FinNALA Newsletter
November, 2013, Volume 6, Number 3
Publication of the Finnish North American Literature Association
© November 17, 2013
It’s time to
enroll:
2014 Membership
for Finnish North American Literature Association (FinNALA)
The Perks of
Membership:
·
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online access to Kippis! Literary Journal
·
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access to the FinNALA Facebook group
·
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announcements of what’s happening in the Finnish-North American literary
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Membership Fee
for 2014
·
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US
By Mail
·
Send
your name and address and your membership fee in the form of a check or money
order made out to “FinNALA” to the following address:
Beth Virtanen, President
FinNALA
P.O. Box 11
New Blaine, AR
72851 USA
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Use your
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·
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~~
FinNALA Website Updated
The
FinNALA website is updated. At www.finnala.com, you can find
the announcement regarding the winners of the 2013 Kippis! contest as well as the link to the contents of the contest
issue whose cover is adorned with the artwork of noted American artist C. Ryan
Pierce.
In addition, you can find 2014
renewal information, a new source for Finnish Crime Fiction in translation, and
advertising opportunities for your particular needs.
Kippis!
Kippis! is still taking submissions for our next
edition. Do send us your short story,
essay, memoir, poem, or artwork. We
can’t guarantee fame and fortune but, if your work is accepted, you will be
read by a thoughtful and sympathetic audience.
Don’t be shy! Take the leap! For further information on submission
guidelines or to send your work contact gkwuori at hotmail dot com.
~~
Calendar Available From
Institute of Migration
Tilaa Hyvä Joululahja—The Institute of Migration
has produced a calendar for the year 2014
(in Finnish and
in English).
The calendar’s
pictures and photos features Finns abroad.
Price: 5
€/calendar, 3 copies for 10 € + postage.
The calendar can
be purchased from our on-line store at the address:
Calendar can
also be ordered directly from the institute. Please, contact Ms. Krista
Mielimäki:
~~~
Announcements
~~~
Documentary to Air
By Steve Lehto
The documentary Red Metal: The Copper Country Strike of 1913, will air nationwide
on PBS, December 17, at 8:00 p.m. The hour-long film was produced by Jonathan
Silvers and Robert Y. Lee of Saybrook Productions and tells the story of the
strike which shut down the copper industry in the Keweenaw in 1913.
The most famous event during the strike
was the Italian Hall Disaster where 73 people died when a false cry of “Fire!”
caused a stampede at a Christmas Eve party for the children of the striking
miners. The victims included 59 children; half were Finns. This year will mark
the centennial of the tragedy. This is a straightforward historical
documentary.
The filmmakers interviewed a host of
experts and historians from the Copper Country and elsewhere and utilized a
variety of archival material as well. Steve Lehto appears in the film and served
as consultant for the project.
~~
Notable
Story Award Goes to G.K. Wuori
G.
K. Wuori’s story, “Sasha, That Night,” published in Eclectica Magazine, was recently named a Notable Story in the South
Million Writers Award series. It is his fourth story to receive that
recognition.
~~
Announcing:
Ice Cold Crime
Ice Cold Crime
Ice
Cold Crime LLC is a publishing house founded in 2009 in the Minneapolis-St.
Paul, Minnesota area. Its mission is to originate, translate, publish, and promote
Finnish fiction in the United States and other English speaking countries. Its
website is: http://icecoldcrime.com/
Titles currently
available include the following:
Helsinki Homicide:
Cold Trail
by Jarkko Sipila
Helsinki Homicide:
Nothing but the Truth by Jarkko Sipila
Helsinki Homicide: Against the
Wall by Jarkko Sipila
Helsinki Homicide:
Vengeance
by Jarkko Sipila
Raid and the Blackest
Sheep
by Harri Nykanen
Raid and the Kid by Harri
Nykanen
Wolves and Angels–A
Detective Koskinen Novel by Seppo Jokinen
Pet Shop Girls by Anja
Snellman
Decay Time--A Wall Street Murder and Morality Tale by Scott Stevenson
~~~
FinnFest USA 2013
“The Best Ever!”
Finlandia
English professor, Lauri Anderson,
presents to a full house during FinnFest 2013
presents to a full house during FinnFest 2013
Visitors
and participants of FinnFest USA 2013 showed their sisu and dismissed the less than perfect weather as a minor
inconvenience. Nearly 8,000 national and international visitors converged upon
the Copper Country to take it all in: performances, lectures, demonstrations,
tours, art exhibits, two tori markets,
and much more. Credit to its success goes to Finlandia University, Michigan
Technological University, the cities of Hancock and Houghton, volunteers,
donors, and the incredible hospitality of the Copper Country.
Outdoor Tori on
the Quincy Green in Hancock
~~~
The
OfficialFINNFEST USA 2013
Commemorative DVD
Only $21.99 plus tax (shipping & handling extra)
by Early Spring Productions
Call (906) 482-6087
or visit
www.earlyspring.net to order!
www.earlyspring.net to order!
