Blood

It is old, the blood. To translate these words of Norwegian Bokmål into English is a sort of memory. My lineage is Swedish, not Norwegian, but its all the same. These are shared words of Northern Men, Norsemen. I am a Norseman, or I should be. Because I am a Norseman only in instinct. That I long for herring or the sardines of King Oscar, or that I fish on the frozen lakes; that the cold is indifferent to me-- I cannot ignore it. 

These globalists and their cabal have drawn me into their economies around the world. I have traveled widely, it seems at their behest, to unwittingly spread their gospel. I have been a willing lieutenant in their command. I speak French and Spanish now, I speak a bit of Hungarian and Bulgarian. I know global finance. I understand the in-s and out-s of their project, and how I can benefit from it economically. 

But its all bollocks. 

I am at peace when fishing on a frozen lake. My blood needs only this. It is all my blood ever needed. My grandfather Nils tried to return the family to that place, to a lake in central Wisconsin, a lake his own father Hans, a Swede by birth, had chosen and fished upon and intended to make his final home. 

My grandfather came there after years and years in American cities, from New York to San Francisco, to at last show his sons that this was where they should settle. But it didn't work out. I know his plans. I have my grandfather's books. I have his writing. I spoke often with my grandfather when I came up to WI for the winter fishing. I know what he hoped for.

The land cannot be owned, finally. A man will die and his land will be translated into the new generations. The sons of my grandfather, of course, did not see it as he did. My father, the best of them, has preserved what he could preserve. But land cannot live in preservation. Land can only live outside what the humans would foist upon it. For it is not life otherwise. 

So I translate Hamsun. 

I remember. 

It is a long memory. Swen in Hulu, yes, a man of my lineage from the 17th century, identified by my grandfather Nils. 

I don't know what else there is. I must return to what is oldest. The global agenda is wrong. It doesn't fit with my blood. Do not turn the world a tawny shade of brown and atheist. Do not turn the world into a mediocre class of english speaking wage slaves. Do not let the last languages, the last pagans of the North, disappear.

New Dungarees

 
I bought two pairs of dungarees at the Fleet Farm in Oshkosh. Then I went fishing. These two large mouth bass were keepers. The larger now holds third place in the county competition. If it can hold on until the season ends next month I'll win a portable ice shanty. At 19.5 inches its the largest bass taken off our lake this winter. I plan to can catch a couple more tomorrow. I plan to wear my tan colored dungarees. They're new.

The Osprey

Today was the opening of the fishing season and I went into the shed and rigged up a rod with a lure and went down to the dock. I made some casts and thought about the better fishing that was over in the channel, and all the good spots that I had fished as a boy and young man. But I didn't have a boat to get over there and now someone else owned that property and it would be trespassing to walk onto it. So I continued to cast out into the very weed-less waters around the dock.

 

I could see I would not catch anything. There was no activity in the water. The lake was brown and dead. It was a late thaw for the ice and it had gone out only two weeks before. Spring had begun on the land and the birds were active and building nests and the trees were budding and the animals had returned from winter, but under the water the spring had not yet come. None of the underwater plants had started to grow. The water was still to cold. The fish were in some other place. They were not yet ready to spawn. I did not know where they were.

 

Across the lake I watched a great black bird soaring back and forth over the water. The bird was hunting the water for something. I saw the angle in his wing and his white head. It was an osprey. He must have been six feet across in the wings. The great osprey stopped in the air, flapping its wings dramatically, and held itself over the water, studying it. Then he soared high and dove, crashing through the surface of the water and then flapping out of the water, he soared along the height of the pines, hunting the lake.

 

The osprey had seen something. I didn't think there were fish yet but the osprey was hunting them. The osprey again hovered on beating wings and dove and crashed into the water and he came out and gliding low across the lake and towards me on the dock and soaring over me, I saw in his talons he had one, he had a fish. The osprey had caught one. It looked like a little perch. The osprey circled back and showed me again the perch he had caught and I watched him soar along the tree line and down the channel. For the great hunter the spring had come.

El Fin del Invierno

 

 

The Hundred Year Oak

The hundred year oak is gone.* It was rotted out and struck by lightning and the Inda boys came and cut it down and sawed it up. It is stacked in stove-sized pieces in the wood shed behind the cabin.

