Diese Fichte habe ich vorbereitet um sie auf Generation Bonsai 2018 vom 12. bis 13. Mai in Neckargemünd zu zeigen. Da gibt es viel mehr Bäume zu sehen und auch hochklassige Demonstrationen und Workshops. Der Eintritt ist frei! Wir sehen uns dort.
The tree called Johann
Johann
was a cottager boy, more poor was hardly possible; even worse, no
father anywhere – a bastard he was. No money for shoes. Where there is
nothing, nothing goes there – there is this saying in the valley in
Tirol, Austria. In summer he went barefoot into school, in winter with
strange socks and with stable flaps. One time he side-slipped and broke
the lower leg bones. There was no money for a doctor and no social care
otherwise. So the bones coalesced untreated. A slight limp remained.
With children he never played. He has tried, in the beginning. They
pushed him away. With a bastard cottager they would not play. He learned
quickly in his poverty. To approach people is wrong. They are mean and
push you away. Where there is nothing, nothing goes there.
Everything
was sketched out: leaving school prematurely, wrecked apprenticeship,
petty crime, dreadful relation, drinking, early death, possibly by
force. Where there is nothing, nothing goes there.
But
things developed very differently, very much differently. The boy did
not get a proper graduation but still found an apprenticeship and soon
was the best one. He grew older and better still. When the owner of the
the operation died he inherited the place. How was this possible? Where
there is nothing, nothing goes there. Or does it? Something is wrong
here. He led the operation successfully and sold the whole thing to the
agricultural mafia just before it went downhill. They still curse when
they think of him. With the money he purchased houses and rented them.
With the rent he bought more houses and rented them. Then he owned a
hundred houses. Later he purchased real estate at strategic places and
roads were built. He had a couple hundred houses then. Now he was king
of the valley but still the bastard cottager boy, an outlaw. A king
without people. He built the most splendid house. They unfortunately had
not time to come to the housewarming party. He bought the mountain farm
up where the whole valley could see it from far away. Everybody knew
it. This was his farm, his memorial. Where there is nothing, nothing
goes there. ‘How in the world could something go there?’, they said.
An
accomplished man. Very seldom the bastard cottager showed. When he was a
bit drunk or tired he limped. And then he died suddenly.
At
the funeral they all came. Half the valley was there, the biggest
funeral in memory. All of a sudden they knew whom they had lost.
Touching was a group of Turkish families who looked from far at the
funeral, not daring to get closer to this Christian event. He had rented
his houses mostly to Turks who could not get landlords easily. He
charged higher than unsual, yes, but still.
The
speeches were great. ‘A wonder how this titan had made a real lot of
nothing, with these roots’. ‘And what a great man he was’. A learned
person said that ‘this was no wonder, only from such roots such great
things can grow’. ‘The best ones go first’.
Above
his farm in the mountains there is the huge rock, much higher than the
tallest building. Up there stands a lonely tree - a splendid spruce, not
a spruce more beautiful to be found in the area, very proud, tall,
slim, straight and strong. If one comes closer one sees the roots thou The tree called Johann
Above
his farm in the mountains there is the huge rock, much higher than the
tallest building. Up there stands a lonely tree - a splen gh. They bend
still as if the tree had broken the lower leg in childhood. One can tell
that the tree in it’s beginnings was very poor, that he just about
could survive up there on the rock. He was all by himself - no contact
to other trees there in his lonely spot on the barren rock. Everything
sketched out: starving, early death of the crooked tree. But one single
root made it over the rock right into fertile soil. From thereon things
developed perfectly. The tree grew proud and tall, the tallest far and
wide, right above Josef’s farm. Whoever sees the spruce is impressed.
When folks come closer they often say ‘these roots don’t fit the tree’,
but some say ‘impressive these roots and the tree in combination, only
from such roots great things can grow’.