~~
15th Annual Sibelius Academy Music Festival
Featured Concerts and Dance
Featured Concerts and Dance
This
year’s Sibelius Academy Music Festival took place September 22-27 in Chicago,
Negaunee, Hancock, and Calumet, and featured classical accordionist Ari
Lehtonen and the jazz/folk group “August Saarinen & Vuolas Virta.”
In addition to several outstanding
concerts, a folk dance, with live music provided by the musicians, took place
on the newly installed wooden floor at Finlandia University’s Finnish American
Heritage Center.
The 16th annual Sibelius
Academy Music Festival will take place September 21-26, 2014, with venues and
musicians to be selected in the spring of 2014.
Sibelius
Musicians provided live music for first-ever
Sibelius Academy Music Festival Folk Dance
Sibelius Academy Music Festival Folk Dance
~~
Road Scholars Enjoy a Finnish-American
Experience in the Copper Country
Experience in the Copper Country
Road
Scholar (formerly Elderhostel) participants visited the Copper Country to
immerse themselves in the Finnish-American heritage of the area, and to attend
concerts and a dance featuring the Sibelius Academy Musicians. The program,
sponsored by Finlandia University, included lectures, museum tours, folk dance
and kantele workshops, Finnish
cooking demo, field trips to Hanka Homestead and Copper Harbor and concluded
with the grand finale concert at the historic Calumet Theatre.
The 2014 Road Scholar program, which
will take place September 22-27, will feature similar activities and events.
Information will be available for the 2014 program in the spring.
Group photo of
Road Scholars and Sibelius Musicians
taken at Ft. Wilkins State Park in Copper Harbor
taken at Ft. Wilkins State Park in Copper Harbor
~~
Finn Fun Festival
Here are Kaarina
Brooks (from the FinNALA Advisory Board)
and Sirpa Kaukinen (FinNALA Newsletter Assistant Editor)
at this summer’s Finn Fun Festival in Sudbury, Ontario
and Sirpa Kaukinen (FinNALA Newsletter Assistant Editor)
at this summer’s Finn Fun Festival in Sudbury, Ontario
~~~
This Fall at Sointula
By S T Kaukinen
One
hundred years ago, Matti Kurikka, a Finnish journalist, newspaper editor and a
theosophist, founded the utopian socialist colony of Sointula (Place of
Harmony) on Malcolm Island in British Columbia.
An agreement was drawn up between the province and Matti Kurikka and the
Kalevan Kansa Finns (Kaleva Folk Finns).
It was hoped that three hundred and fifty Finnish men and their families
could be found to establish and work in this colony.
Kurikka founded the Aika (Time) newspaper to make the community and his ideas known to
Finns in North America and Finland. By
the end of 1903 a saw and a planing mill were in operation and construction of
homes and a school was begun. However,
Kurikka’s poorly planned financial tenders for work, and his ideas of free love
caused disruption in the community and by 1904 Kurikka left Sointula with his
staunchest followers. By 1905 the
utopian community had ended but many of the residents remained.1
To mark this year the Masala Youth
Theatre Group, from Kirkkonummi in Finland, produced and performed in Finland a
play called Sointula for a year. This September the group arrived in Sointula
to put on the last performance of the play for the descendants of the original
Sointula residents. The writer and one
of the directors of the play, Tuomo Aitta, the other director, Hannele
Tuominen, and the producer Mika Kaartinen travelled with the group of
actors.2
It was reported by journalist Annika
Martikainen in the Kanadan Sanomat
that the eight hundred residents of the Sointula community welcomed the group
with open arms and everyone was given accommodation in local homes. It was also reported by those present that
the young group put on an energetic and highly skilled performance.3
The play was part of a seminar, Culture
Shock, September 21 – 22nd, 2013, where adjunct professor of
anthropology Dr. Edward Dutton, from the Oulu University in Finland, was the
keynote speaker. Other utopian
communities in North and South America were examined also as a part of the
seminar. Canadian anthropologist Kalervo
Oberg (1901-1973), a former resident of Sointula, developed the culture shock
theory involving distinct stages. Ms. Tellervo Lahti, a representative of the
Migration Museum at Peräseinäjoki in Finland, also attended and spoke about the
museum.
Bibliography – Sources -
Books - Finnish
1 - Raivio, Yrjö: Kanadan Suomalaisten Historia. New West Press Co. Ltd., Vancouver, B.C.
1975.
Newspaper
-
Finnish
2,
3 & 4 - Kanadan Sanomat, with
permission from reporter Annika Martikainen, Oct 1, 2013 issue.
Internet
–
English
4
& 5 - Sointula Ripple - Culture Shock.