There is a big, new stump at the shore. But the hundred year oak remains. Even when the stump is gone I shall remember its place. The hundred year oak doesn't go away. Neither does the land go away, the land that you have known and lived on. The land is remembered. There is neither simply land then, nor simply memory. It happens if you are lucky to have lived in a place, really lived in it.

They cut down the hundred year oak, and it is still there. It is there just as my grandfather is there on the frozen lake when I pause while cutting a hole for fishing and in the morning quiet look down the channel at the sun coming up over the pines; it is there just as my grandmother is there walking the old path along the shore and pointing out the first shoots of skunk cabbage in the spring. Look down too for the marsh marigolds, she said. Look down to see the spring, she said. Look down.

________________________
* Rings on the trunk date the oak at 157 years. The usual life of an oak tree is 80 to 100 years.

New Series 1. Folk Series.

Solitude

"The great project is conducted in solitude. The great project demands the solitude of the man. It can happen no other way. But solitude is not itself a project. My brothers, do not rush into solitude without the project, for solitude will overwhelm even the strongest among you. Verily, solitude is dangerous and only the man of great destiny is drawn to it. But to go to solitude with an unformed project will doom any man. Let the project be your strength. Go to solitude when your project has been made strong in the world of men. Then let solitude be its test."

First Snow

41 North

In the north country the fall comes early
And through the barren trees
We see clear through to the next county.

A hawk holds himself steady
High in the blowing wind.
The wheat is felled across the hills.
The fallen leaves have blown into the low areas
And are sodden from the storm.

From the farmhouse at the height of the land
We look down across the rolling country
Dirt earthen brown, darkened for winter.

The light will fail early today
And still earlier tomorrow,
As we,
With all the land
Go on waiting,
Waiting around to die.

Bowsaw

An Unfamiliar Wind

Holy Man

Still Good Country

Daybreak

Otoño

The Last Good Country

It was a 40 mile ride through Wild Rose, Saxeville, and Spring Lake. It ended with a puncture, as Saint Maximin predicted, just 1 mile outside Wild Rose. It is good country, all of it, and do not say that we have none yet left. It is just as good as Northern France, the old growth forests the same, the way the road gently rises and falls, and riding along the Pine River was as the ride along that river at the Belgian frontier. I remember that man we met at the border with the heavy artillery from the World War and he is gone now. They put him away and took away his guns. We read of that in the papers years later. They do not have such men in central Wisconsin. But this country is good country of rolling hills and good pavement, and the corn and the soybeans and sorghum are rich from the rain, the farms operated by the same families that have always had them, and the cows and horses are happiest in the sun.

Part 2

It was almost dark. From the window he watched the wind tossing the little jack pines, throwing the snow that weighed low the branches. The fire was raging now in the stove. Drinking beside the stove Jim was finally warm. There was the feeling of having fished and come in when the day was done. It was like it always felt, he told himself.

Jim finished the glass and pushed it across the table. It was time to go down and see his grandfather. Jim laced up his boots and put on his jacket and wool hat and went out onto the porch. It was fully dark. Jim switched on the porchlight.

In the tip-up bucket on the porch was the bass. Jim looked in at him, dark-green backed, white-bellied and frosted with snow. It had been exciting to catch him. Jim reached down and touched him, hard and frozen to the touch. They had caught and eaten many like this one. Maybe he would get another tomorrow and he and his grandfather would have a fish dinner tomorrow night.

Jim started down the road for his grandfather’s house. The road turned to follow a wall of towering red pines, evenly spaced, planted two-by-two along the road. They had been planted by his great-grandfather. Beyond the pine wall the farmland extended out to the mountain. The wind blew down across the snowy fields and the pines were no protection along the road and Jim walked quickly until out beyond the last pines he saw the cottage.

Jim stamped the snow from his boots and went in through the side door into the kitchen. Inside it was dark, the lights were off, and it smelled pleasantly of wood smoke.

In the family room his grandfather was snoring loudly in his armchair beside the fireplace. The fire had burned down to the coals. Jim switched on the light. On the table beside his grandfather was what remained of his vodka tonic. A crossword puzzle was spread across his lap.

