FinNALA Newsletter
November 2014,
Volume 7, Number 4
Publication of the
Finnish North American Literature Association
© November 3, 2014
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Publications
~~~
Kippis!
Literary Journal
A
FinnFest 2015 issue of Kippis! is
under discussion. Please watch for further information.
~~~
The
New Orphic Review is a literary magazine devoted to
publishing stories, poems and essays up to 10,000 words. It has had work
reprinted in Journey Prize Stories and
Best American Mystery Stories.
~~~
A
man beaten nearly to death awakens in an alder grove near a marsh in Manning
Park, B.C., unable to remember who he is or how he has come to be there. He has
no identification in his pockets, no shoes on his feet. From his very first breath,
he must orient himself in a world that seems alien to him, possessed by the
desire to flee, due to a sense of overwhelming threat.
According to the author, Ernest
Hekkanen, I’m Not You is a fictional
tribute to nihilism. “Because my anonymous character doesn’t know who he is, he
must define himself in terms of what he is not. He’s in exile here on earth. In
this regard, he’s not unlike original man.”
I'm
Not You can be purchased for $20.00 from New Orphic
Publishers. Send a cheque to 706 Mill Street, Nelson, B.C., Canada, V1L
4S5.
~~~
Esko’s Corner
An Illustrated History of Esko and Thomson Township
Esko’s Corner is a thematic
anthology of a rural community near Duluth, Minnesota, settled by Finnish
immigrants in the late 19th century. Published by the Esko Historical Society
with the aid of a Finlandia Foundation grant, the 387-page hardcover book
includes stories of immigration, assimilation, language change, early farming
methods, the cooperative movement, “Karelia Fever” and many other Finnish-American
themes.
Esko’s
Corner includes several photos of pioneer
families—nearly always with their prized horses. The man holding the reins in
this 1900 photo, Joseph Juntunen Sr., emigrated from Finland in 1880 and later
acquired 80 acres of “rocks and brush” in Thomson Township. Juntunen’s farm
would become one of the leading dairies in northern Minnesota.. (Esko
Historical Society photo).
Basketball was instantly popular
among Thomson Township’s predominantly Finnish-American populace when the first
high school opened in 1920-21. In this 1923 team photo, the initials on the
ball represent Lincoln High School, later to become Esko High School. The new
community history, Esko’s
Corner, includes a chapter on the school’s traditionally strong sports programs.
(Esko Historical Society photo)
Esko’s
Corner contains original maps and about 160 photos. To
order, send $35 to the Esko Historical Society, P.O. Box 83, Esko, MN 55733 or
via order form at eskohistory.com.
~~~
Creative Contributions
Prose, Poetry, & Memoir
~~~
Crystal Cameo
By Lisbeth Holt
The
face glistening in the cameo
Seemed
familiar –
Its
appearance kept altering
Yet
seemed so familiar:
My
female ancestors, perhaps,
And
now all a hidden part of me,
Yearning
for expression
In
a chain of connectedness
Providing
continuity.
They
played their parts on this planet, once,
And
now it is I who must live my destiny.
I
feel a strange serenity
As
if they were somehow watching over me:
Anna,
Susanna, Elisa, Marja,
Some
ancient wisps of memories
Cling
to my psyche
Of
all those proud strong women
And
their histories
Glimpsed
so briefly in my dream
Of
the crystal cameo.
I
am receptive to their guidance.
I
hear their faint whispers in the wind.
My
spirit sustains the eternal flame we share,
And
I carry that torch of life
Forward
to my daughters in turn.
Mothers!
Daughters! Grandmothers!
Ephemeral
images in a crystal cameo
Revealing
a fair woman
Looking
much like my mother, my daughter.
I
look in her eyes and see it is me.
Travelbylis at aol dot com
Two Poems
By Angela Ahlgren
Aspen
a susurration of leaves in the wind
sounds like fine rain falling
thin green coins flash and flip
a trembling emerald blue on blue
Grief
The liquid steel surface breaks
waves wash over rock.
One moment I am singing in the car
the next my cheeks stream with tears.
~~~~
Four Poems
By Charles
Peltosalo
(4-7)
Cruise
the streets in predawn sonic waves,
Some-ia
paperboys roll up to coffee joints loaded, ready.
From
D.C. to Fargo,
From
L.A. to Toronto,
From
the heart of deep Chicago to
Sleepy
towns not far from Pedro’s,
When
you call them,
They
come find you or
Arrive
before and sit behind you.