~~~
Publications
~~~
Life is an Amazing Song
By John (Juha) Raikkone
Life is an Amazing Song is a memoir about growing up in Finland during
the Finnish-Russian war from 1939 to 1945 and beyond. Described by a reader as
“a humorous and serious tale…this book left me wanting for more.” This poignant
story describes the experiences of a young boy living at his grandparents’ farm
in Oulu, North Finland during the war. A thrilling memoir, Life is an Amazing Song is steeped in the tradition of Angela’s
Ashes, My Life as a Dog (Swedish book) with a hint of Tom Sawyer.
ISBN: 1453735100 300
pages. Rated five stars in the National
Press. Edited by: Mike Valentino Reviewed by: Jean Purcell, Siggy Buckley,
Laila Sullivan, and others.
~~
The New Orphic
Review
By Ernest Hekkanen and Margrith Schraner
Ernest
Hekkanen and Margrith Schraner published Volume 16, Number 2 of The New Orphic Review. The theme was
Entropy. In his editorial Hekkanen argued that, “Entropy is sown into each and
every system, and our conduct is often determined by our subliminal awareness
of this fact, be it on or off the page.”
~~
Elsie at Ebb Tide:
Emerging From the Undertow of Alzheimer’s
By Barbara Erakko
Elsie
Nurmi, 3rd generation Finn, begins school in rural Minnesota speaking no
English. Yet she becomes a U.S. Protocol Officer leading delegations overseas
using presidential aircraft. She attends coronations, and meets popes and
queens. When diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she begins her most dreaded—yet
transcendent—journey.
As
Alzheimer’s diminishes her mind, she begins to connect in a different way. Against a rich background of Finnish heritage,
Elsie and her daughter explore the deepest communication possible: soul to soul.
~~
Spice of Life Specialty Foods
Presents: Common
Sense Cooking
By Edith Maki
Author's culinary journey: I grew up in a large family on a
farm in the country where we grew our own food and cooked from scratch. After
high school graduation, I spent a year living in Finland as a kotiapulainen (home-helper) where I made
my acquaintance with authentic Finnish foods.
As a wife and mother I got to fine-tune recipes from those earlier years
which I then shared in a cooking column for our local newspaper. In 2003, I operated a deli/bakery, where the
items we offered our customers were made using some of our favorite recipes
found in this book - ENJOY!
Creative Contributions
Prose, Poetry, & Memoir
~~~
Pancakes and Bobby Pins
By Diane Dettmann
My
mother, Esther (Kaurala) Elleson was born in Ely, Minnesota in 1918. She was
the daughter of Paul and Hilja Kaurala who arrived in America from Finland in
1913. Growing up on a farm in Babbitt, Minnesota, my mother and her six
siblings learned to live close to the land and appreciate the simple things in
life. Surviving the “Great Depression” took sisu
and determination. In 1939 she left the farm with her older sister, Miriam, and
took the train to St. Paul, Minnesota. Six years later, my mother married
Harold Elleson and they moved to Minneapolis where they started a family.
Esther passed away in May of 1986 just days before her 67th
birthday. In the following essay, I share reflections and memories of my
mother’s life.
My mother tapped into her creativity and
Finnish sisu after her first child
was born in Minneapolis in 1945, and I appeared two years later. Even though
WWII had ended, many families still struggled to make it, ours included. Thank
goodness, growing up on the farm, my mother had learned how to remake clothes,
reupholster furniture, create one-pot meals out of a meat bone and vegetables,
and redesign flour sacks into crib sheets. Pancakes were a cheap breakfast
staple. She fixed them so often that even now when I open her 1943 Good Housekeeping Cookbook it
automatically falls open to the “Griddle Cake” recipe on page 490 that’s
falling out in spite of the scotch tape she used to keep it in place. With
ingenuity and perseverance, she turned that little bungalow at 1313 39th Avenue
North into a warm and comfortable home, a place where we felt loved and secure.
In May of 1986, I sat in a funeral home
chapel on a hard wooden bench surrounded only by my family, thinking about my
mother, her life and her death. The minister asked if anyone cared to share a
story about Esther. The silence flowed over our bowed heads and sniffles until
my sister talked about the flowers and gardens Mom enjoyed planting—the soil,
sun and lake shore her constant gardening companions. After my sister sat down,
I stood up and shared my fondest memory—my mother pinning my hair up in pin
curls, a nightly event. As I spoke, I could see my mother sitting on the couch
with a rat-tail comb in her hand, a glass of water to moisten my hair, and me
dressed in my pajamas handing her bobby pins one at a time. I realize now that
pin curl time was much more than binding my straight brown hair into curls. It
was “our time” together to talk, problem solve and bond as mother and daughter.
Images of flowers in bloom, bobby pins and rat-tail combs still trigger
memories of my mother and always will.
Diane is the author of Twenty-Eight Snow Angels: A Widow’s Story of
Love, Loss and Renewal, recently selected “The Beach Book Festival”
runner-up” in the autobiography category. The book’s available at http://www.outskirtspress.com/snowangels. Also, read
more about Diane’s mother, Esther, and her Finnish family in Miriam Daughter of Finnish Immigrants (Dettmann/Dloniak).
