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06/04/2018
Palonera
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Palonera
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the 80th birthday
It's only been a few days since we celebrated my father-in-law's 80th birthday in the Odenwald.
Actually they live in the Sauerland, my parents-in-law, but the children and grandchildren are scattered all over the country; a part of the family lives far down in Bolzano, in South Tyrol - and thus all had to cover approximately the same distance, my father-in-law decided to put the celebration in the Odenwald, the place where he happened to be stranded less than a year ago, on a trip somewhere else entirely.
And where he liked it so much that he simply stayed there, there in the rich, deep green, in the dreamlike beautiful little towns with their medieval buildings and the truly hearty people who looked closely at who stood before them and whose laughter always shone out of their eyes.
There he wanted to celebrate his birthday, the first with the eight in front, in the big circle of the family - and so we found ourselves one from east and west, from north and south in a tiny little place far out in the country, five houses big, maybe one more.
We sat under vine leaves and shady trees in the small beer garden of the house, in our nose the scent of acacias and freshly cut hay - it was hot, much too hot for the end of May, everything smelled much stronger than we had ever smelled it in this season.
Bees staggered around, drunk with nectar and warmth, a bush of peonies close to the house stood in full bloom.
We drank cool white and tart apple wine, the children lemon spritzer with fresh mint.
Opposite was a wide meadow that gently rose to an old tree, a cherry tree, as big and beautiful as I had never seen one before.
Someone had made hay that day, which now rested in long, thick rows, piled up and as soft "as our bed," as Grete said, the little blonde with the constantly babbling mouth.
We fell into this sweet, gentle, crackling, dusty soft that carried the scents of first grasses, small flowers, warm earth and the sun of long days, mixed with the smell of our skin, a little moist, well creamed and clean.
We watched as the sun set far back among the trees, the dense ones that mixed in the deciduous and coniferous forest, saw the sky turn purple, pink and apricot.
Around us fine haze rose from the ground, delicate and feathery - cool and silver-green he lay down on the skin, on the sunny hot, curled the hair of the children, who, not tired at all, played catch, ghosts played in the twilight, which quietly became deeper, while the coolness stroked around the heads.
"Look, a violet!"
Big-eyed, seriously looked at by the youngest, just two and city child through and through, sniffing up at the little nose and held in the little hand, while the little head finally sank to my shoulder.
And the birthday boy sat next to me, smiling, quietly - eighty years old and his eyes still so young.
Days later - I'm home again long ago, a sample rolls into my hand.
"L'Été en Douce" is on the label.
I spray, take a breath - and lie again in the Odenwald in the hay
Actually they live in the Sauerland, my parents-in-law, but the children and grandchildren are scattered all over the country; a part of the family lives far down in Bolzano, in South Tyrol - and thus all had to cover approximately the same distance, my father-in-law decided to put the celebration in the Odenwald, the place where he happened to be stranded less than a year ago, on a trip somewhere else entirely.
And where he liked it so much that he simply stayed there, there in the rich, deep green, in the dreamlike beautiful little towns with their medieval buildings and the truly hearty people who looked closely at who stood before them and whose laughter always shone out of their eyes.
There he wanted to celebrate his birthday, the first with the eight in front, in the big circle of the family - and so we found ourselves one from east and west, from north and south in a tiny little place far out in the country, five houses big, maybe one more.
We sat under vine leaves and shady trees in the small beer garden of the house, in our nose the scent of acacias and freshly cut hay - it was hot, much too hot for the end of May, everything smelled much stronger than we had ever smelled it in this season.
Bees staggered around, drunk with nectar and warmth, a bush of peonies close to the house stood in full bloom.
We drank cool white and tart apple wine, the children lemon spritzer with fresh mint.
Opposite was a wide meadow that gently rose to an old tree, a cherry tree, as big and beautiful as I had never seen one before.
Someone had made hay that day, which now rested in long, thick rows, piled up and as soft "as our bed," as Grete said, the little blonde with the constantly babbling mouth.
We fell into this sweet, gentle, crackling, dusty soft that carried the scents of first grasses, small flowers, warm earth and the sun of long days, mixed with the smell of our skin, a little moist, well creamed and clean.
We watched as the sun set far back among the trees, the dense ones that mixed in the deciduous and coniferous forest, saw the sky turn purple, pink and apricot.
Around us fine haze rose from the ground, delicate and feathery - cool and silver-green he lay down on the skin, on the sunny hot, curled the hair of the children, who, not tired at all, played catch, ghosts played in the twilight, which quietly became deeper, while the coolness stroked around the heads.
"Look, a violet!"
Big-eyed, seriously looked at by the youngest, just two and city child through and through, sniffing up at the little nose and held in the little hand, while the little head finally sank to my shoulder.
And the birthday boy sat next to me, smiling, quietly - eighty years old and his eyes still so young.
Days later - I'm home again long ago, a sample rolls into my hand.
"L'Été en Douce" is on the label.
I spray, take a breath - and lie again in the Odenwald in the hay
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Nikander