Every
time I want a silent corner during breakfast
The
waitress channels, upticks,
The
leisure of this day’s blend gets blown before the notion’s even known.
Hands
raise, fingers signal,
A
microfacial twitch, an eyebrow shift,
A
bottom lip hints a stubbled ‘hello’.
Each
snatch my peace before I taste it;
Color
my hashbrowns gravy-gone:
My
brigade prints the menu.
Watchers
script-read pages past this scene know my schedule,
So
psychic and eerily ahead of you-
They
are simply always there,
My
people with whom the same air I share.
I’ve
witnessed every head in the joint turn to either side.
As
if parted by a comb while
At
the other end of the room one of mine would recognize, wink, signal;
Once
even sang on the stage as every head simultaneously swiveled away:
“Hey,
Mr. Spaceman(wink with light-beam eyes) won’t you please…..”,
Reminding
me I was not alone,
Then
with another simple flex of mind, remove the part that spread the crowd,
Returned
them to their random time.
Once
by choice, an ortho-Church thing, quiet sanctum sanctorum,
Big
potluck: pick your pew, I got a hiss or a heal; another tight squeeze.
Each
tricky days where Spring ice held my blades’ back edge
Until
the weeds’ sweet reprieve.
Afraid
I had to believe,
Sometimes
now I know.
Native
Americans aptly name a Great Mystery.
Buddha
stressed 4 til 7, but
When
prodded about his big belly said:
“I’m
too vain to have noticed!”
Let’s
all hope some sort of savior drives the morning star.
On
sleepy Saturdays or Sundays here on the ground,
We
pry from mattresses, stroll and seek solitary coffee-company,
But
some of us aren’t you and me.
Some
angel’s pose or alien’s ruse perhaps for fun or
The
reverse and you’re the one stuck.
Some
mornings, I like neither words, you know the ones;
They’re
just people, too,
More
like interstellar chameleons, or
Other
Side vaudevillians.
Some-ias, countryfolk, old bums, young rockers,
NASA-types
seem to be the ones to notice their psionic neighbors.
Maybe
they’re related.
Usually
my skin will shiver, goosebump angels drawing in, raising hairs;
My
thoughts are never for sure my own,
My
channels so rabbit-eared.
Watchers
so psychic and eerily ahead of you,
Simply
always there to
Artfully
push along the times.
One
said: “It’s nothing more, nothing less than to see things clearly.”
That
I do,
Sometimes.
What
it is,
Who
they are,
Doesn’t
really matter.
They
aren’t you and me, but,
Then
they are.
At
least they visit, or never leave,
Weave
electric the living circle
(4-7)
Shrouding
a Great Mystery.
Deep-Eye
Cloud
hunt,
A
doe’s stride,
Cross
the close ridge lightly.
Too
much thought burns off the lingering haze,
Makes
the mountain fog drift skittish,
Scares
the magic mist like some
Touchy
deer smelling you on the wind,
Bolting.
You
catch a glimpse of ears uplifted blending into the wooded grays.
A
brown-haired woman conjures clouds with her closed caramel eyes, dreams deep
rhythms in the valley,
Sheathes
the hills with listening sky,
Calls
the closing wind waiting.
It
steps slowly forward like a white-tail who senses his doe’s sleep is over.
Her
ear nuzzled, the day begins.
Herring Pond
The
great School’s shining million supple sheets shimmer in the quiet waters,
Twisting
silver ribbons curl like luminescent smoke,
Then
descend into the green spring depths of Herring Pond.
Articulate
fins like children’s fingers deftly trace water’s upper edge,
Then
the trace’s trail is resewn by the seamless stitchery of waters reappearing.
The
shingled mirrors of their scales dart through the water-bent sun like 100’s,
Then
1,000’s of silver coins tossed en masse that flip and spin in the slow spring’s
rise.
They
glint chaotic like a sheet of mercury shaken in a sunbeam,
Like
a million crystal windows reflecting the day’s stained glass, or
The
emerald edge of a twisting whirlpool made of spiraling metal mail.
The
uncountable gathering sliced the water’s dense parade.
My
schoolboy’s sight or child’s dream was awestruck by such numbers:
The
jewels escape the deep, living diamonds, silver dollars, all atwitch of one
mind,
Each
eye like one upon me, spellbound by such a swarm of shimmering, shivering life.
Testimony
to the magic that seethes below each surface, be it the waking or the dream,
The
billion herring of Herring Pond swam the young me past dry land and words,
Then
drowned me in their beauty.