This family memoir is in the process of being translated into Finnish.
Both books available on Amazon
and Barnes & Noble in e-book and paperback: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003FHMAUS.
~~~
Saari Mökki
(Island Cabin)
By Joanne Bergman
My
saari mökki on Lake Vermilion in
Minnesota began in 1972 as a 12’ x 16’ camp shack with shuttered openings but
no windows. My brother Merv built it on leased land with his buddy Dr. Herb
Pick from the University of Minnesota Psychology Department. I bought the camp
from the state of Minnesota in 1992.
My little one-room shelter had a
magnificent broad view of the lake and the sunsets, but I had no electricity,
no plumbing, no dock, and no telephone. Woody, my barrel stove, dominated the
room. One corner was my kitchen: a table, a Sears camp stove that burned
gasoline, and a giant Servel gas fridge I nicknamed Bronko Nagurski.
My brother and a family of his
neighbors built a 12’ X 16’ addition, and I then had an almost 400 sq. ft.
wooden tent with the whole ceiling papered in a blue-and-white awning stripe.
After
a painful experience with a burst appendix, at last I ordered a telephone. And,
since I’ve married a city guy, we have electricity.
We also have a decent dock, a
pontoon boat, an authentic Finnish sauna (not sanna!), electric appliances, a
flat-screen TV, wifi, and an actual bedroom.
It’s still just a camp, but it’s my pesä paikka, my nesting place.
~~
THE FATE OF AINO
From the Kalevala
Translated by Hazel Birt
Foreword:
For my book, Festivals of Finland, I loosely translated the Fate of Aino
poem from the epic Finnish poem Kalevala and illustrated the story with a
prize-winning woodcut print of the golden cuckoos. The Kalevala was written in
1835 by Elias Lönnrot, a country doctor who gathered the folktales of
Finland into this now world- famous epic poem.
Henry Wordsworth Longfellow’s poem, The Song of Hiawatha, is said to have
been influenced by Lönnrot’s ballad-style writing.
The Fate of Aino tells the story of a beautiful young girl being forced by her mother to marry the powerful shaman, Väinämöinen. Dressed in her wedding finery, Aino wanders weeping through the forests until she comes to the sea where she sees mermaids and beautiful fish. She decides rather than marry the old man she will drown herself. Taking off her jewelry and draping her gown a bush she wades out to a golden rock which sinks to the bottom of the sea. Aino turns into a fish.
Thus
the young maiden perished
and
the animals wondered who
should
go to tell the mother.
It
was the hare who bravely went.
Then
the mother fell to weeping.
Her
bitter tears flowed freely until
she
had cried a river on which rose
a
golden island on which rose
three
lovely birch trees. In each tree
a
golden cuckoo lamented.
The
first cuckoo cried “Sweetheart, sweetheart!”
The
second cuckoo cried, “Lover, lover!”
The
third cuckoo cried, “Sorrow, Sorrow!”
And
the mother cried forever.
Thus
the mother spoke as follows,
‘O
wretched mother,
urging
vainly thus your daughter
to
marry ancient Väinämöinen.
Heavy
beats my heart within me
and
my strength has wholly failed me
since
I heard the cuckoo calling.
Thus
the mother wept forever
lamenting
the fate of her Aino.
Bio: Hazel Lauttamus Birt grew up in New Finland,
Saskatchewan. Fluent in the Finnish language she has written several book and
illustrated them with her woodcut prints that have won numerous awards. She
lives in Winnipeg. hgbirt@gmail.com
~~~
A Timeless Dance
By Barbara Erakko
I wheel
my suitcase through the deserted Finnish-American Rest Home lobby, glancing at
the unopened Uutiset News. I hear piano music in the dining hall. The 12th
Street Rag, a favorite with the Finns.
The music stops. Fragments of conversation in Finnish, the
amniotic fluid I’ve swum in for years, fill the air. Mom looks like a
tiny-boned child, her pageboy accenting unusual blue eyes. They still have fire in them—a flame flicker
only seen up close.
Her fingers keep a staccato beat as
the next song begins. I stoop down. "Have you got the key to your
room?" Shifting her gaze to me, she answers brightly, "Oh yes I
do."
For the first time, she has not
recognized me.
A new stillness has come into my
life. And with it, the frightening sense
that my mother is letting go, forever, of my daughter-child hand.
* * *
She once traveled around the world
on Air Force Two. On the walls of her
room, a dozen famous men and women smile out of their official, personally
signed, photographs—President and Jacqueline Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Carter,
Reagan.
An ambitious Finnish-American girl
from Floodwood, Minnesota had come to Washington and become a U.S. State
Department Protocol Officer. She met
popes, astronauts, kings, princes, queens, and dictators. She arranged tours, hotels, meals, parades,
and handed out endless bouquets at arrival ceremonies to First Ladies.
