stare even more. Could I claim exemption by telling that I belonged to another religion? Jew? No they were always persecuted and accused of any misfortune. Muslim maybe. No that was only something far away I had understood from the newspapers which I was avidly reading. Catholic? Maybe, but I did not know much about their faith either.And thinking again. Freedom of religion had not even been a thing in 1802, had it? I rememberer something about a new constitution to be made years in the future, 1840-ish maybe, and wished, not for the first, nor for the last time, that I had been more attentive during my history lessons. Better to just tag along and do as the others did.
Church went better than what I feared. Lars' timing was perfect. After a relatively short, but cold sleigh ride we arrived at church. We were almost the last to arrive, and we had time for nothing more than entering the church, grab a hymnal and sit down in our pew. We sat in the upper half of the church, so I was unable to see most of the staring people. Turning around was not done! After a little time my nervous trembling stopped, and I began taking notice of my surroundings again.
I was still very conscious of people looking at me. I tried not to squirm, scratch or pick at anything, but sit straight with my hands folded in my lap, like Lars to my right and Hans and Christer to my left. Anna sat with Johanne and Elizabeth on the other side of the aisle, I could not help looking at Elizabeth, she was a pleasure to look at with her hair newly washed and all shiny and her new, green Sunday dress. She noticed my looking, and I averted my eyes, feeling red and hot.
The service was long and boring, the sermon even longer, but I remembered many of the hymns from my confirmation class with its forced church attendance a few years ago. It was not Andreas Peter Madsen officiating, but the vicar himself, Pastor Fangel, an elderly but sturdy man.
During the long sermon I studied the church, the parts in front of me at least. The pulpit with the carved letters, that slowly turned into words for me, the Altar where I could discern the dates 1723 and smaller 1731, it was already old. I also saw the initials of the kings FIV and CVI for Frederik 4 and Christian 6. This shocked me. Who was king now? I had no idea, only none of these could still be king, if their names were on an altar from 1723.
Oh why had I not been more attentive at school? I knew that after Christian 6, his son Frederik 5 would become king, and then Christian 7, Frederik 6, Christian 8 ... and so on to my time when Frederik 9 was succeeded by his daughter, Margrethe 2nd, and she in 2024 by Frederik 10, and then his son would some day become Christian 11, thus bringing order to the numbering, broken when Christian 1's son Hans was followed by 2, and only then by then Frederik 1. But this was neither here nor there. Some fast maths, 30 years to a generation, 89 years since 1723, and a bit less since 1731 when it seemed that Christian 6 was new king ... three kings onwards gave me Frederik 6. Hopefully this was right. No internet, no smartphones, and the only books in the house was a farmer's almanac, the Bible and a catechism. I decided to pay attention to what the vicar said, maybe I could find a clue there.
The church looked much as I remembered it from a Christmas service long ago with my grandparents. Strangely it looked more worn now. Probably it had been renovated some time in between, closer to my time.
When was my time really, I mused. Even though I was determined to listen, the long sermon got my mind drifting again. My eyes fell on the baptismal font. I remembered my grandfather's hand caressing the carved vines and telling everybody that he, and his parents, and their parents all the way back from time immemorial had been baptized in that font. When was my time?
I was born in the 21st century, but I would probably never return back there again. Could I find a place in the 19th century, among my ancestors?
What about my parents? What did they make of my disappearing? I stopped that train of thoughts. It would just make me cry.
I looked back at the baptismal font; it was comforting in all its solidity. It had stood here since the church, or maybe even its predecessor was built. It would still be here when everybody living here and now and in the future -- Pastor Fangel, Lars, Anna, Elizabeth, Christer, Hans, me, my grandparents, parents, my siblings and their children too -- had long turned to dust.
It was a thought that at the same time made me feel like yelling and screaming in ice cold panic, and yet somehow I felt safe, at home, looking at those vines cut in ancient stone.
After the service we stood in the back of the church and I had to tell my story several times. It got easier with each retelling and I began to relax a bit.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 11, we were given:
Bobbing
Redhead
Potato
In Lars' office he first told me that we had to decide on a story for me to tell about why I was staying here. A mystery journey in a chest was not done, and I was happy to oblige.
Lars suggested that I was to pose as a distant cousin of Anna's, as she had family in Elsinoer. I had allegedlly fallen off the hayloft when visiting and now was staying to get well again and learn about farming first hand. I readily agreed. It was not too far off the mark, and would explain any oddities with big town mannerisms.
I found my work cut out for me. I was, or at least had been, good at maths. But the monetary system was not the logical units I was used to where 1 Krone equalled 100 øre. In 1802 we had 1 Daler equalling 6 Mark, and 1 Mark equalling 16 Skilling. I had always found hexadecimal and company fun and challenging, and some of us boys had competed in doing maths in our heads testing one another with pocket calculators and 'phones - what would I not give for one of those solar powered calculators now. I had not been the slowest, so quite soon I was skilled in these conversions. The lettering was worse. I could by now read books and even the newspaper printed in Fraktur with no more errors than what the convoluted language of printed matter led me into, but the handwriting often confounded me. And when I tried writing in Latin script, Lars scolded me for 'playing the vicar'. In the end I made up the ledger using my own lettering on old scraps of paper and on a slate, once I got hold of one. Then when I was sure I was right, I carefully and slowly copied the text of Lars' former entries adding my new sums.
I was fast and efficient and Lars suggested that he should offer my help to the other farmers in the vicinity.
"Gladly," I replied, "but I'll have to learn to read and write normal handwriting better first, My parents were quite progressive in only teaching us Latin cursive."
"You must have lived far off to avoid school?" Lars mused.
"I think we did" I replied, "I just had a glimpses of my mother teaching me, using just such a slate." What I did not tell was that yes, she had indeed done so, but as a part of some re-enactment scedule of hers. I now wished I had paid better attention to her lovely, flowing German cursive back then.
"Tomorrow is Sunday, We go to church," Lars stated. "But Monday's school, and you will go there with Christen and Johanne. You do need to learn."
I sure needed to learn. But church, I had forgotten that I was supposed to attend church tomorrow. Everybody from this village, and from the five or six other, bigger villages belonging to the parish would be present. And every single person would want to know about me, would look at me, scrutinize me, assess me, and ask me questions. Furthermore I was not used to going to church, I feared to bungle up something and make everybody stare even more. Could I claim exemption by telling that I belonged to another religion? Jew? No they were always persecuted and accused of any misfortune. Muslim maybe. No that was only something far away I had understood from the newspapers which I was avidly reading. Catholic? Maybe, but I did not know much about their faith either.And thinking again. Freedom of religion had not even been a thing in 1802, had it? I rememberer something about a new constitution to be made years in the future, 1840-ish maybe, and wished, not for the first, nor for the last time, that I had been more attentive during my history lessons. Better to just tag along and do as the others did.
Church went better than what I feared. Lars' timing was perfect. After a relatively short, but cold sleigh ride we arrived at church. We were almost the last to arrive, and we had time for nothing more than entering the church, grab a hymnal and sit down in our pew. We sat in the upper half of the church, so I was unable to see most of the staring people. Turning around was not done! After a little time my nervous trembling stopped, and I began taking notice of my surroundings again.
I was still very conscious of people looking at me. I tried not to squirm, scratch or pick at anything, but sit straight with my hands folded in my lap, like Lars to my right and Hans and Christer to my left. Anna sat with Johanne and Elizabeth on the other side of the aisle, I could not help looking at Elizabeth, she was a pleasure to look at with her hair newly washed and all shiny and her new, green Sunday dress. She noticed my looking, and I averted my eyes, feeling red and hot.
The service was long and boring, the sermon even longer, but I remembered many of the hymns from my confirmation class with its forced church attendance a few years ago. It was not Andreas Peter Madsen officiating, but the vicar himself, Pastor Fangel, an elderly but sturdy man.
During the long sermon I studied the church, the parts in front of me at least. The pulpit with the carved letters, that slowly turned into words for me, the Altar where I could discern the dates 1723 and smaller 1731, it was already old. I also saw the initials of the kings FIV and CVI for Frederik 4 and Christian 6. This shocked me. Who was king now? I had no idea, only none of these could still be king, if their names were on an altar from 1723.
Oh why had I not been more attentive at school? I knew that after Christian 6, his son Frederik 5 would become king, and then Christian 7, Frederik 6, Christian 8 ... and so on to my time when Frederik 9 was succeeded by his daughter, Margrethe 2nd, and she in 2024 by Frederik 10, and then his son would some day become Christian 11, thus bringing order to the numbering, broken when Christian 1's son Hans was followed by 2, and only then by then Frederik 1. But this was neither here nor there. Some fast maths, 30 years to a generation, 89 years since 1723, and a bit less since 1731 when it seemed that Christian 6 was new king ... three kings onwards gave me Frederik 6. Hopefully this was right. No internet, no smartphones, and the only books in the house was a farmer's almanac, the Bible and a catechism. I decided to pay attention to what the vicar said, maybe I could find a clue there.
The church looked much as I remembered it from a Christmas service long ago with my grandparents. Strangely it looked more worn now. Probably it had been renovated some time in between, closer to my time.
When was my time really, I mused. Even though I was determined to listen, the long sermon got my mind drifting again. My eyes fell on the baptismal font. I remembered my grandfather's hand caressing the carved vines and telling everybody that he, and his parents, and their parents all the way back from time immemorial had been baptized in that font. When was my time?
I was born in the 21st century, but I would probably never return back there again. Could I find a place in the 19th century, among my ancestors?
What about my parents? What did they make of my disappearing? I stopped that train of thoughts. It would just make me cry.
I looked back at the baptismal font; it was comforting in all its solidity. It had stood here since the church, or maybe even its predecessor was built. It would still be here when everybody living here and now and in the future -- Pastor Fangel, Lars, Anna, Elizabeth, Christer, Hans, me, my grandparents, parents, my siblings and their children too -- had long turned to dust.
It was a thought that at the same time made me feel like yelling and screaming in ice cold panic, and yet somehow I felt safe, at home, looking at those vines cut in ancient stone.
After the service we stood in the back of the church and I had to tell my story several times. It got easier with each retelling and I began to relax a bit.
... to be continued
onsdag den 4. marts 2026
Words for Wednesday March 4 & IWSG
Peter's Time Travels ~ Part 4
The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 4, we were given:
Property
Barrels
Dingo
Down
Silent
Doubt
I used only Down, and i cannot explain how Doubt could no fit in. Continuing my dream-story of Peter's Time Travel.
In the morning I felt much better. Still weak, still forlorn, but somehow imbued with a careful optimism.
