| There
is something about a clearing that makes me feel uneasy, something too
sunny and optimistic about this break in the constant shade, those
nervous poplars and gloomy spruce all turned to face an open space as
if they expected something to happen here: the blank page on which
something must be written. Paavo Wirkkila got an idea, cleared the land and grew hay. Nothing else grows very well around here. He kept a horse to help with the hay then fed the hay to the horse. A limited plan. When the old man died he left the buildings to fall, left the clearing to the county and sapling popple trees. He also left this heap of stones he'd cleared from the field, not a monument, no part of his plan, just an annoyance he tried to push out of his earthly way. |