The little boat that sailed through time
I spent the tenth summer of my childhood，the most memorable months of my life，in western Norway at the mountain farm where my mother was born. What remains most vivid in my mind are the times I shared with my Grandfather Jorgen.
As an American，I always thought people simply bought whatever they needed. Whether Grandfather knew this，I don‘t know. But it seems he wanted to teach me something，because one day he said，“Come. I have something for you.”
I followed him into the basement，where he led me to a workbench by a window.“You should have a toy boat .You can sail it at Storvassdal，”he said，referring to a small lake a few miles from the house.
Swell，I thought，looking around for the boat. But there was none.
Grandfather picked up a block of wood，about 18 inches long.“The boat is in there，”he said.“You can bring it out.”Then he handed me a razor-sharp ax.
I wasn‘t sure what to do，so Grandfather showed me how to handle the tool. I started to chop away to shape the bow. Later，after he taught me the proper use of hammer and chisel，I began to hollow out the hull.
“It‘ll be a fine boat，and you’ll be making it all with your won hands，”he said.“No one can give you what you do for yourself.”The words rang in my head as I worked.
Finally I finished the hull and made a mast and sail. The boat wasn‘t much to look at，but I was proud of what I had built. I launched my boat and daydreamed while a slight breeze carried the little craft to an opposite shore. The air was crisp and clean. There was no sound but the occasional warble of a bird.
A crisis developed when we were ready to return to America.“You cannot bring that boat home with you，”my mother said. We already had too much baggage.
With saddened heart，I went to Storvassdal for the last time，found that large boulder，placed my boat in a hollow space under its base，piled stones to hide it and resolved to return one day to recover my treasure.
In the summer of 1964，I went to Norway with my parents and my wife and children. I shall never forget that moment. As I cradled the boat，I felt my grandfather‘s presence. He had died 22 years before，and yet he was there. We three were together again――Grandfather and me and little boat.
My last trip to Storvassdal was in 1991. This time I brought two of my granddaughters from America：Catherine，13，and Claire，12. As we climbed the mountain，I thought of my grandfather and compared his life with that of my granddaughters.
Working tirelessly on that isolated farm，my grandfather taught me that we should accept and be grateful for what we have――whether it be much or little. We must bear the burdens and relish the joys. There is so much we cannot control，but we must try to make things better when we are able. We must depend upon ourselves to make our own way as best we can.
On the day I took them to Storvassdal，I hoped they would somehow understand the importance of the little boat and its simple message of self-reliance.
High in the mountain，I hesitated to speak lest I disturb our tranquility. Then Claire looked up and broke my reverie as she said softly，“Grandpa，someday I‘ll comeback.”She paused.“And I’ll bring my children.”
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