Sophie and another young girl, about my own age, but beautiful, came in. I pulled the covers up to my chin, but the other girl just smiled at me and said: "Oh! I am so happy to see you awake and sitting up. Father said that you were a mysterious stranger, but you look quite normal now. I am Elizabeth Larsdatter, the oldest of his living children."
"I'm pleased to meet you," I said, sketching a bow from my bedridden position.
Sophie laid out a simple dress for me. A worn, but soft undershift, a coarse, white shirt, a woollen waistcoat and trousers of the same grey woollen material. Long, knit stockings, also grey, and a pair of clogs finished off the outfit. Elizabeth hung an old cloak on a peg by the door. "I'm going to knit you a scarf," she said, smiled at me and left.
Sophie helped me get out of bed, poured water from a pitcher into a big, flat bowl on the bench by the door and said: "Call for me when you're done washing."
"Hey, no way," I said. "Can't you help me, please? I have lost much of my memory from being thrown around inside that trunk."
Sophie blushed. "No, can't do. It was OK to wash you when you lay ill and unconscious, but now, it is not done."
"It is not done." Those were words I was going to hear many times in the coming months and even years.
I had to fend for myself then. I inspected, what had been placed on the bench by the door. A flat bowl of lukewarm water, a jar of more lukewarm water, a pitcher of some sticky substance, some soft and coarse rags, and a towel. I put a finger into the substance in the pitcher and smelled it. It smelled clean. Gingerly I rubbed a bit of it between my palms and added a few drops of water, It dissoluted in water and made suds. Soap! I put some soap on one of the rags and scrubbed my stomach, it was OK, I needed cleaning, I could smell myself, eew, Finally I was clean, and even washed my hair in the bowl, it sure could do with a cut. It was true, then that I had been ill for a long time. I dried off myself with the towel, and put on the undershift. I then opened the door ajar and called for Sophie. "I think I'm clean now, but I'm afraid I've made a mess in here."
She came in and laughed at the sight. "Now I understand why the menfolk are asked to wash in the stable. You sure made a mess. But you are to be excused. And now please put on the clothes."
I did as asked, fumbling with buttons, hooks and ties. No zippers yet.
"And now come with me. Time for a slow walk of the premises, but put on the cloak as well. It's cold outside. And take ths cane, clogs and icy snow and wobbly you are bad partners, and we need no more accidents."
I put on the cloak, and pulled up the hood against the cold. I saw the wisdom of a cane, more like a sturdy staff really. The small door led into a barn, two horses neighed at ys from a far corner, and a cow placidly munched away at the hay in a stall.
"You have been put up in the stable hand's room," Sophie explained. "It is nice and hot as it is placed up against the kitchen. Now we go out, beware the cold and ice."
And it was cold. Snows lay on the ground, big drifts and shallower parts. "We chose today because it is not windy."
"I thank you" I said, my teeth clattering.
"And there we have the loo," she said, pointing to a small outhouse at the end of the stable. You are expected to use it during the daytime, for nightly pee you can use the chamber pot under your bed."
"OK, I said, and empty it where? Into the loo or what?"
"Just leave it. It is my job to empty the pots," Sophie replied. "And to light the fires, so do not try that either. When you're better - I would say soon, you will be given a bed in the attic with the farmhands and maids. It is bigger, but colder than the one you stay in now. You will see." She led me around to the gate, and suddenly I recognized the place. We were at my grandparents' farm. The gate was in the same place as it was - would be - in my grandparents' farmhouse. I had always liked the view from the gate over the far off lake and woods. It felt like all the world lay open in front of me, looking at it from up here, and today it gave me the very same feeling. This doubleness made me feel weak, and I propped myself up against the gate wall. Sophie noticed, and led me through the gate between barn and stable into the yard.
"The door to the right leads into the kitchen, straight ahead is Master's wing and left are stables, barns and such. Now we go in through the main entrance and say hello to Master and the family."
The layout had been - would be - roughly the same in my grandparents' days and the continued doubleness of the two farms so alike, yet so different made me feel even more self conscious and clumsy walking with a cane across the yard and up the three steps. But once inside the likeness to my grandparents' farmhouse helped me. Lars introduced me to Anna, his wife.
"It is good to see you standing on your own legs," she said. "I was the one who found you, and I thought you was dead buy then."
I bowed and told her that I was grateful for their keeping me alive.
They had four children. Elizabeth, the oldest, whom I had seen the day before, was seventeen same as me. Hans, called after his grandfather, was fifteen years old, and looked just like his father. The two younger were twins and ten years old. They were called Christen and Johanne. I was tired, and with introductions done, Anna sent the children off to their chores.
We sat down in the kitchen, Lars, Anna and I. Something in Lars' smile to his wife reminded me of my granddad, and I became dizzy once again.
"Sorry," I said, "I think I still need more time to regain my strength."
"Please do not be inpatient about it," Anna said. "Sophie and Elizabeth have fought all winter to keep you alive. Please do not ruin their work by being impatient."
"I will do my very best." I said. "But I'll need some sedentary work in the weeks to come."
"You said you can do sums," Lars stated. "Soon the taxators will come, and I need help with my ledgers, normally the chaplain - the man you met yesterday - would aid me, but he is trying for a job somewhere else, where he can be the vicar, and not second in command ... Now it is time for a short rest for you, but afterwards you come to my office - come over and ask. Do not be stuffy, that is a waste of time - and we will see what you can do."
"I thank you for your great kindness," I began, then added: "That might seem stuffy, but I need to say it. I'll be back soon."
I walked through the snowdrfits to my room, really needing that sturdy staff to get back. I paused for a second to enjoy the view, then I relaxed in the warmth of the stable hands' room, shedding all but the undershift and took a short nap.
March 4 question - What elements do you include in your book launch? Or what do you have in mind for your future book launch? Or what advice do you have to offer to others planning to launch a book?
My reply - I've never done a book launch for a book of my own. But I've been a helper several times for others' book launches.
My advice - also to myself - would be:
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by River and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 4, we were given:
Property
Barrels
Dingo
Silent
Doubt
I used only Down, and i cannot explain how Doubt could no fit in. Continuing my dream-story of Peter's Time Travel.
In the morning I felt much better. Still weak, still forlorn, but somehow imbued with a careful optimism.
Sophie and another young girl, about my own age, but beautiful, came in. I pulled the covers up to my chin, but the other girl just smiled at me and said: "Oh! I am so happy to see you awake and sitting up. Father said that you were a mysterious stranger, but you look quite normal now. I am Elizabeth Larsdatter, the oldest of his living children."
"I'm pleased to meet you," I said, sketching a bow from my bedridden position.
Sophie laid out a simple dress for me. A worn, but soft undershift, a coarse, white shirt, a woollen waistcoat and trousers of the same grey woollen material. Long, knit stockings, also grey, and a pair of clogs finished off the outfit. Elizabeth hung an old cloak on a peg by the door. "I'm going to knit you a scarf," she said, smiled at me and left.
Sophie helped me get out of bed, poured water from a pitcher into a big, flat bowl on the bench by the door and said: "Call for me when you're done washing."
"Hey, no way," I said. "Can't you help me, please? I have lost much of my memory from being thrown around inside that trunk."
Sophie blushed. "No, can't do. It was OK to wash you when you lay ill and unconscious, but now, it is not done."
"It is not done." Those were words I was going to hear many times in the coming months and even years.
I had to fend for myself then. I inspected, what had been placed on the bench by the door. A flat bowl of lukewarm water, a jar of more lukewarm water, a pitcher of some sticky substance, some soft and coarse rags, and a towel. I put a finger into the substance in the pitcher and smelled it. It smelled clean. Gingerly I rubbed a bit of it between my palms and added a few drops of water, It dissoluted in water and made suds. Soap! I put some soap on one of the rags and scrubbed my stomach, it was OK, I needed cleaning, I could smell myself, eew, Finally I was clean, and even washed my hair in the bowl, it sure could do with a cut. It was true, then that I had been ill for a long time. I dried off myself with the towel, and put on the undershift. I then opened the door ajar and called for Sophie. "I think I'm clean now, but I'm afraid I've made a mess in here."
She came in and laughed at the sight. "Now I understand why the menfolk are asked to wash in the stable. You sure made a mess. But you are to be excused. And now please put on the clothes."
I did as asked, fumbling with buttons, hooks and ties. No zippers yet.
"And now come with me. Time for a slow walk of the premises, but put on the cloak as well. It's cold outside. And take ths cane, clogs and icy snow and wobbly you are bad partners, and we need no more accidents."
I put on the cloak, and pulled up the hood against the cold. I saw the wisdom of a cane, more like a sturdy staff really. The small door led into a barn, two horses neighed at ys from a far corner, and a cow placidly munched away at the hay in a stall.
"You have been put up in the stable hand's room," Sophie explained. "It is nice and hot as it is placed up against the kitchen. Now we go out, beware the cold and ice."
And it was cold. Snows lay on the ground, big drifts and shallower parts. "We chose today because it is not windy."
"I thank you" I said, my teeth clattering.
"And there we have the loo," she said, pointing to a small outhouse at the end of the stable. You are expected to use it during the daytime, for nightly pee you can use the chamber pot under your bed."
"OK, I said, and empty it where? Into the loo or what?"
"Just leave it. It is my job to empty the pots," Sophie replied. "And to light the fires, so do not try that either. When you're better - I would say soon, you will be given a bed in the attic with the farmhands and maids. It is bigger, but colder than the one you stay in now. You will see." She led me around to the gate, and suddenly I recognized the place. We were at my grandparents' farm. The gate was in the same place as it was - would be - in my grandparents' farmhouse. I had always liked the view from the gate over the far off lake and woods. It felt like all the world lay open in front of me, looking at it from up here, and today it gave me the very same feeling. This doubleness made me feel weak, and I propped myself up against the gate wall. Sophie noticed, and led me through the gate between barn and stable into the yard.
"The door to the right leads into the kitchen, straight ahead is Master's wing and left are stables, barns and such. Now we go in through the main entrance and say hello to Master and the family."
The layout had been - would be - roughly the same in my grandparents' days and the continued doubleness of the two farms so alike, yet so different made me feel even more self conscious and clumsy walking with a cane across the yard and up the three steps. But once inside the likeness to my grandparents' farmhouse helped me. Lars introduced me to Anna, his wife.
"It is good to see you standing on your own legs," she said. "I was the one who found you, and I thought you was dead buy then."
I bowed and told her that I was grateful for their keeping me alive.
They had four children. Elizabeth, the oldest, whom I had seen the day before, was seventeen same as me. Hans, called after his grandfather, was fifteen years old, and looked just like his father. The two younger were twins and ten years old. They were called Christen and Johanne. I was tired, and with introductions done, Anna sent the children off to their chores.
