Grandpas´s stories.

My grandfather lives in a small village deep in the forest in North Sweden. The winter is cold and there are ower one meter snow. They have problems with electricity sometimes in the winter. I used to sit there in his silent kitchen and draw. I was drawing a childrens book when he was sleeping but when he was awake I made some coffee to him and he started telling stories. Some of them where true some he made up for the moment but all of them was pieces of that life he had lived. This winter in 2005 was wery cold and I almost ran on a big bull elk when i drowe to Parkalombolo. Parkalombolo is the name of grandpa´s village. This coffee morning he told me my favourite story: When he traveled around in the Torneriver valley he stopped for a coffee in Grönbo. They had coffee and sometimes girls he wispered to me. This time they sat having a cup the police came in. The women that ran the cafe asked the police why they are in Grönbo. The police told her that Grönbo is not far away from a wery good smuggling point, and they had got hints that the Pohjanen smuggler would smuggle in that night. When the police went out, all men felt sorry for Pohjanen and the women hastened to call the Pohjanens house. Pohjanen was about to leave and was grateful for the knowledge that the police were on the move. Then grandpa asked me; do You want to eat fish today? Yes, I loved his fish without potatoes. He had this flower on the table and i writed down his stories and drawed tha flower as a memory of a nice evening.