Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The tat in the hat

Old hatWe have another few days of scorching weather to look forward to, which means Munson is snoozing on the cool tiles in the middle part of the house. I’m staying indoors as much as possible, awaiting the next local music event to get away from the farm.

The one “cool” job I can do outside is hand-dredging the pond of all the plant matter that has fallen in over the last few months. In my wellies, with a rake and a shovel, I can work in the shade, left to my thoughts and the random odours and insects that surround me in my mud-dled state. Gustav says I’m working out my inner orch or odjur (Swedish for ogre).

Yesterday I dragged out some decomposing branches which released an odour smelling distinctly like naphthalene (mothballs) or some pungent deodjurant. The only natural sources of napthalene are not found around my pond, leaving me with a meteorite as the only wikipedia-approved option. Oh boy!

And the hat? It’s a stockman suede that I’ve had for over twenty years,  just waiting for the day when I would become a  bouvier or vacher. Well I’m neither of those, not vaquero nor the Anglicized buckaroo, so word-wrangler and voyeur des vaches is going to have to do for now.

Apparently the Swedish for “cow boy” is ko pojke, which makes me wonder if it’s the true derivation of cowpoke, rather than being the designation of those who prodded cows onto railroad cars.  Or my hat is too tight.

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