* * *
Two days later, I let myself into
her room. Curtains drawn, the room looks
empty of life. I sit on the bed,
watching as she rests.
"Barbara?"
"Yes, Mom?"
"I don't know what's wrong with
my head.” She turns to face me. "Can't you take me to some kind of
doctor? I'm so confused."
"Mom," I answer,
"It's a memory problem. Your mother
had it. You have it. I don't think it will go away. It's your way of getting old."
I gaze at her tiny fragile
body. Her funny sneakers with rainbow
colors on them. Her white anklets. The blue skirt with its loose waistband. Her aged v-neck cotton knit pullover. Her paper-thin skin with its lines and liver
spots. I try to feel her silent
world—the one her mother entered. "It
feels like fog, Barbara."
I try to imagine. A gummy world where thoughts get stuck. They can't get out. Trapped in an impenetrable darkening
night. Mind stillfulness. Around her, people would keep moving and
talking, loving and laughing. But she will
be motionless in a vast strange land of inner silence.
The air conditioner clicks on. Cool air begins its trek across the room
through stifling heat. I sink into my
own silent world—a slow moving river of quiet, filled with its own flotsam of
memories. The Westclox ticks its way
like a river barge across the watery world of our minds.
Outside women walk by chattering in
Finnish. Their voices catapult me into a past of Finnish dances. Mom firmly holds my little waist.
"Step-slide-step-slide-swing-swing-swing,” she says as the accordion
sucks air in, blows notes out.
I feel so safe in this cocooned
world of words without meaning.
I reach over and turn on her tape
recorder. A schottische fills the air.
"Mom,” I ask, opening my arms,
“Do you want to dance?”
From Elsie at Ebb Tide: Emerging From the
Undertow of Alzheimer’s
~~~
China
Two Poems
by Michael King
by Michael King
Reflections on
Canals
The
lights of Suzhou spangle cityscapes on green
canals
the tour boat plies. From aft I watch
the wake
ripple
clustered tower blocks, tenements, and bars
decked
out with neon signs and sprung from concrete banks.
In
shoreline parks, where flood lamps next to footpaths cast
columns
of emerald up to willows, hedgerows strain
high
beams that cruise on streets past iron fences.
Hues
pour
through, stream out over the mirror-canvas, as
the
prop hurls field grey wash back.
Forward, an emcee
blares
top forty hits, coaxes fares to whoop it up,
pose
with watery brews. I lift a jug of bai
jiu,
soak my throat with fiery notes the bards of old
passed
around. Under bridges, hums of coupes
diffuse
the
scents of ether. In a courtyard paved
with jade
that
shimmers, outboard motors hush. The
vessel drifts
among
reflections of a bare mill’s blued rock walls,
dark
patios draped by gnarly trees’ amber leaves,
and
algae-covered slabs, deployed to bear low spans,
behind
which subtle streams proceed to destinies
beyond
the centuries of lotus massed along
the
margins. Strands about the murky
passages
confound
the helm and current host. While
shallows strew
the
slapdash tones of restless passengers, I’m drawn
by
shades of roped-off piers before the surface craft.
Outrun
Side-by-side
at eighty-
five,
propelled by four
pistons
in a row and two
in
a V, our bikes shoot
along
a country two-
laner’s
curves.
Brothers,
we
crest a hill and snap
the
throttles open as, from a slope
ahead,
blues blaze,
dash
toward us and a park
in
the gulley between, where we flap
denim
flags at the floundering
patrol
plowing dirt
to
turn and pursue.
With our flight
speeds
past one-
fifteen,
we scorch the grade
and
swoop away through sweepers,
fling
sparks from foot
pegs. On straights the trees
look
like sticks. The engines
howl
a redline duet,
and
escape impends,
but the
black
and
white threat—tilted,
tossed,
and bounced about
by
its bulk—probes the mirrors,
so
we brake, slide, power
onto
an artery. The traffic
we
blitz blocks the caged
eight.
At a roundabout we cleave
chaos
through gridlock.
Then we
race
to
the woods, where we slow to a crawl,
choose
a closer course
among
the roots that flow
to
a stand of pines.
As the sirens
rush
beyond, chrome
exhaust
pipes and polished
cooling
fins crackle,
glaze
ferns with sunlight.
Michaelyricking.blogspot.com
Dactylicus at
gmail dot com
~~~
My Dreamy Bird
By Charles Peltosalo,
I
woke up feeling confused, alone, and arranged my silence so I could place feet
on floor, face my day.
Before
I rolled off my pillow, my Mother’s Shih-tzu woke beside me; petting him and
his snug head and fur, the moments bore less menace.
Lifting
him to the floor, I watched a cat, a brother from another world, check my
bedroom door,
While
another darted from his night beneath the bed.
Water
put to boil, covers off the birdcages, I faced the loss of my friend Ayla, who
didn’t awake
Yesterday
on the bottom of his cage- 22 years of defining cockatiel and brother, friend,
helper had kept his sleep fixed to his home star where he had flown, was gone.
