04/19/2019
Stoffl
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Stoffl
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Homeland
What a strangely ambivalent term that is. If you ask 3 different people about their understanding of home, you will with relative certainty get 3 completely different explanations. For some, home is something tangible, a kind of property. Be it the house, the flat, the literal roof over your head, which you have worked hard for. Others associate it with whole places. The village or city where you spent your childhood or most of your life, or sometimes just moved in. Even whole countries or continents are associated with the term, up to the rejection of any borders of the same - the holistic approach, one is only a citizen of the earth and basically at home everywhere.
Still others associate it with a more abstract feeling of security, belonging or cohesion. Not seldom one speaks of the so-called being rooted.
This great Flanker by Dsquared cannot be described better than by the latter expression for me. The scent reminds me less of the Rocky Mountains, but more of home, of the proverbial roots. Not to my place of residence, but rather to the small, almost 3000 soul place in the eastern Alps, where I spent so many wonderful summers as a child. The place where my father as a little boy walked across green alpine meadows and through the woods. The former residence of my grandparents, where time supposedly stands still and where everything remains as it always has been. Where everyone feels they know each other by name and call each other by the same name. Where the air is still really clean and where one feels like being transported into another world after nightly rain, when opening the window in the morning. Especially when light fog has settled over the meadows and the emerald green forests.
Rocky Mountain Wood is like a vacation to said place. A walk through the forest refreshes the mind, you soak up the atmosphere in peace and quiet and the pleasant scent of coniferous wood and spicy moss is in the air. The mood is peaceful, calming. Somewhere in the distance you can hear a small mountain stream splashing, which for centuries or even millennia has made its way through the rock unaltered and steadily. In contrast to its Lalique counterpart, the dsquaredesque thicket is by no means threatening. Fear of getting lost in the dark, of losing one's way or of being killed in a storm by heavy, twisting trees is not necessary here. I know this forest behind the house and on the hill opposite like the back of my hand. The trees and plants that grow here, the birds that live here and chirp cheerfully, but rarely within the forest, but usually only at the birdhouse in front of the kitchen window can be observed closer, the deer and stags whose population grandpa in the warmer season controls and which he has fed in winter. The same goes for the clearing, a little further up the mountain, with its delicate little purple flowers, of which I still don't know their real names. And yet, although you are so familiar to me, although I know you so well, I can discover something new in you every time I go for a walk, and I can take pleasure in you.
Grandpa used to process your wood into firewood in the shed behind the house. No matter if logs or splinters, such virtuosos with the axe can hardly be found in this country anymore. Some people don't glide through the butter with a hot knife as smoothly as you glide through the wood with an axe. And anyway, carving is not done with the knife but with the axe.
You killed my favorite tree in the garden, too. Once you climb up the Hollerbaum too high as a child where the branches don't carry you anymore and then something like that. Because of a broken branch, you didn't have to avenge me on the whole tree. After all, you were actually a very balanced, peaceful, calm, though deeply emotional and slightly moved person. But well, your children, grandchildren and especially their well-being have always been the most important thing to you, besides the almost exclusively physical, hard work. The fear of heights due to this incident - or better said the fear of breaking through somewhere - has remained with me until today.
When I recently unlocked the door to your shed on a relatively warm winter's day after a long time and took a short tour of your workshop, it was magical. This time it wasn't the shavings that brought tears to my eyes, though I could have sworn that the wood dust and its incomparable scent still flew through the air like it always did. The logs are stacked neatly and neatly on the wall, your tools are still correctly in place and the wooden figures hanging on the wall bear witness to your work. Here you were in your element - and it feels like you still are in one way or another.
Today your watch, which I hung on the pinboard at work, reminds me of you and all the beautiful experiences you shared. I find it a fitting symbol. On the one hand, that time does not stop before us all and that we should therefore spend it appropriately with those who are most important to us. On the other hand, that there are still these places where time supposedly stands still. One should only take enough time to visit them from time to time. And for those moments when this is actually not possible, there is this wonderful fragrance. Quasi as a small, about 7 to 8 hour excursion for the mental eye to the place where you feel at home.
