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I have known Rozalia Klokočovnik for many years. Actually, it would be fairer to say that she knows me.
Lojze Klokočovnik walked the same path for almost thirty years; from his home to the bus station and then from the bus station to the Konus factory.
After last week's heavy snowfall in Slovenska Bistrica, many streets, pavements and public areas were difficult to navigate.
We recently gathered as a group of friends. The conversation took us far back in time; to our childhood and the years of growing up.
When the phone rang early that morning, Tatjana Sodin Trunkl at first did not understand the meaning of the words coming from the other end.
Klavdija Ališič has been coming to Dom na Joštu for years. Not because she is a sportswoman, and not because she wants to prove anything to anyone. Nor is it because she wants to chase views.
When Saturday morning was just waking up and the peaks of Pohorje were bathed in mist, a group of people gathered in the parking lot of the old sawmill in Kočno.
I'm standing at the window, watching snowflakes dancing across the sky. They are falling like they haven't in a long time. My memory goes back many years.
Sometimes it is very difficult to describe a place or an idyllic place; it is for me now too. In my memory there is a house on a hill among bushes and woods.
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