by Ingrid Prohaska
I can remember only a handful scenes with my grandfather. But I can remember quite well that he took me from my parent’s home once a weekend for a walk.
I was about three years that fall, but I can remember that scene as if it had happened yesterday. I see us walking through the wood, my grandpa held my left hand. My right hand swung with the rhythm of my steps. I wore my new ocher yellow wool-coat my mother had made for me. I can see the large pine-trees around swaying and rushing with the wind and the soft pine-needle-covered path we walked on; the roots of the trees rose out of the ground and the path was even so wide that two people could walk together.
Every time we had a rest in that small inn in the middle of the wood. The cottage was built half of stone and half of wood; it had two levels and an open but roofed room built on the house for the guests in the warm seasons. The daily business happened in the basement, the room in the higher level was only used for festivities. So we went downstairs into the warm dark wooded guest-room. The interior was simple and practical, but comfortable enough to sit in there for a long while. Opposite the entrance door on the left hand I can see the bar with all the bottles and I can also see that small show-case low enough that I could have a look into it. There they had the sweets and also the chocolates. One of them would be mine in a few moments. On the right hand there stood the jukebox. We normally sat down on the table left the door; my grandpa under the small window and I over the corner to him. The table right the door was occupied with regular guests, all male, drinking, chatting, laughing, playing cards.
I can remember only a handful scenes with my grandfather. But I can remember quite well that he took me from my parent’s home once a weekend for a walk.
I was about three years that fall, but I can remember that scene as if it had happened yesterday. I see us walking through the wood, my grandpa held my left hand. My right hand swung with the rhythm of my steps. I wore my new ocher yellow wool-coat my mother had made for me. I can see the large pine-trees around swaying and rushing with the wind and the soft pine-needle-covered path we walked on; the roots of the trees rose out of the ground and the path was even so wide that two people could walk together.
Every time we had a rest in that small inn in the middle of the wood. The cottage was built half of stone and half of wood; it had two levels and an open but roofed room built on the house for the guests in the warm seasons. The daily business happened in the basement, the room in the higher level was only used for festivities. So we went downstairs into the warm dark wooded guest-room. The interior was simple and practical, but comfortable enough to sit in there for a long while. Opposite the entrance door on the left hand I can see the bar with all the bottles and I can also see that small show-case low enough that I could have a look into it. There they had the sweets and also the chocolates. One of them would be mine in a few moments. On the right hand there stood the jukebox. We normally sat down on the table left the door; my grandpa under the small window and I over the corner to him. The table right the door was occupied with regular guests, all male, drinking, chatting, laughing, playing cards.