“Grandpa,” Jim said gently.

“Grandpa.”

Jim touched his shoulder.

“Grandpa.”

The old man started and opened his eyes and smiled seeing his grandson.

“Jimmy!”

He pulled himself up from the chair and hugged Jim tightly.

“Jimmy it’s so good to see you. It’s so good to have you up here again.”

“It’s great to be up here again, Grandpa,” said Jim.

“I thought maybe you might be coming down after fishing,” his grandfather said. “Let’s go in the kitchen and get us something to drink.”

“Sure.”

“You know, I almost forgot. I’ve got something special for us. You wait right here, Jimmy.”

The old man shuffled across the room and out the door into the night. He did not take his jacket and Jim had a pretty good idea what he was going for.

Jim knelt down at the fireplace and laid in some pieces of kindling over the coals. He put a birch log on the grate and ignited the paper under the kindling, watching the paper flare up and the kindling crackle and catch.

The door opened, cold rushing in from the outside, and his grandfather had returned with the green bottle.

“Jimmy, I’ve got something real special to celebrate your being back up here. Come on in the kitchen.”

“I figured it was that Grandpa.” They were both smiling.

Grandpa Olof looked in the cupboard for the special glasses. The bottle of aquavit was new and unopened and there was a layer of frozen moisture on it. Jim screwed off the cap. This was going to be a great pleasure.

“I’ve had that bottle out in the snow since this afternoon,” his grandfather said. “I figured what you needed was a little of the ‘water of life’ after a cold one like today.”

Jim poured the aquavit, thick and syrupy from the cold, up to the lip of the special glasses.

“Skoal,” his grandfather said.

“Skoal,” said Jim.

They touched glasses and drank off, the anis and caraway flavors trailing as they looked at each other, not showing any effect from the aquavit.

“You remembered how to do it!”

“That’s one thing I couldn’t forget Grandpa. After you drink you don’t show it and you look the other guy in the eye.”

“I love you so much Jimmy.”

Jim was pouring them up again. His grandfather was a very serious aquavit drinker. He had taught Jim to drink aquavit the way they drank it in Sweden.

“How about another,” Jim said.

“Sure, sure, Jimmy.”

“Skoal.”

“Skoal.”

They drank off and set the empty glasses on the counter.

“You think I’m ready for Sweden now, Grandpa?”

“Well, Jimmy, I think you’re ready to drink aquavit there.”

Jim and his grandfather laughed.

“But tell me something Jimmy,” he moved his lips and tightened his face the way he did when he was going to speak importantly. “Now tell me Jimmy. When are you going to get married?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Jim.

“Now your brother is married. Why don’t you find a French girl like he did? And what about that Sarah we met onetime? She had some Swedish in her, didn’t she?”

“I still talk to her,” Jim offered.

“Do you love her?”

“I don’t really know.” He had never talked this way before with his grandfather. “It’s the hardest thing. I don’t know, I guess.”

“It’s okay, Jimmy,” his grandfather said. “I shouldn’t be asking you that,” he said. “It’s not really any of my business anyway.”

Jim poured another round and they skoal-ed and drank.

“Now when were you up here last, Jimmy?”

“It’s been a few years,” Jim answered.

“I remember when you used to come up here every winter,” said his grandfather.

Jim was quiet.

“You used to catch so many we were still eating pike and bass after you left.”

“Your Grandma and I used to like it so much having everyone up here together. I guess it wasn’t so long ago, was it.”

Jim was looking at the empty glasses. His grandfather felt of his arm.

“I want you to know how proud of you I am, Jimmy. I love you so much. I’m so happy how you’re turning out and hearing about all the interesting things you do and the places you go.”

“When I was your age there was only one thing I wanted to do and that was to farm chickens. I had a little chicken farm outside Wautoma. I had just failed out of college and had an operation for an ulcer all because my father wanted me to be a doctor and I didn’t want to be. After a couple of years I lost that chicken farm. Then I met your Grandma and we were married. Even when I had the land to try chicken farming again I didn’t do it.”

Jim listened. His grandfather had told him the story before.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone says, you’ve got to try everything you want to when you’re young.”

It was true, he thought. It was what he had believed, he still believed it. Carefully, he poured up both glasses.

