Drinking at the Well of Mimir

Drinking at the Well of Mimir

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The tales, poetry and the like were all familiar to me familiar to me. I had heard
many of the stories, and nasty giants, ogres, and elves were all a part of growing up
in that time and place which almost seems like a foreign country now.
Growing up in a German-Polish-American farming community which had barely
crept into the 20th century in the early 1960’s, one was barely out of rural Germany
and the stories were common. Most kids (except for the ones just moving from the city or just visiting on summer vacation) and about half the adults of my parents’
generation accepted the reality of elves. I remember the time when old Pussig
VanGunten and his wife climbed the tree in front of their place, and told the road
crew that if they were going to chop down the tree, they would have to chop it down
with the two 80 year olds in it. Pussig was smart enough not to tell the road crew
just why the tree couldn’t be chopped down, but most of us knew who really lived
in that tree. So, when I pulled the smelly old book down, it felt familiar.
I creaked open the cover and read the quote by some guy named Thomas Carlyle