Thank you Grandpa, thank you Dsquared.
Still others associate it with a more abstract feeling of security, belonging or cohesion. Not seldom one speaks of the so-called being rooted.
This great Flanker by Dsquared cannot be described better than by the latter expression for me. The scent reminds me less of the Rocky Mountains, but more of home, of the proverbial roots. Not to my place of residence, but rather to the small, almost 3000 soul place in the eastern Alps, where I spent so many wonderful summers as a child. The place where my father as a little boy walked across green alpine meadows and through the woods. The former residence of my grandparents, where time supposedly stands still and where everything remains as it always has been. Where everyone feels they know each other by name and call each other by the same name. Where the air is still really clean and where one feels like being transported into another world after nightly rain, when opening the window in the morning. Especially when light fog has settled over the meadows and the emerald green forests.
Rocky Mountain Wood is like a vacation to said place. A walk through the forest refreshes the mind, you soak up the atmosphere in peace and quiet and the pleasant scent of coniferous wood and spicy moss is in the air. The mood is peaceful, calming. Somewhere in the distance you can hear a small mountain stream splashing, which for centuries or even millennia has made its way through the rock unaltered and steadily. In contrast to its Lalique counterpart, the dsquaredesque thicket is by no means threatening. Fear of getting lost in the dark, of losing one's way or of being killed in a storm by heavy, twisting trees is not necessary here. I know this forest behind the house and on the hill opposite like the back of my hand. The trees and plants that grow here, the birds that live here and chirp cheerfully, but rarely within the forest, but usually only at the birdhouse in front of the kitchen window can be observed closer, the deer and stags whose population grandpa in the warmer season controls and which he has fed in winter. The same goes for the clearing, a little further up the mountain, with its delicate little purple flowers, of which I still don't know their real names. And yet, although you are so familiar to me, although I know you so well, I can discover something new in you every time I go for a walk, and I can take pleasure in you.
Grandpa used to process your wood into firewood in the shed behind the house. No matter if logs or splinters, such virtuosos with the axe can hardly be found in this country anymore. Some people don't glide through the butter with a hot knife as smoothly as you glide through the wood with an axe. And anyway, carving is not done with the knife but with the axe.
You killed my favorite tree in the garden, too. Once you climb up the Hollerbaum too high as a child where the branches don't carry you anymore and then something like that. Because of a broken branch, you didn't have to avenge me on the whole tree. After all, you were actually a very balanced, peaceful, calm, though deeply emotional and slightly moved person. But well, your children, grandchildren and especially their well-being have always been the most important thing to you, besides the almost exclusively physical, hard work. The fear of heights due to this incident - or better said the fear of breaking through somewhere - has remained with me until today.
When I recently unlocked the door to your shed on a relatively warm winter's day after a long time and took a short tour of your workshop, it was magical. This time it wasn't the shavings that brought tears to my eyes, though I could have sworn that the wood dust and its incomparable scent still flew through the air like it always did. The logs are stacked neatly and neatly on the wall, your tools are still correctly in place and the wooden figures hanging on the wall bear witness to your work. Here you were in your element - and it feels like you still are in one way or another.
Today your watch, which I hung on the pinboard at work, reminds me of you and all the beautiful experiences you shared. I find it a fitting symbol. On the one hand, that time does not stop before us all and that we should therefore spend it appropriately with those who are most important to us. On the other hand, that there are still these places where time supposedly stands still. One should only take enough time to visit them from time to time. And for those moments when this is actually not possible, there is this wonderful fragrance. Quasi as a small, about 7 to 8 hour excursion for the mental eye to the place where you feel at home.
Thank you Grandpa, thank you Dsquared.
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