His
one love, green Raja next to him in her 25th year and his bonded
mate was upset by his empty cage.
I
don’t know what to say to her, but I’m sorry your friend is gone.
I
thought:” I’ll be your better friend now. Like you, I need someone close, so we
are not alone.”
I
went outside to put up some tobacco to the 6 directions in the morning light.
Thoughts
were mashed and confused; the past haunted, the future worried, and the present
swirled and hurt-
The
price of being the center of a wheel churning to gain purchase in the day,
The
trance-medium’s blues; separate my feelings from those of others-
Anything
out of control is not me, I’m told.
Tobacco
gained as smoke went to 4 directions, cutting the cloud around me.
One
to the sky, one to the Earth,
Then
one to those attached to me, 7 in all.
I
felt alone but prayed for Ayla, heard the cardinals pipe up from the dogwoods,
A
squirrel high in longneedle pine spied me with his ‘good day’.
A
bluejay’s call cut the air as road traffic picked up.
Ayla’s
robust winged spirit joined in, landed on my shoulder and reminded me I’m not
alone.
I
became aware as I stood with my solitary smoke sent to the semicardinal points
that
I
was surrounded by friendly spirits- the trance-medium’s joy,
I
will never be alone.
Yesterday
I hiked the beach in front of Ayla’s first home.
When
I reached his house and put up some tobacco for him, shoulder-perched and
free-flying with me all the walk,
2
cirrus clouds were cockatiel heads in the North who retained their shape for
the spirit’s moment, watching us until we made our way home.
The
morning he passed, the Carolina Rose, only green leaf and stalk all season,
Sprang
3 blooms, 2 large up high, 1 small tight separate below.
My
3 birds’ medicine reflects in plants, thoughts, clouds…
The
day has Ayla flying about its’ core, lighting it from within.
~~~
In Memoriam: Terttu Katka,
Poet (1916 – 2003)
By Lisbeth
Holt
She
spoke the language of life:
Her
lyrics will live forever
Though
now she lies mute.
We
walked behind her, her family,
Heads
bowed, tears flowing -
Our
sacred walk of communion –
Solemnly
to her altar of death.
Cast
aside the garment of dust;
Her
spirit released into the ultimate ethers.
Thor fiercely hurled thunderbolts
last night
And jagged swords of lightning:
Foretelling these destined hours.
Now at last she is unafraid.
Rain,
incessant, gentle, forgiving, fell;
Absolving
all pain, healing all wounds.
Eternal
mysteries are now revealed to her,
The
divine knowledge.
Now
she knows; now she is that mystery.
A
dove grey flag is draped across the skies
And
we who love her are comforted.
LEGACY
By Lisbeth Holt
This
is how a woman should dress
To
emphasize her regal origins, she explained.
“Nainen
valkoisissa,” a woman in white, for example.
Fabric
and form, elegantly cut, is what she intended.
I
remember her “taiteilijan takki,” her artist’s coat of bright colors –
A
coat which takes a certain woman with certain flair to wear.
I
arranged her abundant hair into ringlets crowning her head.
She
had the poise, the posture, the pride in herself,
A
presence to be reckoned with,
Reminding
me of our sacred female legacy…
Ancestral
knowledge reveals
We
were born daughters of the Queen of Sheba! -
Thus
endowed with magnificent powers
To
reshape our world with wisdom, skills, generosity.
As
such, we are to dress accordingly,
The
outer display of regal femininity,
In
flowing white, perhaps, or a collage of bejeweled colors.
It
is not vanity to proclaim our lineage, our legacy;
It’s
our link with destiny to carry ourselves with luminosity,
A
presence to be reckoned with!
~~~
Have You Heard of...or Attempted to
Pronounce...Dzibilchaltun?
By Lizbeth Holt
The
mysterious Mayan site of Dzibilchaltun (“the place with writing of flat
stones”) lies a mere ten miles from Merida in Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula.
Archaeologists believe it had been settled as far back as 500 B.C. and at its
zenith, had a population of 40,000.
The Maya had constructed raised limestone
or earthen-filled white roadways called “sacbeob”, some stretching for many
miles between cities. It feels strange
to walk on these ancient pathways to enter the site, knowing they were trod
over a thousand years ago by those who lived here then.
Only a few structures have so far been
unearthed here, notably the “Sun Temple,” also called the “Temple of the Seven
Dolls.” Seven pottery anthropomorphic figures had been discovered within the
temple, the only Mayan temple with windows. These “dolls” and other fascinating
treasures can be viewed at the Museo Pueblo Maya nearby. If you don’t speak Spanish, I hope you employ
a passionate and entertaining English-speaking guide! Imagine holding hands in
a circle as he claps his hands to demonstrate the acoustics. Do you hear the quetzal answering?
