by Maud Wester, Alle Kvinner
Caroline Waters Mixes Music With Healing

Christmas at home with Per Asplin

Dad paints, mom makes waffles and they all play and sing:

Have you located the Christmas album about Putti Plutti Pott, the little goblin who has taken grandpa-Santa’s beard and laughs from the cover where all his redheaded, freckle-faced, hat-clad siblings are sitting in the sled with Per Asplin? The Uncle Per, who in the song is ‘so very nice, yes almost dumb nice’ and wants to take us on a Christmas adventure ‘over blue mountains, where the days lean toward night…’

You might have seen them on TV last Christmas? In that case, I can tell you that time has clearly passed since the last time. Putti Plutti Pott is now six feet tall, Geir has his own beard and well on the way to becoming a lawyer, little Anne Pernille is graduating from high-school in the spring and Caroline is on stage 90 minutes a night, four nights a week with daddy Per at Chat Noir.

We meet them at home in a villa in Holmenveien where daddy has painted roses around the doors, and mom has made waffles by the fire, and you really could say that this is a real fairy tale.

Because it’s not just about a happy entertainer, who is described by the press as the Danny Kaye of the North, and plays everything from piano to an old Nordic horn at Savoy in London and the Lincoln Center in New York, who does comedy at the Children’s Land in Tokyo and plays jazz with Ella and Gillespie, who acts in movies, TV and the theatre all over Europe and makes us all sing along with tunes ranging from ‘Pål’s Hens’ to ‘Calypso’. It is also about a human being who has succeeded in gathering his family around him, and that role is not his worst.
Although, when they all storm in from stairs, kitchen and living rooms in Villa Grimelundsbakken, followed by the 110 pound Old English Sheepdog named Hippie, one is tempted to join mama’s cry from the album: ‘Where have you gone, little Putti Plutti Pott, and how will this end?”

Not many days ago, (Putti’s) old teacher met his dad on the street and said those very same words, so the boy is probably branded for life. He is counting on the fact that this magazine article will follow him around at the Nansen School in Lillehammer, where he is collecting points for his med school degree. (According to dad, he has chosen this profession because he was a regular at the emergency room ‘with two left legs, his head under his arm and his arm in a cast’). His name is Stig, but not even his closest friends can help but introduce him as ‘Per Asplin’s son’.

- I don’t like it, the name is a burden, even though I don’t react much anymore.