Johann
was a cottager boy, more poor was hardly possible; even worse, no
father anywhere – a bastard he was. No money for shoes. Where there is
nothing, nothing goes there – there is this saying in the valley in
Tirol, Austria. In summer he went barefoot into school, in winter with
strange socks and with stable flaps. One time he side-slipped and broke
the lower leg bones. There was no money for a doctor and no social care
otherwise. So the bones coalesced untreated. A slight limp remained.
With children he never played. He has tried, in the beginning. They
pushed him away. With a bastard cottager they would not play. He learned
quickly in his poverty. To approach people is wrong. They are mean and
push you away. Where there is nothing, nothing goes there.
Everything
was sketched out: leaving school prematurely, wrecked apprenticeship,
petty crime, dreadful relation, drinking, early death, possibly by
force. Where there is nothing, nothing goes there.
But
things developed very differently, very much differently. The boy did
not get a proper graduation but still found an apprenticeship and soon
was the best one. He grew older and better still. When the owner of the
the operation died he inherited the place. How was this possible? Where
there is nothing, nothing goes there. Or does it? Something is wrong
here. He led the operation successfully and sold the whole thing to the
agricultural mafia just before it went downhill. They still curse when
they think of him. With the money he purchased houses and rented them.
With the rent he bought more houses and rented them. Then he owned a
hundred houses. Later he purchased real estate at strategic places and
roads were built. He had a couple hundred houses then. Now he was king
of the valley but still the bastard cottager boy, an outlaw. A king
without people. He built the most splendid house. They unfortunately had
not time to come to the housewarming party. He bought the mountain farm
up where the whole valley could see it from far away. Everybody knew
it. This was his farm, his memorial. Where there is nothing, nothing
goes there. ‘How in the world could something go there?’, they said.
An
accomplished man. Very seldom the bastard cottager showed. When he was a
bit drunk or tired he limped. And then he died suddenly.
At
the funeral they all came. Half the valley was there, the biggest
funeral in memory. All of a sudden they knew whom they had lost.
Touching was a group of Turkish families who looked from far at the
funeral, not daring to get closer to this Christian event. He had rented
his houses mostly to Turks who could not get landlords easily. He
charged higher than unsual, yes, but still.
The
speeches were great. ‘A wonder how this titan had made a real lot of
nothing, with these roots’. ‘And what a great man he was’. A learned
person said that ‘this was no wonder, only from such roots such great
things can grow’. ‘The best ones go first’.
If
they let me I would spread his ashes over the roots of his spruce.
There it belongs. Where there is nothing, nothing goes there. Very
rarely it goes though.
To Johann, my old friend from Otztal in Tirol. RIP
Johann war ein Häuslerbub. Ärmer ging's kaum. Noch schlimmer - von Vater keine Spur, ein Bankert. Kein Geld für Schuhe. Wo nichts ist kommt nichts hin. Im Sommer ging er immer barfuß in die Schule, Im Winter mit merkwürdigen Socken und Stallschlapfen. Einmal ist er ausgerutscht. Da hat er sich den Unterschenkel gebrochen. Danach hinkte er ein wenig. Geld für den Arzt war nicht und auch sonst nicht viel Fürsorge. So wuchs das Bein eben von alleine zusammen. Mit Kindern spielte er nie. Er hat's probiert. Früher. Da haben sie ihn weg gestoßen. Mit einem bankerten Häuslerbuam spielen sie nicht. Er war sehr gelehrig in seiner Armut. Auf Menschen zu zu gehen ist falsch. Sie stoßen dich weg und es schmerzt. Wo nichts ist kommt nichts hin.
Alles war vorgezeichnet: Schulabbruch, versaute Lehrstellen, Kleinkriminalität, Suff, schlimme Beziehungen, früher Tod, vielleicht gewaltsam. Wo nix is kimmt nix hi.
