We are between your homes now. This land is being abandoned, everyone is moving to the city and the fireweed -your flower, is left to claim the fields. I’ve never seen so many of them, they wave in the wind like purple weat.
On the way here we passed a charcoal kiln from WWII. The walls where broken and I could get inside to where the coal used to slowly burn. The brick walls where beautifully burnt and green from a thin layer of moss, old steel barrels lay on the ground. I remembered that you always enjoyed hearing about my travels so I will write to you instead of about you. That way I can still imagine your reactions and comments. You would say “Oh! That you dared!” when I told you about going into the kiln and I would get to feel like a brave adventurer reporting back to base camp.
The fields of fireweed also made me think about that summer when you made an outside theatre, telling the history of your birth place like a journey through time. They where everywhere that year. One of the characters in the theatre was the man “Vildhussen” that accidentally drained a whole lake trying to streamline the timber transportation on the river sometime in the 1700s. We passed the “Dead Waterfall” that was the result of his actions the day before yesterday. You would have really liked the salmon galets they serve there now.
Fragment 9: fireweed. In swedish they are called “navvy-rose” because they grow on newly disturbed ground and followed the railroad-builders as a tail through the country.
Newly abandoned field now covered with not yet fully blooming fireweed.
Inside the charcoal kiln. The fire burned for two weeks at a time.
The roof is slowly caving in.