Hillajänkälä

That's the delay. Is that what you send with a big bucket from some Pakavuoma bay, where you can't see the horizon for kilometers, and you're trudging through the tall grasses, hoping to get to some of the playing fields.

Well, then, when you're full, you slowly turn the edge of the honey and there seems to be one ripe yellow one. When you get closer, however, you notice that there's one half-ripe one, which is bouncing at the bottom of the ten-liter bucket, like a football on an empty playing field, the others are still raw. At that point, you feel like turning back to the car, but oh well, let's see.

To be on the safe side, you touch them with your finger, but the truth is that they don't come off the stem. The temptation would be to tear them off, but some sly person will cook them anyway, the one who can come at the right time. In the meantime, you're always circling, walking and bending over to find the yellow berry, even if the berry is so small that you'd have to use tweezers to lift it up intact.

A mosquito has also gotten lost in the ear hole, making a noise there, and a blind man who doesn't care about the office is biting painfully on the back of your hand. Then you wonder where the hell they are carrying those three buckets from. It's okay to take pictures of them. It's not worth advertising your own log saws, just a good joke.

At the same time, you think about those old spots where you've left the mature one for the past week. Yes, some bucket patrol has got lost there and left a clear mark. After a good night's sleep. Well, that's where you gather your anger and envy, the bottom is covered with a ten-liter bottle and a little overfilled.

You could rightly think that this is for me, but he calculates that the car trip was already so long that the fuel costs do not cover the amount of jam collected. Johan laughs at that, the village dog, that he drives twenty kilometers and carries a few jams home. Nothing else, he says, from boots to turf. If those night frosts saved him soon.