We sat down in the kitchen, Lars, Anna and I. Something in Lars' smile to his wife reminded me of my granddad, and I became dizzy once again.
"Sorry," I said, "I think I still need more time to regain my strength."
"Please do not be inpatient about it," Anna said. "Sophie and Elizabeth have fought all winter to keep you alive. Please do not ruin their work by being impatient."
"I will do my very best." I said. "But I'll need some sedentary work in the weeks to come."
"You said you can do sums," Lars stated. "Soon the taxators will come, and I need help with my ledgers, normally the chaplain - the man you met yesterday - would aid me, but he is trying for a job somewhere else, where he can be the vicar, and not second in command ... Now it is time for a short rest for you, but afterwards you come to my office - come over and ask. Do not be stuffy, that is a waste of time - and we will see what you can do."
"I thank you for your great kindness," I began, then added: "That might seem stuffy, but I need to say it. I'll be back soon."
I walked through the snowdrfits to my room, really needing that sturdy staff to get back. I paused for a second to enjoy the view, then I relaxed in the warmth of the stable hands' room, shedding all but the undershift and took a short nap.
- -
A
- -
B
- -
C
- -
March 4 question - What elements do you include in your book launch? Or what do you have in mind for your future book launch? Or what advice do you have to offer to others planning to launch a book?My reply - I've never done a book launch for a book of my own. But I've been a helper several times for others' book launches.
My advice - also to myself - would be:
- set the date long enough after promised printing and delivery so that eventual adverse happenings won't stress you.
- get some themed snacks if at all possible.
- get enough snacks! Surplus will be eaten.
- keep speeches short and to the point.
- bring enough coins (and bills) for change if you plan to sell books.
- have wet wipes and clean rags handy.
- dress comfortably.
- bring at least three ball point pens.
- DON'T PANIC!
onsdag den 25. februar 2026
Peter's Time Travel ~ Part 3
The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by Lissa and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 25, we were given:
Train
Loop
Scream
Puzzle
Bowl
From which I did not use a single one. I just continued with my dream-tale of Peter's time travel.
Lars Hansen entered, now in a fine dress complete with a silver buttoned, striped waistcoat. I felt a tiny bit hysteric, and even more like participating in a play. Just the other day I had been a totally normal boy, going to school, tinkering with my moped, having a girl friend, a job, friends and family; playing my guitar, dreaming of the future ... now I lay all beaten up in an oversized shirt, 200 years before I should have been anything, with a mysterious journey to account for and three local bigwigs about to grill me.
Lars Hansen greeted me by the name of Peter Larsen. I was about to protest, but then I realized that as Lars was my father, Larsen was what I was, not my surname. Then he introduced the chaplain, Andreas Peter Madsen and the scribe Bengt Pedersen. Bengt sat at the table, pulled out a big ledger, an inkwell and some pens. Sophie lit the candles and brought two more stools. Lars and the chaplain sat down and looked at me.
The Chaplain asked: "What is your name?"
Careful not to lie or say anything to arose suspicion I replied: "I'm Peter, son of Lars. And my mother is called Ellen."
"Where do you live?"
"I do not remember," I replied. " My brain feels all hazy, stuffed like."
"How did you arrive here?"
Now I was on safer grounds: "Inside a big trunk. I had hidden in there from my smaller cousins - we played hide and seek. The trunk accidentally snapped shut, or was maybe shut by the owner. No, I do not remember his name either. He lived at my grandparents' place, but he was a strange person, keeping much to himself. Then the trunk - still with me inside - was pulled off, maybe put on some carriage, and suddenly there was a big sound like a cannon, I was shook up, I banged my head against the trunk more times. I fainted and then I awoke here."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen, I'll be eighteen in August." Again I was careful not to mention any years. Quickly I did some maths. Now was 1802, subtract 18, I should then if pressed, give my birth-year as 1784. I would rather not. Let the scribe do the maths.
"What did you do for a living?"
"I do not remember," I replied, selling cheeseburgers would be gibberish for farmers in 1802 I was sure, " I remember going to school, but noting more."
The chaplain waited for the scribe to finish, and asked him to read aloud. He did and I had trouble following what he said.
The three men left the room. Sophie gave me a glass of watered beer, and then we waited. The men entered again.
"We have discussed what to do with you," the chaplain said. "And we have decided that until further notice you are to stay here at Lars Hansen's farm, get well, earn your living, and hopefully get your memory back. I will ask around and pray my fellow vicars to do the same, for somewhere a family is missing a son." He looked at me and added with something alike to pity: "Do not press our memory, give it time. Maybe it will return of its own accord. I expect to see you in church come Sunday."
He and the scribe left and Lars asked the maid to get some more beer. Then he pulled up the stool, sat down and looked at me. "What work can you do?" he mused. "You do not look strong, and your hands look as if they had not done much work, even when first you arrived."
"I'll have to regain my strength," I said, stalling for time and inspiration.
"Yes of course, you look white as the sheets just by sitting. You need strengthening. But still what can you do? Were you a farmer?"
"I don't think so," I answered. "my grandfather was, but we visited only rarely."
"A blacksmith then?" He shook his head. "As I said, your hands were not calloused or scarred or anything even when you arrived. Was your father a tradesman or horsebreeder?"
"I don't remember," I answered again. "My memory feels like a slate someone has just recently swept clean. But I know how to read, I suppose I can also write, and I can do sums. I think I can even speak some English and German."
"Tradesman, then. Maybe from Elsinoer, maybe even Copenhagen or Bergen. Did you come from far away to visit your grandparents - and where do they live?"
"I do not remember even that. But yes, I do actually think we travelled quite far to visit them. They lived in a small town, Northern Zealand, but the name eludes me. Why, I can't recall their names either."
"You were also in a bad state when we found you, black and blue all over, and half frozen too. Many were the times we thunk you would not live through the night. The other man, he died. We buried him when the ground finally thawed last week. It has been a long, cold winter. All the other trunks and boards were also in bad ways, we have used them for kindling, or for small repairs. Only your trunk remains."
Sophie came, carrying beer and two mugs. Lars poured half a mug for me and a full one for himself. "All this thinking and talking is thirsty work," he said, and drank deeply of the beer.
I tried it too. It was thin and bitter, even bitterer that the cheap beer I had drunk Saturday night in town. But also not as strong, luckily, as getting drunk, or even just tipsy would not do, I was afraid to blabber or start crying. Neither would be smart. I suddenly remembered that I was dressed only in an oversized shirt and asked: "When you found me, in the trunk, was I then naked or do I still have some clothes of my own?"
"You were dressed in some strange rags," Lars replied.
Of course, a T-shirt and short jeans would be classified as this in 1802, I thought, but too late.
"We still have them somewhere. They were made of some very good materials, but they are in no way fitting clothes for a young man."
"Remember, it was hot, and I was on toddler duty," I said smiling a lopsided smile. "I'd very much like to have them back, maybe they can even aid my memory."
"I will ask Sophie to see to it. And now you eat and sleep. Tomorrow I return and see what work I can have you do."
"Thank you, Master." I replied.
"I do not think you should have to call me Master," Lars said. "You can call me Lars. I have a mind that you come from good stock."
With that he left, and shortly after Sophie returned with a tray of mashed potatoes, some slightly stale bread, a broiled piece of meat and two wrinkly apples. And my clothes. She left immediately, taking the candles with her, telling she was busy, as today was baking day.
I first ate everything on the plate and drank some more of the bitter beer. It went well with the salty meat. Why was it this salt? Thinking further on this I realised that electricity, at least useful electricity was yet to be invented. No electricity of course meant no refrigerators, no engines, no internet, 'phones, computers, no machinery at all. Also no tap water, flushing toilets or indeed most anything I was used to seeing as normal daily amenities. I looked around, Wooden furniture, made by hand, textiles, probably spun, woven, and sewn by Lars' wife and other female on the farm, if more than the wife and Sophie lived here. I had an idea that old farms were quite populated. All food grown locally. The ground ploughed by horses, the grains cut and threshed by men and maybe horsepower. Cows milked by hand ... the list of jobs on a farm was endless.
I slowly realised that almost everything I knew was now useless knowledge. I did not know enough of anything to really make it work. How would I for instance build a moped, or just a working engine of any sort even given a proper shop. I further realised that whatever skill I had, useful and useable in 1802, any village kid could do ten times better, having done so since they could barely walk.
I felt lost, abandoned. I hoped for a way to get home to my own time, but the only one who knew how, the mysterious lodger, had died and his equipment was smashed, burned or repurposed. I cried myself to sleep, hugging my old clothes.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by Lissa and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 25, we were given:
Train
Loop
Scream
Puzzle
Bowl
From which I did not use a single one. I just continued with my dream-tale of Peter's time travel.
Lars Hansen entered, now in a fine dress complete with a silver buttoned, striped waistcoat. I felt a tiny bit hysteric, and even more like participating in a play. Just the other day I had been a totally normal boy, going to school, tinkering with my moped, having a girl friend, a job, friends and family; playing my guitar, dreaming of the future ... now I lay all beaten up in an oversized shirt, 200 years before I should have been anything, with a mysterious journey to account for and three local bigwigs about to grill me.
Lars Hansen greeted me by the name of Peter Larsen. I was about to protest, but then I realized that as Lars was my father, Larsen was what I was, not my surname. Then he introduced the chaplain, Andreas Peter Madsen and the scribe Bengt Pedersen. Bengt sat at the table, pulled out a big ledger, an inkwell and some pens. Sophie lit the candles and brought two more stools. Lars and the chaplain sat down and looked at me.
The Chaplain asked: "What is your name?"
Careful not to lie or say anything to arose suspicion I replied: "I'm Peter, son of Lars. And my mother is called Ellen."
"Where do you live?"
"I do not remember," I replied. " My brain feels all hazy, stuffed like."
"How did you arrive here?"
Now I was on safer grounds: "Inside a big trunk. I had hidden in there from my smaller cousins - we played hide and seek. The trunk accidentally snapped shut, or was maybe shut by the owner. No, I do not remember his name either. He lived at my grandparents' place, but he was a strange person, keeping much to himself. Then the trunk - still with me inside - was pulled off, maybe put on some carriage, and suddenly there was a big sound like a cannon, I was shook up, I banged my head against the trunk more times. I fainted and then I awoke here."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen, I'll be eighteen in August." Again I was careful not to mention any years. Quickly I did some maths. Now was 1802, subtract 18, I should then if pressed, give my birth-year as 1784. I would rather not. Let the scribe do the maths.
"What did you do for a living?"