Aber es kam ganz anders, ganz ganz anders. Der Bub machte zwar keinen vernünftigen Schulabschluss, brachte es aber trotzdem zu einer Lehre und war bald der Beste. Er wurde älter und war immer noch besser. Als der Alte kinderlos starb, erbte er den großen Betrieb. Wie kann das sein – wo nix is kimmt nix hi. Da stimmt was net. Er führte ihn erfolgreich und verkaufte ihn dann, kurz bevor alles den Bach hinunter ging zum Bestpreis an die Agrarmafia. Die fluchen heute noch auf ihn. Mit dem Geld kaufte er Häuser und vermietete sie. Er kaufte Grundstücke an strategischen Punkten. Dann wurden Straßen gebaut. Dann waren es mehrere hunderte Häuser. Dann war er der König im Tal. Aber er war immer noch der bankerte Häuslerbub. Sie schnitten ihn. Ein König ohne Volk. Er baute das prächtigste Haus weit und breit. Zur Einweihung hatten sie keine Zeit. Er kaufte die Alm, die man vom Tal aus auf der andern Seite bei den hohen Bergen von weitem sieht. Alle wussten es. Das war seine Alm, sein Mahnmal, sein Zeichen an sie. Wo nix is kimmt nix hi. Wie kann denn da was hinkommen, sagten sie.
Ein ganz gestandener Mann. Ganz selten kam immer noch der bankerte Häuslerbub durch. Wenn er angetrunken war oder müde hinkte er ein wenig. Dann starb er plötzlich.
Beim Begräbnis waren alle da. Plötzlich wussten sie, wen sie verloren. Sehr beeindruckend war die Menge an Leuten und Autos im Dorf. Berührend die Gruppe Türken, die da standen und dem Begräbniszug nach sahen. Ihnen hatte er als Einziger Wohnungen vermietet. Zu weit überhöhtem Preis natürlich, aber immerhin. Wo nix is kimmt nix hi.
Bei den Reden sagten sie, dass es ein Wunder sei, wie er aus dem Nichts alles geschaffen hat mit diesen Wurzeln. Und was für ein Großartiger er gewesen sei. Ein Studierter sagte, das es kein Wunder sei, sondern das nur aus solchen Wurzeln so was Gewaltiges entstehen konnte. Die Besten gehen zuerst.
Über seiner Alm ist da der ganz große Felsen, viel größer als das größte Haus. Da droben steht ein ganz einsamer Baum. Eine prächtige Fichte, keine schönere weit und breit. Die Mutter aller Fichten - ganz stolz, hoch aufragend, schlank, gerade und stark. Wer näher kommt, der sieht jedoch die Wurzeln. Sie krümmen sich noch, als wäre in der Kindheit der Unterschenkel gebrochen. Man sieht, dass der Baum in frühen Jahren ganz ganz arm war, dass er gerade noch überleben konnte da oben auf dem Stein. Er war ganz alleine, kein Kontakt zu den anderen Bäumen da auf dem kargen Felsen. Vorgezeichnet ein früher Tod des arg verkrümmten Baumes. Da gelang es einer einzigen Wurzel plötzlich, über den Felsen hinunter auf sehr fruchtbaren Boden zu stoßen. Von da an ging's ganz schnell bergauf. Der Baum wuchs stolz und hoch. Der höchste und schönste weit und breit. Genau über der Alm vom Josef. Wer sie sieht, die Fichte, der ist sehr beeindruckt. Die die näher kommen und die Wurzeln sehen, sagen oft 'die Wurzeln passen nicht zum Baum'. Manche sagen ' der Baum passt nicht zu den Wurzeln'. Aber viele sagen 'beeindruckend diese Wurzeln und der tolle Baum. Nur aus solchen Wurzeln kann so was Gewaltiges entstehen.'.
Wenn sie mich lassen täten, tät ich seine Asche auf die Wurzeln von seinem Baum streuen. Da gehört sie hin.
Wo nix is kimmt nix hi. Ganz selten aber doch.
An Johann, meinem langjährigen Freund aus dem Ötztal. RIP