“Skoal, Grandpa,” Jim said, lifting his glass.

“Skoal, Jimmy,” said his grandfather.

They looked each other in the eye and drank.

“It sure is great drinking aquavit together,” said Jim.

“It sure is,” his grandfather said. “You know,” said his grandfather, “I forgot to ask you how the fishing went today.”

“I only got a bass,” said Jim, remembering the fishing. “I only had one tip-up.”

“The fishing was good, it was the catching that wasn’t so good then,” said Grandpa Olof, using the old fisherman’s line. “I’m sure you’ll have better luck tomorrow. It’s supposed to be warmer tomorrow.”

“Grandpa, why don’t you come out on the ice with me,” Jim said suddenly. “You could jig for panfish while I fish the tip-ups. I could go into Sully’s in the morning and pick up some wax worms for you.”

“Well, I think I’d like that very much,” said his grandfather.

“How about another and I’ll head back,” said Jim. “I’ll let you rest up for tomorrow.” He had surprised himself with the idea.

He poured out the aquavit and they drank as before according to Swedish custom. At the door Jim put on his boots and coat.

“So you come by when you want to in the morning, Jimmy,” his grandfather said.

“I’ll come by after I get back from town,” said Jim.

His grandfather hugged him tightly. He seemed smaller than Jim remembered.

“I’m so proud of you Jimmy. It’s so great having you up here. I want you to know you can come up here and stay anytime you want to. You can stay as long as you want to, Jimmy.”

“Okay, Grandpa, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Okay, Jimmy. You have a good night.” He watched Jim walk out towards the pines and shut the door.

Outside the wind had dropped. The clouds had broken and the moon lighted the snow and outlined the high trees against the night. Jim went up the road along the pines, the snow crunching under his boots. Everything was clear and quiet without the wind. He came around the turn and ahead was the cabin, dark inside, smoke still coming from the chimney. Jim stopped on the porch listening to the stillness. Tomorrow they were going fishing together. He smiled. From the porch, down through the trees, he could see the ice stretching out bright in the moonlight. He felt certain they were going to catch a lot together.

7:52 am

3 meals

Part One

Jim scanned the ice for his tip-ups. The fishing traps he had set made three orange marks against the snow. None of the orange flags were up and he looked away. A fish would not strike a tip-up if you were watching it. The chances were better when you did something else. It was better to watch the geese or the crows or kick around a piece of ice you chiseled from a hole. But it was too cold for birds today and he didn’t want to move. Still he had to do something. He had not had a flag yet. It was hard fishing alone in the very cold.

Jim turned upwind, the ice smooth out to the gray woods and up through the channel the big lake stretching out far and white. He was the only fisherman on the lakes. The wind stung his face and he turned away. Anyway it was better without others on the ice. They watched you fishing a hole and there was too much pressure. There wasn’t anything wrong with fishing alone. You fished where you wanted and how you wanted.

Far left an orange flag flung up swinging. Jim’s heart went pounding. His first tip-up. In the wind he had even heard the tiny metallic click of the flag releasing from the post. Jim started towards the flag, careful so his boots on the ice would not spook the fish. Halfway he saw the metal post that had tipped the flag spinning wildly. Line was pulling fast off the spool underwater. It must be a bass. He had put that tip-up in along the weed bar. He was running with the minnow for the weeds in the shallow water.

Jim knelt down at the hole before the tip-up, the post spinning furiously on the wooden base across the hole. The line slowed going out and Jim pulled off his mittens. The line went out very slow and stopped. Jim slipped his hands into the freezing water, and holding the line in place below the spool drew out the tip-up and laid it on the ice beside the hole. Now the hole was free of the tip-up apparatus. He began to carefully bring in the slack line between him and the fish. He took line in slowly until he felt the tension. There was something heavy and alive on the other end. He felt the line now taut between him and the fish. There was a tiny pull. He let the line go some. He brought some in. There again was the tension. Jim set himself to strike against the fish, but just then the line went slack in his hands. He had spit the minnow. It wasn’t over though. A hungry one like that was sure to come back.