Otter Pond
Otter
shrine knelt in pond prayer:
Immigrant
Japanese canoe-slide caretakers,
Brackish
sidereal Chesapeake ice-skaters,
Visit
frozen spirit.
Oaks
old as Indians dead stand the daybreak watch.
Primal
bass survives,
Curves
through Shinto scrags,
Scoffs
lure-snagged wood.
Fade-away
fins disappear in green-spring depths,
Circumnavigate
sleeping Winter turtle dens
That
support our planet on their diatomic shells,
2-headed
deep in the leaf-scattered sand.
Lord
Heron blasts blue wings:
Delicate
surge of brute flight by canoe slides spirit-ridden,
Circles
sunken temple.
Royal
feathers alight regal, dexterous, awesome
On
fallen trees bent reverently to
The
sleeping otter’s aqueous dreams.
“Pillow Cats"
Photo by Charles
Peltosalo
~~~
Minnesota Winter
Survival Skills
By Diane
Dettmann
The
following essay was originally published on the national “Women’s Voices for
Change” website. With winter knocking on our doors, I decided to share it with
FinNALA readers.
I’ve
lived in Minnesota my whole life and survived many winters, some of which I
actually enjoyed. Last year the Polar Vortex rolled over Minnesota and we
experienced one of the coldest, most brutal winters on record. No matter where
you went—Fleet Farm, the local grocery store or church—the winter weather was
the main topic of conversation.
Many
nights, wrapped in a blanket, I sat in my favorite chair listening to the 40
mile per hour wind gusts roaring past the window and thought, “Why in the world
do I live in this frigid state?”
Minnesota Winter
Coping Skills
Minnesota winter
fashion is all about layers—lots of them. As the temperature drops the layers
increase. You’ll know you have enough on when it hurts to bend over and pull on
your boots.
Oh, speaking of
boots, remember those chains drivers use to put on their tires in the winter?
Well, good news, you can actually buy them for your boots! On my daily winter
walks, I seldom leave home without them.
Schedule your
meals around traffic reports and weather updates, so you know how early to
leave for work in the morning or cut out in the evening to avoid the pile ups
on the freeways. Always have at least two alternate routes as backup.
When the wind
chill drops below zero, make sure you cover your face to prevent frostbite.
Bundle up even if you have to wrap your five year-old’s “Shrek” scarf around
your face. Who knows you might even start a new winter fashion fad.
Looking for
adventure? Then ice fishing might be just the sport you’re looking for. You get
a pretty darn good workout chopping that hole in the ice and who knows you
might even catch a fish before your toes turn numb.
When the subzero
temperatures and bitter wind chills keep you homebound, relax knowing you have
the whole day to drink coffee, read the paper and work your crossword puzzles.
Well, this might not be the case, if your kids are cheering in the morning as
the “school closed” announcements flash across the TV screen.
Invest in a high
power electric blanket. Before retiring, crank the dial to “high”. Wait two
hours. Pull on your flannel pajamas and socks. Crawl under the covers.
Snuggling and hot sex optional, but highly recommended.
If all else
fails, head to the Mall of America, turn the kids loose at the indoor amusement
park and shop the day away. Better yet book a flight and head for a warmer
climate even a week away from the Minnesota deep freeze helps.
Not
sure what the local weather reporter’s predicting for this year’s winter, but I
think I’ll keep this list handy.
Photo taken in 1946
on my Finnish grandparent's (Paul and Hilja Kaurala) farm in Babbitt, MN you
can see the sauna in the background.
Diane Dettmann is the author of Miriam Daughter of Finnish Immigrants and Twenty-Eight Snow Angels A Widow’s Story of
Love, Loss, and Renewal which was recently named runner-up in the “Beach
Book Festival Awards”. Diane’s shared
her writing at local author events, festivals and international conferences in
Finland and Canada. Diane’s website: http://outskirtspress.com/snowangels
~~~~
Two Poems
By Don Hagelberg
Brandied by Sweets
For Ron Silliman,
Thanks for the help.
Thanks for the help.
I lived in a one room suite at the “M&M” Hotel
On 5th and Howard Streets when I got
Into the city, waiting for the court
To grind its beef with me
Down into one edible sentence
For me to eat in the Federal Penitentiary.
I didn’t know the bar below the hotel;
I bought my beer from the grocery store
At four for a dollar and when
I was read the verdict, served
An abstinent 1964-1965 as refuse,
Saying “No” to the killing in Vietnam and
“No” to the killing of President Kennedy.
