I must have been 13 years old. My grandpa and my godfather came over 30 kilometres with their old tractor to bring my brother and me felled spruce trees from their own forest. The tree trunks had already been processed into half pieces of wood. We wanted to build a small hut from this wood. I can still see my grandad unloading the wood and building the basic frame of a hut from a few logs. My brother and I were happy. Today is the anniversary of my grandad's death. He died 46 years ago. We also deconstructed the wooden hut after more than 40 years. But this act of love is still alive in my heart. I can still see the kind eyes of my grandfather and my uncle and I can still feel the joy he gave us teenagers with the wood.