"I do not remember," I replied, selling cheeseburgers would be gibberish for farmers in 1802 I was sure, " I remember going to school, but noting more."
The chaplain waited for the scribe to finish, and asked him to read aloud. He did and I had trouble following what he said.
The three men left the room. Sophie gave me a glass of watered beer, and then we waited. The men entered again.
"We have discussed what to do with you," the chaplain said. "And we have decided that until further notice you are to stay here at Lars Hansen's farm, get well, earn your living, and hopefully get your memory back. I will ask around and pray my fellow vicars to do the same, for somewhere a family is missing a son." He looked at me and added with something alike to pity: "Do not press our memory, give it time. Maybe it will return of its own accord. I expect to see you in church come Sunday."
He and the scribe left and Lars asked the maid to get some more beer. Then he pulled up the stool, sat down and looked at me. "What work can you do?" he mused. "You do not look strong, and your hands look as if they had not done much work, even when first you arrived."
"I'll have to regain my strength," I said, stalling for time and inspiration.
"Yes of course, you look white as the sheets just by sitting. You need strengthening. But still what can you do? Were you a farmer?"
"I don't think so," I answered. "my grandfather was, but we visited only rarely."
"A blacksmith then?" He shook his head. "As I said, your hands were not calloused or scarred or anything even when you arrived. Was your father a tradesman or horsebreeder?"
"I don't remember," I answered again. "My memory feels like a slate someone has just recently swept clean. But I know how to read, I suppose I can also write, and I can do sums. I think I can even speak some English and German."
"Tradesman, then. Maybe from Elsinoer, maybe even Copenhagen or Bergen. Did you come from far away to visit your grandparents - and where do they live?"
"I do not remember even that. But yes, I do actually think we travelled quite far to visit them. They lived in a small town, Northern Zealand, but the name eludes me. Why, I can't recall their names either."
"You were also in a bad state when we found you, black and blue all over, and half frozen too. Many were the times we thunk you would not live through the night. The other man, he died. We buried him when the ground finally thawed last week. It has been a long, cold winter. All the other trunks and boards were also in bad ways, we have used them for kindling, or for small repairs. Only your trunk remains."
Sophie came, carrying beer and two mugs. Lars poured half a mug for me and a full one for himself. "All this thinking and talking is thirsty work," he said, and drank deeply of the beer.
I tried it too. It was thin and bitter, even bitterer that the cheap beer I had drunk Saturday night in town. But also not as strong, luckily, as getting drunk, or even just tipsy would not do, I was afraid to blabber or start crying. Neither would be smart. I suddenly remembered that I was dressed only in an oversized shirt and asked: "When you found me, in the trunk, was I then naked or do I still have some clothes of my own?"
"You were dressed in some strange rags," Lars replied.
Of course, a T-shirt and short jeans would be classified as this in 1802, I thought, but too late.
"We still have them somewhere. They were made of some very good materials, but they are in no way fitting clothes for a young man."
"Remember, it was hot, and I was on toddler duty," I said smiling a lopsided smile. "I'd very much like to have them back, maybe they can even aid my memory."
"I will ask Sophie to see to it. And now you eat and sleep. Tomorrow I return and see what work I can have you do."
"Thank you, Master." I replied.
"I do not think you should have to call me Master," Lars said. "You can call me Lars. I have a mind that you come from good stock."
With that he left, and shortly after Sophie returned with a tray of mashed potatoes, some slightly stale bread, a broiled piece of meat and two wrinkly apples. And my clothes. She left immediately, taking the candles with her, telling she was busy, as today was baking day.
I first ate everything on the plate and drank some more of the bitter beer. It went well with the salty meat. Why was it this salt? Thinking further on this I realised that electricity, at least useful electricity was yet to be invented. No electricity of course meant no refrigerators, no engines, no internet, 'phones, computers, no machinery at all. Also no tap water, flushing toilets or indeed most anything I was used to seeing as normal daily amenities. I looked around, Wooden furniture, made by hand, textiles, probably spun, woven, and sewn by Lars' wife and other female on the farm, if more than the wife and Sophie lived here. I had an idea that old farms were quite populated. All food grown locally. The ground ploughed by horses, the grains cut and threshed by men and maybe horsepower. Cows milked by hand ... the list of jobs on a farm was endless.
I slowly realised that almost everything I knew was now useless knowledge. I did not know enough of anything to really make it work. How would I for instance build a moped, or just a working engine of any sort even given a proper shop. I further realised that whatever skill I had, useful and useable in 1802, any village kid could do ten times better, having done so since they could barely walk.
I felt lost, abandoned. I hoped for a way to get home to my own time, but the only one who knew how, the mysterious lodger, had died and his equipment was smashed, burned or repurposed. I cried myself to sleep, hugging my old clothes.
... to be continued
torsdag den 19. februar 2026
Using the Words to continue Peter's Time Travel
The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by Lissa and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
Wednesday 11, we were given these words:
Heartbreak
Cheeseburger
Postcard
Aterlife
Beachcomb
From which I only used Heartbreak and Cheeseburger.
Wednesday 18, we were given:
Kerplunk
Erase
Meek
Plead
Tenacious
I begin where I left off last time. Even repeating the last line. Let me see how many of these words I can work into this story - which for the record I have already written, at least as a draft, Monday and Tuesday.
Could I really have gone back in time?
Almost before this thought had fastened itself in my mind, the door opened and the woman entered. This time with an older man in tow.
"You are finally awake," the man said. I nodded, carefully. "I am Lars Hansen, the farmholder." He continued, "Now it is time for me to find out who you are and what to do about you. What is your name?"
"I'm Peter," I answered truthfully, "and my father is Lars, my mother is Ellen."
"I do not know of any other Lars in these parts, and I'm sure you're not my son," he replied.
I did not know if he was joking or scolding. His voice was flat, but his eyes were twinkling just a bit. I replied: "I don't think so either."
He smiled encouragingly at me and said. "Tell me more, how did you arrive here?"
"I don't really know," I said, confusion and longing for my home and family almost overcoming me. "We were visiting my grandparents, and I played with my smaller cousins trying to keep them out of their parents' hair ..."
"And hating every minute of it, I dare bet," Lars interrupted me, now smiling a bit more.
"Well, yes, almost ... we played hide and seek. And then I hid away in a large, battered trunk, belonging to a lodger at my grandparents' farm. Then it snapped shut. Or maybe was snapped shut. I dared not yell, first so as not to be found, later on because I knew I was in a wrong place. Then the trunk was moved with me still inside. And after some more time, still moving along, all of a sudden there was a lot of big noises and colours, just like ..." I was about to say like an explosion, or a bomb, but I was unsure that he would know of these and continued "... like someone shot a cannon at the trunk from up close. Then, kerplunk, it landed somewhere, rolling, and beating me up even more. I do not remember anything coherently before awakening in this here bed."
"This tallies," Lars said. "I maybe should not tell you this, but early in the morning we heard a big noise, just like a cannon, followed by some more noise. When the sun rose, we went out and found you and a broken trunk and some strange debris inside our barn. I have to get the authorities. I will be back with them soon." With this Lars Hansen left the room.
The woman stayed near the bed, and I asked her if she could please turn on the light as I wanted to read a bit more.
"'Turn on' the light?" she repeated, "You do not turn on a light, you light it, but we have decided that you need to be better before we trust you with a candle. You might forget to extinguish it before falling asleep. I get you some porridge, and then you have to get out of bed for a short while."
She returned with a more substantial meal, and when I had eaten it, she helped me from the bed to the stool. I was very weak, the world spun and it was tough sitting on the stool while she changed the bedding and shook out the pillows. Then she pulled the big shirt off me, helped me into another clean, but still oversized one and back into bed. It was good to lie down.
"You will need to be awake and sit up again when Master returns with the authorities. But take a small rest. I will return."
I slept again, and woke when she returned, carrying a candleholder with three candles in it. This she placed on the table and helped me sit, propped up by pillows, She tried to reassure me: "Master will be here soon. He brings the chaplain and a scribe. You speak politely to them, be meek and subdued, and address them as Master or Pastor."
"Thank you." I said, "and how should I call you?"
"I am Sophie, a maid," she replied.
"Thank you Sophie," I said.
I was tense, afraid to say something that would make them suspicious, still afraid to admit, even to myself that I was lost in time, with no hope of ever seeing my family again. I decided that to plead ignorance would be my best bet. Maybe even telling that I suffered from amnesia. That would indeed explain my ignorance. I pondered. The trunk, or maybe the trunks all together had to be some kind of time travelling equipment. I had more questions than answers. Had the lodger travelled with me? Where was he? What about the equipment, and could it bring me back home again? I was a tinkerer at heart, and just maybe I could make it work again. At least it would be worth a try.
When Delores closed her blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by Lissa and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
Wednesday 11, we were given these words:
Postcard
Aterlife
Beachcomb
From which I only used Heartbreak and Cheeseburger.
Wednesday 18, we were given:
Kerplunk
Erase
Meek
Plead
Tenacious
I begin where I left off last time. Even repeating the last line. Let me see how many of these words I can work into this story - which for the record I have already written, at least as a draft, Monday and Tuesday.
Could I really have gone back in time?
Almost before this thought had fastened itself in my mind, the door opened and the woman entered. This time with an older man in tow.
"You are finally awake," the man said. I nodded, carefully. "I am Lars Hansen, the farmholder." He continued, "Now it is time for me to find out who you are and what to do about you. What is your name?"
"I'm Peter," I answered truthfully, "and my father is Lars, my mother is Ellen."
"I do not know of any other Lars in these parts, and I'm sure you're not my son," he replied.
I did not know if he was joking or scolding. His voice was flat, but his eyes were twinkling just a bit. I replied: "I don't think so either."
He smiled encouragingly at me and said. "Tell me more, how did you arrive here?"
"I don't really know," I said, confusion and longing for my home and family almost overcoming me. "We were visiting my grandparents, and I played with my smaller cousins trying to keep them out of their parents' hair ..."
"And hating every minute of it, I dare bet," Lars interrupted me, now smiling a bit more.
"Well, yes, almost ... we played hide and seek. And then I hid away in a large, battered trunk, belonging to a lodger at my grandparents' farm. Then it snapped shut. Or maybe was snapped shut. I dared not yell, first so as not to be found, later on because I knew I was in a wrong place. Then the trunk was moved with me still inside. And after some more time, still moving along, all of a sudden there was a lot of big noises and colours, just like ..." I was about to say like an explosion, or a bomb, but I was unsure that he would know of these and continued "... like someone shot a cannon at the trunk from up close. Then, kerplunk, it landed somewhere, rolling, and beating me up even more. I do not remember anything coherently before awakening in this here bed."
