Raufossingen Bjarne Gravdahl was director and responsible for the ammunition factory during the period when the culture came to Raufoss and we Norwegians discovered that although all animals were equal, some were similar to others. It was in the 80 century that innocence hit us. The shoulder pads grew year by year.
I visit Gravdahl on a winter day with frost smoke and creak in the snow. He accepts the stairs and guides me into the sofa. On the coffee table cloth lies a pile of overhead foil with graphs and statistics, spring-loaded tools from warm-up board meetings – and now witnesses from Gravdahl's regime.
When I start by saying that I grew up in Villåsen, I find out that the reason the hamlet never got bigger than a handful of houses was the danger of explosion from the factory's ammunition store that was planted down in the woods, not far from my childhood valley.
"There is no doubt that if that had gone up in the air, it would have been difficult up in Villåsen!"
Vi. . .