Jim balanced the wood base of the tip-up at the edge of the hole so the line spool was back in the water. In the cold the wet line had frozen quickly on the spool. In the water the line would unfreeze and when the big fish returned there would be line to go out. He sat back on his boots and jammed his hands, raw and cramped from the icy water, inside his snowsuit. His hands hurt but it might be just a minute until the big fish returned. He had to be ready.

He watched the line down into the dark water. The minnow was down there somewhere, laying in the weeds, stunned, maybe part eaten but still alive, the big fish gone away. He understood why they spit the minnow, it was because they felt the hook, but why they returned Jim did not understand. They somehow always remembered where they left it. It didn’t matter how deep and mixed up in the weeds the minnow was, they remembered. He just had to wait. He just had to be patient and the big fish would come back.

The line fidgeted and jerked and went out hard off the spool. It was started again. But the line slowed and stopped. This sure was an indecisive one, Jim thought. He had to be a young one. I wish he’d just make up his mind what he wanted.

The line started out again and very slowly, and Jim saw it was time and fast reached into the water for the line and feeling immediately the un-giving tension set hard the hook with a short tug towards his body; then up on his feet hand-over-hand bringing in line feeling the weight and drag of something heavy and fighting and bursting out the hole with weeds and muck was the young bass. It came out flopping angry on the ice beside the hole. Jim pulled the weeds off him. He was a beauty of a bass. Jim put his hands back inside his snowjacket to warm them as he admired the flopping bass. He was young but he was big. He was big enough to keep.

Jim folded back the dorsal fin to get a hold and take the hook out. The largemouth was too thick in the belly to hold well and the mucus was already making him slippery. Jim’s hands were so raw and cold they hardly worked. He got a good hold finally, and with his small pliers worked the barb of the hook out the jaw with a pop. He tossed the fish onto the ice away from the hole and rubbed the mucus off his hands on his snowpants. That bass would freeze up quick in this cold.

Jim stuffed his hands inside his suit. They were frozen from the cold air and water. They hurt so much. The wind blew hard and he felt it on his back through the snowsuit. The tip-up lay beside the hole, the line frozen and tangled across the ice. He did not want to take his hands out and untangle the line and re-set the tip-up. Jim felt a reaction against reaching into the icy minnow bucket water and holding the squirming minnow, his wet hands burning in the cold, hooking it and re-setting the tip-up with a fresh minnow.

Near the hole the bass was not moving, already frozen solid. Now I’ve got one, Jim thought. One was enough, he guessed. He didn’t really need to catch another. He didn’t have to fish any longer if he didn’t want to. He could go where it was warm. At the house his grandfather would have a big fire going. All the times after fishing they went there. Laying on his back he would put his wool-socked feet up against the hot glass doors of the fireplace. When his toes and feet were hot he would stand with his back at the fire, his hands warming on the hot chimney bricks. Sometimes Grandpa Olaf even made them glögg to warm them from the inside out. He didn’t have to be out here in the cold any longer. It wasn’t necessary.

Jim picked up the spent tip-up and started to wind the line onto the spool, untangling line with his other hand. He would take his gear to the cabin and then go down to the house to see his grandfather. Jim broke the tip-up down, folding the metal post flat with the wooden base, then pushed the hook into the wood.

Jim walked to the next tip-up, tipped the flag, and wound line until the minnow lifted from the water. He pulled the minnow off the hook, dropped it on the ice and folded up the tip-up. Jim went to the last tip-up and brought it in. He put the frozen bass and the tip-ups in the bucket and with his chisel and his ice scoop he picked up the covered pail containing the minnows and started towards the shore. He was going in.

Bait Shop

The old guy at Malchow's says, "You want me to measure that?"

"That's what I brought it for," I says.

I took it out of the newspaper for him and he laid it on the blood stained ruler.

"Its not 17," he says.

"Ok. But it gets me on the board."

"You want me to take a picture?" he says.

"Yeah."

"Hold it higher. Hold it with two hands."

He takes the picture.

"You want it on the board," he says.

"Yeah, I want it on the board. That's why you took the picture, isn't it?"

"Its not going to win," he says. "You won't win that rifle. 21 is gonna win."

"Then give me the picture," I says.

"No."

"It doesn't matter then, so give it to me."

"No," he says. He pins up the picture.

"They catch them on Round Lake," he says. "That's where you need to go."