"This tallies," Lars said. "I maybe should not tell you this, but early in the morning we heard a big noise, just like a cannon, followed by some more noise. When the sun rose, we went out and found you and a broken trunk and some strange debris inside our barn. I have to get the authorities. I will be back with them soon." With this Lars Hansen left the room.
The woman stayed near the bed, and I asked her if she could please turn on the light as I wanted to read a bit more.
"'Turn on' the light?" she repeated, "You do not turn on a light, you light it, but we have decided that you need to be better before we trust you with a candle. You might forget to extinguish it before falling asleep. I get you some porridge, and then you have to get out of bed for a short while."
She returned with a more substantial meal, and when I had eaten it, she helped me from the bed to the stool. I was very weak, the world spun and it was tough sitting on the stool while she changed the bedding and shook out the pillows. Then she pulled the big shirt off me, helped me into another clean, but still oversized one and back into bed. It was good to lie down.
"You will need to be awake and sit up again when Master returns with the authorities. But take a small rest. I will return."
I slept again, and woke when she returned, carrying a candleholder with three candles in it. This she placed on the table and helped me sit, propped up by pillows, She tried to reassure me: "Master will be here soon. He brings the chaplain and a scribe. You speak politely to them, be meek and subdued, and address them as Master or Pastor."
"Thank you." I said, "and how should I call you?"
"I am Sophie, a maid," she replied.
"Thank you Sophie," I said.
I was tense, afraid to say something that would make them suspicious, still afraid to admit, even to myself that I was lost in time, with no hope of ever seeing my family again. I decided that to plead ignorance would be my best bet. Maybe even telling that I suffered from amnesia. That would indeed explain my ignorance. I pondered. The trunk, or maybe the trunks all together had to be some kind of time travelling equipment. I had more questions than answers. Had the lodger travelled with me? Where was he? What about the equipment, and could it bring me back home again? I was a tinkerer at heart, and just maybe I could make it work again. At least it would be worth a try.
... to be continued.
And for the curious, yes I have written down the whole story. It'll be posted in smaller chunks.
Maybe I won't have the patience to wait until Wednesday with the next instalments.
And for the curious, yes I have written down the whole story. It'll be posted in smaller chunks.
Maybe I won't have the patience to wait until Wednesday with the next instalments.
mandag den 16. februar 2026
Words for Wednesday ~ Much delayed.
Last Wednesday, February 11, Lissa gave us these words:
Heartbreak
Cheeseburger
Postcard
Aterlife
Beachcomb
I never used them for the story I wanted to write, and tonight I had a dream, a most vivid one. I'll try to do it justice in words:
We were visiting my grandparents, I was tired of life in general and family most of all. I just suffered my first real heartbreak. The apple of my eye, sweet Lucy of the laughing eyes and rosy cheeks had told me that I was a no good for nothing idler, that I drank too much, that I cared more about my motorbike than I did for her. It most certainly was not true. The only reason I had been tinkering with my bike when she came over was that it had broken down, and if I did not show up for work in the cheeseburger joint next afternoon, I would loose my job. I stopped the moment I saw her, but obviously I should just have sat around waiting for her doing whatever she did before showing up.
Of course they all tried cheering me up, but their talk of many fish in the sea and puppy love did nothing to brighten my day.
I was in no mood for anything, but the bevel of small cousins forced me into joining them in a game of hide and seek.
During the fourth or so round I had the brainwave of hiding inside one of the big, old-fashioned trunks in the barn. They belonged to my grandparents' mysterious lodger. The cousins living there told of his mad experiments, sometimes resulting in things going ka-boom in the middle of the night. He was kind of creepy, muttering foreign words to himself, tinkering in the old barn, and generally shunning our company.
Well I hid inside his biggest trunk. Suddenly it was snapped shut from the outside, and I felt it being hauled across the uneven barn floor still with me inside. I kept still, afraid of being scolded, discovered, whatever. Strange noises followed. And suddenly I felt the universe shatter. This was the best explanation I could find, Everything went black, blacker even than inside the trunk, then burst into coloured shards and swirls. And the sounds, indescribable screams, roars and booms reverberated through my head. I lost consciousness.
When I came to, I was still stuck in the trunk. I hurt all over, my head throbbed with every beat of my heart, and I was cold, shivering cold. It had been a warm September day when I hid inside the trunk, but the temperature now felt freezing. I dozed off or maybe fainted again, and next time I woke, I could see light seeping through the cracks. Now I felt hot, burning hot. I had to get out. I braced arms, back, legs, all hurting, against the lid and bottom of the trunk and heaved mightily. I think I broke the lock, but the pains washed over me and I fainted again.
The following period was a haze, I drifted, I soared, I was shivering with cold, then burning hot. Finally I returned to a semblance of normalcy and asked the old woman sitting beside my bed where I was.
"Shh!" she said, "Don't talk too much. You've been very ill for a long time. It's almost spring now. You're still in Riisbye."
I recognized the name of my grandparents' hamlet, even though there was something strange about her pronunciation of it. In fact all of her Danish sounded strange to my ears.
For some days still I was uninterested in the goings on of the world around me, I drank the soup given to me at regular interval, later augmented by small snippets of black bread, salty meat and wrinkly apples. But youth is a wonderful thing. One day I woke and felt more alive, I asked the old woman for the date. Her answer had my head spinning almost as bad as ever: "Today is Candlemass, February 2nd in the year of the Lord 1802."
1802! But I was born in 2002. She had to be a bit crazy. I asked her for a 'phone, and as she stared blankly at me I asked for a newspaper.
"We have not a new one," she said, "but the one from a week ago was given to the master yesterday. I'm sure he'll let you see it later on. Or I can get you the older one from the kitchen."
I told her that the older one would do just fine, and she returned with a slim volume in unevenly printed Fraktur. I fought my way through the strange letters. The paper had a pompous and very long name, which apart from the first part "Elsinoers royal ..." was beyond comprehension. It was from January 19th 1802. And the breaking news on the front page was something about a fleet commander now on his way to the West Indies and about armies aboard Dutch frigates. I tried reading on, but I fell asleep very soon.
When I woke up again it was bright daylight, and I began to notice my surroundings. Doonas made of coarse and striped fabric, in a bed of rough-hewn boards hung with curtains. Next to the bed a table, also made of coarse and well-worn timbers, a stool next to it and the cupboard against the opposite wall were matching. The window were tiny, the room small, and I would have to stoop to go through the door. I remembered seeing houses and furniture like this, in the open air museum I once visited with my old school.
Could I really have gone back in time?
... to be continued.
Heartbreak
Cheeseburger
Postcard
Aterlife
Beachcomb
I never used them for the story I wanted to write, and tonight I had a dream, a most vivid one. I'll try to do it justice in words:
We were visiting my grandparents, I was tired of life in general and family most of all. I just suffered my first real heartbreak. The apple of my eye, sweet Lucy of the laughing eyes and rosy cheeks had told me that I was a no good for nothing idler, that I drank too much, that I cared more about my motorbike than I did for her. It most certainly was not true. The only reason I had been tinkering with my bike when she came over was that it had broken down, and if I did not show up for work in the cheeseburger joint next afternoon, I would loose my job. I stopped the moment I saw her, but obviously I should just have sat around waiting for her doing whatever she did before showing up.
Of course they all tried cheering me up, but their talk of many fish in the sea and puppy love did nothing to brighten my day.
I was in no mood for anything, but the bevel of small cousins forced me into joining them in a game of hide and seek.
During the fourth or so round I had the brainwave of hiding inside one of the big, old-fashioned trunks in the barn. They belonged to my grandparents' mysterious lodger. The cousins living there told of his mad experiments, sometimes resulting in things going ka-boom in the middle of the night. He was kind of creepy, muttering foreign words to himself, tinkering in the old barn, and generally shunning our company.
Well I hid inside his biggest trunk. Suddenly it was snapped shut from the outside, and I felt it being hauled across the uneven barn floor still with me inside. I kept still, afraid of being scolded, discovered, whatever. Strange noises followed. And suddenly I felt the universe shatter. This was the best explanation I could find, Everything went black, blacker even than inside the trunk, then burst into coloured shards and swirls. And the sounds, indescribable screams, roars and booms reverberated through my head. I lost consciousness.
When I came to, I was still stuck in the trunk. I hurt all over, my head throbbed with every beat of my heart, and I was cold, shivering cold. It had been a warm September day when I hid inside the trunk, but the temperature now felt freezing. I dozed off or maybe fainted again, and next time I woke, I could see light seeping through the cracks. Now I felt hot, burning hot. I had to get out. I braced arms, back, legs, all hurting, against the lid and bottom of the trunk and heaved mightily. I think I broke the lock, but the pains washed over me and I fainted again.
The following period was a haze, I drifted, I soared, I was shivering with cold, then burning hot. Finally I returned to a semblance of normalcy and asked the old woman sitting beside my bed where I was.
"Shh!" she said, "Don't talk too much. You've been very ill for a long time. It's almost spring now. You're still in Riisbye."
I recognized the name of my grandparents' hamlet, even though there was something strange about her pronunciation of it. In fact all of her Danish sounded strange to my ears.
For some days still I was uninterested in the goings on of the world around me, I drank the soup given to me at regular interval, later augmented by small snippets of black bread, salty meat and wrinkly apples. But youth is a wonderful thing. One day I woke and felt more alive, I asked the old woman for the date. Her answer had my head spinning almost as bad as ever: "Today is Candlemass, February 2nd in the year of the Lord 1802."
1802! But I was born in 2002. She had to be a bit crazy. I asked her for a 'phone, and as she stared blankly at me I asked for a newspaper.
"We have not a new one," she said, "but the one from a week ago was given to the master yesterday. I'm sure he'll let you see it later on. Or I can get you the older one from the kitchen."
I told her that the older one would do just fine, and she returned with a slim volume in unevenly printed Fraktur. I fought my way through the strange letters. The paper had a pompous and very long name, which apart from the first part "Elsinoers royal ..." was beyond comprehension. It was from January 19th 1802. And the breaking news on the front page was something about a fleet commander now on his way to the West Indies and about armies aboard Dutch frigates. I tried reading on, but I fell asleep very soon.
When I woke up again it was bright daylight, and I began to notice my surroundings. Doonas made of coarse and striped fabric, in a bed of rough-hewn boards hung with curtains. Next to the bed a table, also made of coarse and well-worn timbers, a stool next to it and the cupboard against the opposite wall were matching. The window were tiny, the room small, and I would have to stoop to go through the door. I remembered seeing houses and furniture like this, in the open air museum I once visited with my old school.
Could I really have gone back in time?