What makes this site especially
intriguing? During the spring and fall
equinoxes, the sun disc boldly appears from east to west in the central opening
of this observatory. Multitudes arrive
before dawn to witness this spectacle.
This is also precisely when the serpent of light, Kukulcan, descends the
side of El Castillo, the great pyramid in Chichen Itza, also in the Yucatan.
The ancient Maya sky-watchers built
these fantastic structures to align with the stars! Strangely enough, these phenomena were not
“discovered” until 1982 by Mexican Yucatec archaeologist Victor Segovia Pinto
(1907-1986).
Incredibly, Dzibilchaltun also has a
lunar orientation! A full moon glows
through the observatory opening between March 20 and April 20; Easter-time!
Incongruously, here stand the ruins of
an open chapel built at the time of the conquest with hieroglyph-carved stones
from Maya structures...considered to be one of the oldest churches in the
Americas.
The Maya considered cenotes (sinkholes)
to be entrances to “Xibalba”, the underworld.
Here the clear turquoise Cenote Xlacah, one of the largest and deepest
in the Yucatan, tempts explorers to jump in for a refreshing dip. Maya legends
suggest it was formed by an enormous thunderbolt! It is believed to merge with
a tunnel deep underwater, connecting to miles of underground rivers, emptying
into the Gulf of Mexico.
Once you visit this Mayan site, it will
be impossible to forget it. You may
even attempt to pronounce its sacred name: Dzibilchaltun…
travelbylis at aol dot com
Valtajan Makea Tuska
By Eero Sorila
English translation by Sirpa T. Kaukinen
Istun
ravintolassa pimenevän illan suussa,
matkareitistään tietoinen varis vaakkuu kuusi puussa.
Vaakkuu,ikäänkuin pilkaten eksynyttä vanhaa miestä,
jonka mustaan kahviin tippuu pisara tuskan hiestä.
Hän on paikoillaan pitkään vaikka kupin pohja jo kiiltää,
ujona, ajatus suunnan kysymisestä ikävästi rintaa
viiltää.
Mies on väsynyt vierailla seuduilla eksyksissä kulkemaan,
muttei koskaan liikkuvaa elämäntapaa valmis sulkemaan.
Makea vaeltajan tuska on kuin polttava henkinen tauti,
jota ilman hän ei elämästään koskaan täysin nauti.
Ravintola variksen vaakkuessa vihdoin yöllä hiljenee,
eksynyt vaeltaja pimeään yöhän askeleitaan viljelee.
The Wanderer’s
Sweet Suffering
I
sit in the restaurant in the early evening,
A
crow sure of its course is cawing in the spruce tree.
Cawing,
like mocking a lost old man,
Into
whose black coffee drips a drop of suffering sweat.
He
is still a long time though the bottom of the cup shines through,
Timidly,
the thought of asking for direction sadly cuts his breast.
The
man is tired of walking lost in strange places,
But
never ready to leave his wandering ways.
The
wanderer’s sweet suffering is like a burning madness,
Without
which he cannot fully enjoy his life.
The
restaurant finally calms in the time of the crow’s cawing,
The
lost wanderer steps into the dark night again.
Walk in the Park
By Eero Sorila
Ansel
Adams once said that a good photograph is made by knowing where to stand. He
took his famous black-and-white photograph of Mount McKinley in 1948. I have a
burning desire to stand in his footseps and also take a photo of Mt McKinley.
After I talk to a fellow photographer,
Henry Jokiniemi, about the project, he wants to join me. Henry is based in
Finland, but crossing the Atlantic is a small matter when it comes to following
the footsteps of Ansel Adams. So is driving the Alaska Highway.
After
driving some 2,500 miles we arrive to the Denali National park entrance at nine
o’clock in the morning on September 15th.
The green Denali bus has already
left for Wonder Lake, the area where we need to go for the photo. The next
morning, we board the green bus and begin our adventure in Denali. Upon
arriving to our spot that day, we didn’t know that the green busses were on
their last round before retiring for the winter. Had we arrived one day later,
all would have been lost without the possibility of entering the park.
The
park opened in 1917, and at almost five million acres, it is bigger than the
entire state of Connecticut.
Due to the potential danger of
wildlife, we aren’t allowed to exit the bus to take photos but we can take them
through the windows.
An exclamation rises above the rattling
bus: “Bear!” A dozen passengers rush to the left side of the bus to photograph
a grizzly bear. Luckily the bus does not tip over from the weight on one side. The king of the wilderness looks like
he weighs close to nine hundred pounds and mesmerizes everyone in the bus,
moving like a bulldozer across the tundra. A full-grown grizzly can run thirty
miles per hour. Not exactly, a walk in the park.
Top
running speed for humans has been clocked at close to twenty-eight.
It is a reminder of our insignificance
in Denali National Park.Walking along a gravel road, surrounded by immeasurable
silence we hear the sound of the green bus in the late afternoon. We hop on,
bid farewell to Denali and drive away.