... to be continued.
mandag den 6. juli 2020
Poetry Monday :: Light - Samarkand
Diane of On the Border and Jenny of Procrastinating Donkey
are taking turns hosting Poetry Monday, supplying us with a theme and
crafty poems, they are open for suggestions.
This Mondays theme is Light! Thanks to Jenny.
Mimi of Messymimi's Meanderings also writes a poem for us to enjoy.
Light. Nothing talks to me of light as Swedish or Danish songs from the long summer's days and short nights, where the sun barely sets and it is never totally dark.
In my Enigmatic post about children not being enigmatic, but grown ups are, I cite a song called The Enigmatic People. In this song a boy finds a new Samarkand - which in my English translation was rendered Xanadu, because as far as I could see, Samarkand did not have any connotations in English.
Samarkand is a place of unfulfilled longings, of unobtainable dreams and maybe even wild goose hunts, after a song by Thorstein Bergman, sung by Lena Andersson (YouTube link - if you leave it playing the author and composer gives his version afterwards). I have translated mostly from the Danish version, which was the one I heard growing up. It does not rhyme as does the original, but you can still sing it to the tune.
Samarkand
I woke up with smells of summer all around me,
Through the window I could feel the gentle breeze
In the sunlit morning everything did greet me
And the pillow wore impressions of your cheek.
And I knew at once - for lies are never helpful -
It has happened, that of which we sometimes spoke,
And I hope that you will find all you're seeking
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
All around me tunes of life were gently playing,
Though I never more will share them with my friend.
Though my heart called out for you, I kept my silence,
for I knew that you will never come back home.
And I cried a bit, the nights were long and lonely,
But I hope for you you'll find your promised land.
And that someone else can be what I could never,
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
Where I walk the world around me speaks about you
All the sunshine, winds and summer are like you
Oh I miss you now, but I've got something from you
What you gave me no-one ever takes away.
If your common sense in stranger places tells you
that we parted, it is not the simple truth.
For my thoughts, my hopes, my longings all escort you,
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
Text and music: Thorstein Bergman 1972
Translation Charlotte (MotherOwl), 2020.
YouTube Danish version.
I first wrote another poem, but it was no good, then in the sleepless hours of an early, rainfilled morning I translated Samarkand instead.
For next Monday's endeavours Diane has given us Our Favourite Teacher.
This Mondays theme is Light! Thanks to Jenny.
Mimi of Messymimi's Meanderings also writes a poem for us to enjoy.
Light. Nothing talks to me of light as Swedish or Danish songs from the long summer's days and short nights, where the sun barely sets and it is never totally dark.
In my Enigmatic post about children not being enigmatic, but grown ups are, I cite a song called The Enigmatic People. In this song a boy finds a new Samarkand - which in my English translation was rendered Xanadu, because as far as I could see, Samarkand did not have any connotations in English.
Samarkand is a place of unfulfilled longings, of unobtainable dreams and maybe even wild goose hunts, after a song by Thorstein Bergman, sung by Lena Andersson (YouTube link - if you leave it playing the author and composer gives his version afterwards). I have translated mostly from the Danish version, which was the one I heard growing up. It does not rhyme as does the original, but you can still sing it to the tune.
Samarkand
I woke up with smells of summer all around me,
Through the window I could feel the gentle breeze
In the sunlit morning everything did greet me
And the pillow wore impressions of your cheek.
And I knew at once - for lies are never helpful -
It has happened, that of which we sometimes spoke,
And I hope that you will find all you're seeking
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
All around me tunes of life were gently playing,
Though I never more will share them with my friend.
Though my heart called out for you, I kept my silence,
for I knew that you will never come back home.
And I cried a bit, the nights were long and lonely,
But I hope for you you'll find your promised land.
And that someone else can be what I could never,
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
Where I walk the world around me speaks about you
All the sunshine, winds and summer are like you
Oh I miss you now, but I've got something from you
What you gave me no-one ever takes away.
If your common sense in stranger places tells you
that we parted, it is not the simple truth.
For my thoughts, my hopes, my longings all escort you,
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
If you ever find your way to Samarkand.
Text and music: Thorstein Bergman 1972
Translation Charlotte (MotherOwl), 2020.
YouTube Danish version.
I first wrote another poem, but it was no good, then in the sleepless hours of an early, rainfilled morning I translated Samarkand instead.
For next Monday's endeavours Diane has given us Our Favourite Teacher.
tirsdag den 7. januar 2020
Words for Wednesday -- The Tale of Embla and Bo
These Words for Wednesday are as last week's Mark Koopmans words, but they appear at Elephant's Child's blog. We're given:
Annihilate and / or Business
Zinfandel Panniers
Lozenge Wooden
Pacemaker Thunderstruck
Spokes Podcast
Invoice Zesty
Thaks to both - to Mark Koopmans for producing words and to Elephant's Child for hosting amid the fires. But ... I'm so sorry, these words do not speak to me at all. They are ... too modern, too grown-up ... I don't really know. I'm sorry.
Anyhow. I have already written a story. Even if Wednesday is still around 5 hours away. This is a dream I have had several times now. It has been haunting me, and I had to put it into writing. I had counted on incorporating some of the words. They just do not fit. Read and see.
Embla woke early. She could hear the young hunters whispering together and one of them suppressed a laugh. Just like they had been whispering and laughing around the fire the night before. She had to leave! She carefully braided her hair and tied it up in a net. It was not going to fly into her eyes or get stuck in branches along the way. Quickly she put on her lightest clothes, the linen bodice and the shortest skirt, and tied the light belt of horsehair; the clothes were too cold for the early spring day, but she would get warm while she ran. She hung her purse around her neck and stuffed her treasures in it. The white stone with the imprint of a leaf she had received when she became a woman. The little cap, Urd, Audunn's infant daughter had been wearing when she died in Embla's arms. And finally, the most important thing, her amulets, an amber bead and a discs of sun metal. She tied the strap around her neck and thrust the bag through her belt so that it would not hamper her while she was running.
Embla knew the way through the marsh. She was lighter than the young hunters, she would probably get away from them. Quietly, without disturbing Ash or the other women who slept in the same tent, she slipped out. The sun was not up yet, the sky was only just reddening in the east. The nigth demons were all gone now.
Embla went to the kitchen tent. She found the bag of running-food, the odd mix of seeds, grains, herbs and fat that Barki, Bo's father was good at making. She filled her mouth, chewed and sank the spicy-greasy mass. It did not weigh the stomach, like meat and porridge, but still you could run for a long, long time before getting hungry again. She took a mouthful more, chewing thoroughly, as Barki had taught her. Then she wrapped a handful in a fresh leaf and stopped it into her purse on top of her treasures. She remembered to close the bag securely after her.
Embla silently sneaked down to the creek. She was shaking with cold in the crisp morning air. She could smell the smoke from the fires, the dogs sleeping just outside the settlement, and the ripe, mushy air from the marsh at the other side of the creek. The river also smelled fresh today. She waded across the creek in order to have this ordeal behind her before drinking. While her feet became hot and dry again, she rinsed her mouth with water and then drank; another of the young hunters' tricks Barki had taught her. It made the thirst subside faster and did not make the stomach cold with too much water. All her senses were awake now. She stood still and listened. The young hunters were getting up now. She could hear their soft voices. Embla listened for one of them. Oh Bo ... how she had longed for the big, silent boy, wanting to hold him tight. But he probably wasn't interested in her. *Such an ill-fated girl,' she heard one of them whisper to the others. The settlement had had nothing but bad luck since her arriving. Audunn's infant had died, the elk had escaped in the fall, they barely had any more food left, the Old father's eyesight had failed during the winter, and now what had happened yesterday. No she wouldn't think about it.
Embla stiffened. More of the young hunters came out of their tent. She heard a voice over the water. "We have to take her now before she wakes up." She heard the other young hunters' affirmative sounds and morning cough. She had to leave now, before it was too late, yet she remained standing. Yes. Bo came. As usual he was the last man out of the tent. He was so slow. She loved him for it and she was annoyed by it. He never got himself pulled together. The young hunters also filled their mouths at the kitchen tent and went down to the creek to drink. Some of them went over to the women's tent. She had been waiting too long!
Embla turned her back to the settlement and began walking along the path leading to the marsh. Faster and faster she went, the path was almost invisible in the early morning light, but Embla had walked here so many times during Urd's illness, that her feet almost knew their way by themselves. And now she could hear the hunters behind her. She started running. Behind her she heard the young hunters. They cried softly, and then began to come after her. She could hear the muted splashes of their feet as they waded through the icy waters. She could hear their quick feet on the path. She ran like she had never run before. She had to reach the marsh before them. The blood was roaring in her ears, her heart thumping, as if it were going to jump out of her chest, but the terror gave her wings, and now she was at the edge of the marsh. They had not caught up with her. She heard them shouting, not loudly, but urgently. She couldn't hear what they were saying, with the blood roaring in her ears, and she was concentrated on finding the tufts of dry grass that could could carry her weight.The young hunters couldn't catch her now and have their will with her. What did that mean by the way, Embla wondered.
Embla jumped from one tussock to the next as swiftly as a fleeting deer. Suddenly arrows swished past over her head. She heard Bo shout, a terrible cry, Her name! He called for her!
Embla stopped and looked up. There, in front of her, on the very island in the swamp she had counted on as her safe refuge, stood the largest female bear she had ever seen. That was the her, the young hunters had been talking about!
That realization, the bear's breath that smelled of rotten flesh, Bo's despairing cry and the unbearable pain as the bear's jaws closed around her head and its claws ripped the flesh off her ribs, melted into a twinkling darkness that engulfed her.
The young hunters' walk home from the marsh was the heaviest trip ever to have been wandered in the history of Spinewood. The 6 biggest and strongest of the young hunters went in front with the bear's giant carcass on a primitive stretcher of spruce branches and birch twigs. There 4 others carried Embla's corpse on a similar, but smaller stretcher. And in the rear Bo came stumbling along. He was of no use. He cried, groaned and pulled at his hair and clothes. Tears ran down his cheeks, wetting the front of his tunic. The tears also blinded Bo's eyes. Already several times he had fallen, and had stayed there prostrate in the swamp, had not Sten repeatedly pulled him to his feet.
By the time they reached the settlement, only the old people had yet awakened. Their restless bladders and stiff joints did not allow them to sleep long on a cold spring morning; they alone witnessed the return of the young hunters. At first they cried out in delight as they saw the bear. Now they had a reason to celebrate. The settlement had been liberated from a major threat and there was food for many days. But then their tired, morning-heavy eyes fell on the smaller stretcher. They saw the deject young hunters and heard Bo's wailing cries.
"Embla" Ask cried, "is it Embla you have found? Did you kill her?"
"No, Old Mother, it's not us who killed her. It was the bear. We tried to save her, but she ran straight at the bear's den. We shouted. We ran. We tried to shoot the bear, but she was between us and the bear."
"What was she doing out there in the marsh," the Old Father asked. "Ask, it was your job to look after her."
"She went to bed early last night," Ask said belligerently. "Something or someone was bothering her. She has not been herself since Urd died from her this summer. She took the loss of that infant far too personal. She had disappeared when I woke. She must have been very quiet not to have disturbed any of us. "
"What about Bo?" the Old Father asked. As the settlement's oldest man and medical expert, he had a certain freedom of speech, and he used it now. "Had he not in mind to declare his love to her. I expected it would help."
"Yes, but you do know Bo," Sten replied, "He is always taking his time. Last night, as he had finally gotten up his courage, she had slipped from the tent just a short while earlier."
The next day, they buried Embla in the marsh next to Urd. Close to the island where they had found her not so long ago, and close to where the bear had ended her young life. Ask and Barki had washed her body, wrapped her in a worn, but perfectly respectable cloak and shawl, just as they would have done for one of their own. Bo and Barki carried the stretcher into the marsh, Ask covered her corpse with beautiful white birch branches and all the members of the tribe threw a handful of soil, a rock or an armful of leaves over the branches before they singing and lamenting walked back home through the marsh. In the evening, the entire settlement feasted on the deliciously, tender bear meat.
Bo disappeared one night that summer, and was never seen again by human eyes.
Annihilate and / or Business
Zinfandel Panniers
Lozenge Wooden
Pacemaker Thunderstruck
Spokes Podcast
Invoice Zesty
Thaks to both - to Mark Koopmans for producing words and to Elephant's Child for hosting amid the fires. But ... I'm so sorry, these words do not speak to me at all. They are ... too modern, too grown-up ... I don't really know. I'm sorry.
Anyhow. I have already written a story. Even if Wednesday is still around 5 hours away. This is a dream I have had several times now. It has been haunting me, and I had to put it into writing. I had counted on incorporating some of the words. They just do not fit. Read and see.
Embla woke early. She could hear the young hunters whispering together and one of them suppressed a laugh. Just like they had been whispering and laughing around the fire the night before. She had to leave! She carefully braided her hair and tied it up in a net. It was not going to fly into her eyes or get stuck in branches along the way. Quickly she put on her lightest clothes, the linen bodice and the shortest skirt, and tied the light belt of horsehair; the clothes were too cold for the early spring day, but she would get warm while she ran. She hung her purse around her neck and stuffed her treasures in it. The white stone with the imprint of a leaf she had received when she became a woman. The little cap, Urd, Audunn's infant daughter had been wearing when she died in Embla's arms. And finally, the most important thing, her amulets, an amber bead and a discs of sun metal. She tied the strap around her neck and thrust the bag through her belt so that it would not hamper her while she was running.
Embla knew the way through the marsh. She was lighter than the young hunters, she would probably get away from them. Quietly, without disturbing Ash or the other women who slept in the same tent, she slipped out. The sun was not up yet, the sky was only just reddening in the east. The nigth demons were all gone now.
Embla went to the kitchen tent. She found the bag of running-food, the odd mix of seeds, grains, herbs and fat that Barki, Bo's father was good at making. She filled her mouth, chewed and sank the spicy-greasy mass. It did not weigh the stomach, like meat and porridge, but still you could run for a long, long time before getting hungry again. She took a mouthful more, chewing thoroughly, as Barki had taught her. Then she wrapped a handful in a fresh leaf and stopped it into her purse on top of her treasures. She remembered to close the bag securely after her.
Embla silently sneaked down to the creek. She was shaking with cold in the crisp morning air. She could smell the smoke from the fires, the dogs sleeping just outside the settlement, and the ripe, mushy air from the marsh at the other side of the creek. The river also smelled fresh today. She waded across the creek in order to have this ordeal behind her before drinking. While her feet became hot and dry again, she rinsed her mouth with water and then drank; another of the young hunters' tricks Barki had taught her. It made the thirst subside faster and did not make the stomach cold with too much water. All her senses were awake now. She stood still and listened. The young hunters were getting up now. She could hear their soft voices. Embla listened for one of them. Oh Bo ... how she had longed for the big, silent boy, wanting to hold him tight. But he probably wasn't interested in her. *Such an ill-fated girl,' she heard one of them whisper to the others. The settlement had had nothing but bad luck since her arriving. Audunn's infant had died, the elk had escaped in the fall, they barely had any more food left, the Old father's eyesight had failed during the winter, and now what had happened yesterday. No she wouldn't think about it.
Embla stiffened. More of the young hunters came out of their tent. She heard a voice over the water. "We have to take her now before she wakes up." She heard the other young hunters' affirmative sounds and morning cough. She had to leave now, before it was too late, yet she remained standing. Yes. Bo came. As usual he was the last man out of the tent. He was so slow. She loved him for it and she was annoyed by it. He never got himself pulled together. The young hunters also filled their mouths at the kitchen tent and went down to the creek to drink. Some of them went over to the women's tent. She had been waiting too long!
Embla turned her back to the settlement and began walking along the path leading to the marsh. Faster and faster she went, the path was almost invisible in the early morning light, but Embla had walked here so many times during Urd's illness, that her feet almost knew their way by themselves. And now she could hear the hunters behind her. She started running. Behind her she heard the young hunters. They cried softly, and then began to come after her. She could hear the muted splashes of their feet as they waded through the icy waters. She could hear their quick feet on the path. She ran like she had never run before. She had to reach the marsh before them. The blood was roaring in her ears, her heart thumping, as if it were going to jump out of her chest, but the terror gave her wings, and now she was at the edge of the marsh. They had not caught up with her. She heard them shouting, not loudly, but urgently. She couldn't hear what they were saying, with the blood roaring in her ears, and she was concentrated on finding the tufts of dry grass that could could carry her weight.The young hunters couldn't catch her now and have their will with her. What did that mean by the way, Embla wondered.
Embla jumped from one tussock to the next as swiftly as a fleeting deer. Suddenly arrows swished past over her head. She heard Bo shout, a terrible cry, Her name! He called for her!
Embla stopped and looked up. There, in front of her, on the very island in the swamp she had counted on as her safe refuge, stood the largest female bear she had ever seen. That was the her, the young hunters had been talking about!
That realization, the bear's breath that smelled of rotten flesh, Bo's despairing cry and the unbearable pain as the bear's jaws closed around her head and its claws ripped the flesh off her ribs, melted into a twinkling darkness that engulfed her.
The young hunters' walk home from the marsh was the heaviest trip ever to have been wandered in the history of Spinewood. The 6 biggest and strongest of the young hunters went in front with the bear's giant carcass on a primitive stretcher of spruce branches and birch twigs. There 4 others carried Embla's corpse on a similar, but smaller stretcher. And in the rear Bo came stumbling along. He was of no use. He cried, groaned and pulled at his hair and clothes. Tears ran down his cheeks, wetting the front of his tunic. The tears also blinded Bo's eyes. Already several times he had fallen, and had stayed there prostrate in the swamp, had not Sten repeatedly pulled him to his feet.
By the time they reached the settlement, only the old people had yet awakened. Their restless bladders and stiff joints did not allow them to sleep long on a cold spring morning; they alone witnessed the return of the young hunters. At first they cried out in delight as they saw the bear. Now they had a reason to celebrate. The settlement had been liberated from a major threat and there was food for many days. But then their tired, morning-heavy eyes fell on the smaller stretcher. They saw the deject young hunters and heard Bo's wailing cries.
"Embla" Ask cried, "is it Embla you have found? Did you kill her?"
"No, Old Mother, it's not us who killed her. It was the bear. We tried to save her, but she ran straight at the bear's den. We shouted. We ran. We tried to shoot the bear, but she was between us and the bear."
"What was she doing out there in the marsh," the Old Father asked. "Ask, it was your job to look after her."
"She went to bed early last night," Ask said belligerently. "Something or someone was bothering her. She has not been herself since Urd died from her this summer. She took the loss of that infant far too personal. She had disappeared when I woke. She must have been very quiet not to have disturbed any of us. "
"What about Bo?" the Old Father asked. As the settlement's oldest man and medical expert, he had a certain freedom of speech, and he used it now. "Had he not in mind to declare his love to her. I expected it would help."
"Yes, but you do know Bo," Sten replied, "He is always taking his time. Last night, as he had finally gotten up his courage, she had slipped from the tent just a short while earlier."
The next day, they buried Embla in the marsh next to Urd. Close to the island where they had found her not so long ago, and close to where the bear had ended her young life. Ask and Barki had washed her body, wrapped her in a worn, but perfectly respectable cloak and shawl, just as they would have done for one of their own. Bo and Barki carried the stretcher into the marsh, Ask covered her corpse with beautiful white birch branches and all the members of the tribe threw a handful of soil, a rock or an armful of leaves over the branches before they singing and lamenting walked back home through the marsh. In the evening, the entire settlement feasted on the deliciously, tender bear meat.
Bo disappeared one night that summer, and was never seen again by human eyes.
torsdag den 29. november 2018
Normaltid - tak - et digt. Opdateret
Det eneste rigtige
Når klokken er 11 i Danmark,
er den 5 i U.S.A.
10 i London, og 18 i Kina
og 13 omkring Moskva.
Hvor er vi danskere et udvalgt folk,
at vi netop er født i selve
det lille velsignede land, hvor klokken
er 11, når den er 11.
Når klokken er 11 i Danmark,er den 5 i U.S.A.
10 i London, og 18 i Kina
og 13 omkring Moskva.
Hvor er vi danskere et udvalgt folk,
at vi netop er født i selve
det lille velsignede land, hvor klokken
er 11, når den er 11.
Piet Hein
In Denmark, as I suppose everywhere in EU, we discuss Daylight Saving Time or not. How, why and when to abolish it. This poem is "my" contribution to the debate. It was written by the Danish inventor, poet etc. Kumbel (Piet Hein) in the 1940ies. An un-rhymed anglification added below
When it's 11 o'clock in Denmark
It's 5 am in the USA.
10 o'clock in London, 6 pm in China
and 1 o'clock around Moscow.
We Danes are a happy, chosen people,
To be born in the small,
blessed country were
It's 11 at 11 o'clock.
onsdag den 8. august 2018
Drivglasvæv -- Weaving with Sea Glass
Endelig er Uglemor nået til at væve lommer med fyld af drivglas.