Like the bears, the green busses
settle to hibernate until a new spring arrives, when the park wakes up to new
life.
Continuing home, I think about the
solitude of Denali, far away from a busy world, a mesmerizing haven of silence.
Henry returns to Finland with a good collection of wilderness photos. I also
have a few.The experience was a rare walk in
the park.
Photos
by Eero Sorila
1.
Mt. McKinley (Denali), the highest mountain in North America pierces the blue sky at 20,237ft above
sea level.
2.
Grizzly bear, the king of wilderness is an awesome sight.
In his book, Eero often
experienced traveler’s sweet pain as described in the poem.
GREEN MATTRESS UNDER THE
STARS is available from Xlibris: 1-888-795-4274
~~~
Ilkka
An adaptation of Kaarlo Kramsu’s “Ilkka.”
by
Waino W. Korpela
He
died upon the gallows but his deeds will long be known
for
they’re etched deep in the psyche of Suomi’s gnarled soul.
No
blue blood gave him status-he was just a common man-
but
his courage and his sisu left a mark upon the land.
For
the Fates decreed that Ilkka would lead the rebel fight
in
a failed insurgence against the tyrant’s might.
It
was an age of despots, anguish, doubts and tears
but
Jakko Ilkka, yeoman, was a man who conquered fear.
Knowing
that injustice
will ever be sustained
unless
the ones downtrodden will fight to break the chain.
And
those who fight for freedom know the victory lies
near
the shore of darkness where heroes bleed and die.
Hence
when men were beckoned, Suomi’s men replied
faster
than an arrow speeding through the sky.
Rebellion
spread throughout the land with bloody battles fought.
The
sacrifice those heroes made must never be forgot.
With
clubs those Finnish farmers fought for what is right
but
the tyrant and his army crushed their freedom fight.
Vanquished
men were butchered though mercy had been vowed
and
Ilkka climbed the gallows, calm, with head unbowed.
And
thus the Suomi nation heeds the lesson Ilkka gave:
Death
from hanging’s better than living as a slave.
The selection “Ilkka” is taken
from the book Finn. Finn includes a history of Finland in
verse-each verse documented with actual happenings in Finnish history-and other
writings by the author about sisu, the
St. Urho legend, growing up in a Finnish-American community and his perspectives
on life.
Finn, edited and published by Ernest J. Korpela, can be obtained by
calling the editor at 715 742-3349 or email him at korpela@cheqnet.net. Orders with a check for $14.95 per book can
be sent to Ernest Korpela, PO Box 273, Cornucopia, WI 54827. Free shipping is available through
2013. In 2014 add $3 for S/H.
~~~
What is a Pasty?
By Terri Martin
First,
you need to pronounce it correctly. It has nothing to do with paste or
burlesque dancers. Pasty rhymes with nasty. This is not to imply in any way
that the pasty is an unpleasant digestive experience. On the contrary, it’s a
tasty, humble, and somewhat portable food that doesn’t come in a bun or wrapped
in a tortilla.
As tin mining in Cornwall, U.K.
declined, miners came to this country to find a new life. Some landed in
Michigan’s U.P., attracted to jobs in the burgeoning copper mines. Along with their
mining expertise, the Cornishmen (or more likely, the Cornishwomen) imported
with them their pasty recipes. Finnish immigrants, who worked alongside the
Cornish, adopted the pasty and it has become strongly associated with the
Finnish culture in the Copper Country.
The
pasty is a ridiculously simple thing, invented out of need for an economical
stick-to-the-ribs meal that could be carried down into the mines in a lunch
pail. Chopped, sliced, and diced meat and vegetables make up the filling, which
is placed on a flat pastry circle. The pastry is folded into a half- moon shape
and the edges crimped to form a seal. After baking, the mouth-watering
semicircular pasty emerges, all golden brown and wafting a delectable aroma.
What is really in a pasty? Some
Yoopers tenaciously protect their recipes. Others will be vague—oh, dis and
dat, which means whatever is available. Rumor has it that lard is the secret
ingredient in the crust. Fear not, in an effort to support heart-healthiness,
most pasties have abandoned the use of lard. However, the much maligned
rutabaga is often found within the flaky crust of a U.P. Pasty.
Mind
your pasty etiquette, eh? Many like ketchup on their pasties. This is
acceptable. Others like gravy, which is also okay. Nobody has ever considered
using ranch dressing, mango salsa, or Dijon mustard on a pasty, so don’t ask
because to do so would be a sacrilege and possibly punishable by banishment to
a foreign country like New Jersey. Then there’s your pasty purist. (S)he will
only accept this food sans condiments or doctoring of any kind and may become
quite testy when offered ketchup.
So,
pass the ketchup—or not—and enjoy!
~~~
Happy
Holidays
from your
FinNALA Newsletter Editorial Team:
Terri Martin, Editor-in-Chief
Sirpa Kaukinen, Assistant Editor
Beth Virtanen, Publisher