Det bliver faktisk præcis som hun forestillede sig, men hold da fest, hvor går det langsomt. For hvert eneste indskud skal skellet først samles op med et vævesværd, og alligevel er der ofte fejl, der gør at flere rækker må pilles op igen, og det er svært at se i de tynde tråde. Det er entrådet uldgarn i sort og avocadokernefarvet uld. Til sammenligning er det gule drivglasstykke i midten cirka 2 cm. på hver led. Uglemor kan kun væve om dagen, når solen ikke står lige på.
Finally MotherOwl got to actually weaving pockets for sea glass.
It looks as she imagined, but my, it's slow going. Single ply black and avocado pit dyed wool, and for every weft threads have to be picked up using a pick up stick. And even with this help, errors occur frequently and have to be unravelled - almost impossible with this spider web yarn. The yellow sea glass in the middle measures approximately 2 cm across. MotherOwl is only able to weave when it's indirect daylight, and not all day long.
Uglemors opskrifts-seddel til, hvordan man gør. En sort tråd i islæt, undtagen de to midterste indskud i lærredsvævningen mellem lommerne.
MotherOwl's loom, with a how-to note. One black thread as weft except for the two middle plain weave rows between the pockets.
Det bliver faktisk præcis som hun forestillede sig, men hold da fest, hvor går det langsomt. For hvert eneste indskud skal skellet først samles op med et vævesværd, og alligevel er der ofte fejl, der gør at flere rækker må pilles op igen, og det er svært at se i de tynde tråde. Det er entrådet uldgarn i sort og avocadokernefarvet uld. Til sammenligning er det gule drivglasstykke i midten cirka 2 cm. på hver led. Uglemor kan kun væve om dagen, når solen ikke står lige på.
- 🕸 -
Finally MotherOwl got to actually weaving pockets for sea glass.
It looks as she imagined, but my, it's slow going. Single ply black and avocado pit dyed wool, and for every weft threads have to be picked up using a pick up stick. And even with this help, errors occur frequently and have to be unravelled - almost impossible with this spider web yarn. The yellow sea glass in the middle measures approximately 2 cm across. MotherOwl is only able to weave when it's indirect daylight, and not all day long.
Uglemors opskrifts-seddel til, hvordan man gør. En sort tråd i islæt, undtagen de to midterste indskud i lærredsvævningen mellem lommerne.
- 🕸 -
MotherOwl's loom, with a how-to note. One black thread as weft except for the two middle plain weave rows between the pockets.
fredag den 13. april 2018
Sang på hjernen vers 1
For snart længe siden skrev jeg om en sang, jeg havde på hjernen, Jeg skrev også om det på Havelyst og fik mange gode forslag, før jeg - med hjælp fra facebook - fandt ud af at det var »Hvor blev det af?« sunget af Lise Reinau.
Og som så mange andre dansktopslagere fra 70’erne var det en oversættelse via svensk fra amerikansk. Oprindelig hed den »Where did they go« med Peggy Lee. Tage Danielsson oversatte den til svensk »Var blev det av…«, som Monica Zetterlund indsang.
Lyt her: Peggy Lee: Where did they go?
Monica Zetterlund: Var blev ni av?
Den danske lyder mere som den oprindelige, amerikanske.
På Havelyst lovede jeg letsindigt at versene skulle komme efterhånden som de blev relevante. Det er så 6 år siden. I dag postede jeg vers 1, der handler om forår sammen med billeder af mine hel- og halvfærdige haveprojekter.
Det kan jeg passende gentage her:
Ud af skyens pose sprang den splinternye sol.
Malerpenslen slikkede solskin på min havestol.
Pip i hver en fugl, for nu er det atter vår.
For pokker hvordan er det tiden går!
Hvor blev det af hele året, hvem har spist det bid for bid?
Hvordan kan man nå det hele på den halve tid?
Hvor blev de af, alle mennesker som jeg strejfed’ på min vej?
Hvem stjal af vore dage som vi vogter, du og jeg?
Måske går der ikke 6 år mere før jeg når til andet vers.
Og som så mange andre dansktopslagere fra 70’erne var det en oversættelse via svensk fra amerikansk. Oprindelig hed den »Where did they go« med Peggy Lee. Tage Danielsson oversatte den til svensk »Var blev det av…«, som Monica Zetterlund indsang.
Lyt her: Peggy Lee: Where did they go?
Monica Zetterlund: Var blev ni av?
Den danske lyder mere som den oprindelige, amerikanske.
På Havelyst lovede jeg letsindigt at versene skulle komme efterhånden som de blev relevante. Det er så 6 år siden. I dag postede jeg vers 1, der handler om forår sammen med billeder af mine hel- og halvfærdige haveprojekter.
Det kan jeg passende gentage her:
Ud af skyens pose sprang den splinternye sol.
Malerpenslen slikkede solskin på min havestol.
Pip i hver en fugl, for nu er det atter vår.
For pokker hvordan er det tiden går!
Hvor blev det af hele året, hvem har spist det bid for bid?
Hvordan kan man nå det hele på den halve tid?
Hvor blev de af, alle mennesker som jeg strejfed’ på min vej?
Hvem stjal af vore dage som vi vogter, du og jeg?
Måske går der ikke 6 år mere før jeg når til andet vers.
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| Her begynder haveeventyret og planternes liv. I vores vindueskarm og omegn. |
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| Først ryddede jeg gangene. Flere steder kunne jeg stikke fingrene gennem træet i siderne af bedet. Det havde græsrødderne også fundet ud af. Tid til nye planker. |
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| Fragtmanden bragte en STOR pakke. 10 seks meter lange lærkeplanker til bedene. Han kagde dem hvor de er nu ved hjælp af en lang kran og godt øjemål. |
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| Så hentede jeg værktøj og haveredskaber. |
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| Det første bed har fået ny indramning. |
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| I jordbærpyramiden fra forrige år, havde hønsene fjernet både jord og bær. I stedet groede der græs og snerler. Jeg fjernede de to øverste etager og godt 10 liter rødder. Så blev der plantet 6 nye jordbær og sået morgenfruefrø |
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| Ramsløgene gror. Vi kan begynde at overveje, hvilken ret vi skal lave med dem. |
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| Rabarberne ser også lovende ud. |
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| Området omkring kompostbunken. Det bliver fornyet hver gang, der er overenskomstforhandlinger ;) Desværre er Ugleungerns skole undtaget for strejke og lodck-out denne gang. SUK. |
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| Den overvintrede salat i domen. Der er flere sorter her. |
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| Og som lovet mere plads til leg. Et stativ flettet af røde grene fra haven venter på at duftærterne skal gro. Den første af mange sjove krukker til haven. |
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| Og indtil nu har jeg slidt et par havehandsker op. And so far I wore out one pair of gardening glowes. |
mandag den 13. november 2017
Verden er stor -- Our big World (13. november)
Sommetider, når Uglemor føler sig trist og træt. Når verden ligesom er blevet for lille og snæver, hjælper det at huske på at der findes mere af verden, end Uglemor lige kan se. En måde at huske det på, er at se på klokken på min computer.
For se nu her. Hvad er klokken, og hvilken dag er det?
Tja, her hos Uglemor er det mandag morgen. Men i USA, hor mange af de bloggere bor, som jeg følger, er det ikke engang blevet mandag endnu. Det er søndag nat, og de ligger og sover eller er på vej i seng. Hos Sue Elvis i Australien har det derimod været mandag længe. På den anden side er det forår på vej mod sommer dér, ræven er et eksotisk dyr på de kanter og der vokser eucalyptustræer med latterfugle i.
Så indser Uglemor (igen) at verden er stor, ufattelig stor og at der endnu er mange steder, hun ikke har været, og skønne syn hun ikke har set. Uglemor fortæller Ugleungerne om alle sine rejser og om sine spændende, fantastiske og ind i mellem skræmmende oplevelser på fjerne steder. Og så bliver selv det danske vintermørke nemmere at holde ud.
Sometimes when MotherOwl feels tired and closed in by her own four walls and by the ever growing darkness of Danish Autumn-turning-into-winter, it's good to remember that the world is big.
One way to do this is to check put the time. Because what is this ... what time is it?
Well here in the Owlery it's Monday morning. But in US of A, where many of the bloggers live, whose life and deeds MotherOwl's following, it is not yet Monday. It is Sunday night and they're sleeping already or on their way to bed.
At Sue Elvis's place in Australia it has been Monday for long already, but on the other hand their days are growing longer as the Summer approaches. And she looks upon foxes as exotic animals, whereas kookaburras sitting in gum trees are not just words in a song but a normal part of everyday life.
This makes MotherOwl remember that the world is big almost too big to understand. And this makes her long for places yet unvisited and sights unseen.
MotherOwl then tells the Owlets of her journeys to far away places, of the people, strange and wonderful things and wonders - and some not so nice things - she has seen and lived through there. And then even the long, dreary Danish autumn days are not so bad anymore.
For se nu her. Hvad er klokken, og hvilken dag er det?
Tja, her hos Uglemor er det mandag morgen. Men i USA, hor mange af de bloggere bor, som jeg følger, er det ikke engang blevet mandag endnu. Det er søndag nat, og de ligger og sover eller er på vej i seng. Hos Sue Elvis i Australien har det derimod været mandag længe. På den anden side er det forår på vej mod sommer dér, ræven er et eksotisk dyr på de kanter og der vokser eucalyptustræer med latterfugle i.
Så indser Uglemor (igen) at verden er stor, ufattelig stor og at der endnu er mange steder, hun ikke har været, og skønne syn hun ikke har set. Uglemor fortæller Ugleungerne om alle sine rejser og om sine spændende, fantastiske og ind i mellem skræmmende oplevelser på fjerne steder. Og så bliver selv det danske vintermørke nemmere at holde ud.
Sometimes when MotherOwl feels tired and closed in by her own four walls and by the ever growing darkness of Danish Autumn-turning-into-winter, it's good to remember that the world is big.
One way to do this is to check put the time. Because what is this ... what time is it?
Well here in the Owlery it's Monday morning. But in US of A, where many of the bloggers live, whose life and deeds MotherOwl's following, it is not yet Monday. It is Sunday night and they're sleeping already or on their way to bed.
At Sue Elvis's place in Australia it has been Monday for long already, but on the other hand their days are growing longer as the Summer approaches. And she looks upon foxes as exotic animals, whereas kookaburras sitting in gum trees are not just words in a song but a normal part of everyday life.
This makes MotherOwl remember that the world is big almost too big to understand. And this makes her long for places yet unvisited and sights unseen.
MotherOwl then tells the Owlets of her journeys to far away places, of the people, strange and wonderful things and wonders - and some not so nice things - she has seen and lived through there. And then even the long, dreary Danish autumn days are not so bad anymore.
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