I got out and drank, a lout,
Waking up to the aches politically buttonholed
In my stomach by sugar-hungry alcohol.
“There had to be something to live for?” a droll
Voice whispered after one-too-many “Skoals!”
While I sobered up, I befriended
A would-be bartender from the “M&M” Hotel’s
On 5th and Howard Streets when I got
Into the city, waiting for the court
To grind its beef with me
Down into one edible sentence
For me to eat in the Federal Penitentiary.
I didn’t know the bar below the hotel;
I bought my beer from the grocery store
At four for a dollar and when
I was read the verdict, served
An abstinent 1964-1965 as refuse,
Saying “No” to the killing in Vietnam and
“No” to the killing of President Kennedy.
I got out and drank, a lout,
Waking up to the aches politically buttonholed
In my stomach by sugar-hungry alcohol.
“There had to be something to live for?” a droll
Voice whispered after one-too-many “Skoals!”
While I sobered up, I befriended
A would-be bartender from the “M&M” Hotel’s
Ground floor bar. His history was that he
Served customers, mostly reporters from
The old Examiner and Call-Bulletin, who were
Tired of typing, wanting to talk, while
Others simply lined the edges, crumpled.
This bartender tendered bar and drank
Only later to pass-out on the floor before
His customers passed-out the swinging doors.
And so the want-to-be poet and
The would-be engineer sobered each other up,
Until a woman drove-by in a side-car
Version of a motorcycle and hit me, the poet, so
That I fell into the body of her machine.
She died when I was eleven months sober and her tribute
Was the printing of a posthumous book of her poetry.
While I wrote the instructions on how
The volume was to look and feel, I could not read
The internal text until thirty years after her death. Today,
I’m able to write again: a little now-and-then ode, when
Bee-thoughts don’t attack the strange honey as the enemy’s.
Served customers, mostly reporters from
The old Examiner and Call-Bulletin, who were
Tired of typing, wanting to talk, while
Others simply lined the edges, crumpled.
This bartender tendered bar and drank
Only later to pass-out on the floor before
His customers passed-out the swinging doors.
And so the want-to-be poet and
The would-be engineer sobered each other up,
Until a woman drove-by in a side-car
Version of a motorcycle and hit me, the poet, so
That I fell into the body of her machine.
She died when I was eleven months sober and her tribute
Was the printing of a posthumous book of her poetry.
While I wrote the instructions on how
The volume was to look and feel, I could not read
The internal text until thirty years after her death. Today,
I’m able to write again: a little now-and-then ode, when
Bee-thoughts don’t attack the strange honey as the enemy’s.
Mourning
For "Odie"Prison camp mornings
Uniformed by minds:
cut to weigh equally,
evidenced hard, loafed in ovens,
pronounced guilty of hunger,
then disposed of as trash-crime.
Uniformed by minds:
cut to weigh equally,
evidenced hard, loafed in ovens,
pronounced guilty of hunger,
then disposed of as trash-crime.
~~~
Valley of Death
By M.L. King
Orono,
Maine 2006
Prelude:
Sitting at my computer desk, I finish
writing a response to The Song of Roland,
an Iliadic, Medieval, French epic.
Yawning, I get up, turn on the TV, click to PBS, and recline on my
couch. I alternately peruse a geology
text to prepare for a test on desert environments and watch Nature.
On the screen, various animals hunt and feed while others hide, flee,
and are fed upon. Rising and heading for
the kitchen to get a fresh glass of caffeine-free Coke, I turn down the volume
on the tube and place Judas Priest’s Sad
Wings of Destiny CD into my stereo.
The soda goes flat on the coffee table and my textbook slips off my
chest and onto the floor as I fall asleep to the melodic “Epitaph.”
Vision:
I
wake in a burning, battered city,
Separated
from my century.
My
former comrades lie in heaps,
Twisted,
clasped to the vanquished in ghastly
Embraces. Sealed, as in wax, some faces
Grimace
with lust and hate. Mouths
Are
frozen in last gasps of life,
And
eyes are fixed in pain and horror.
Armor
once shiny and blades once sharp,
Now
pierced and snapped in two, rust
In
gelling blood and white and yellow
Gore. I take what I need from the dead
And
leave their tomb of flaming, tumbling
Temples. I walk aimlessly through
Forests
and fields and into a desert.
The
terrain becomes more unforgiving
With
each mile that I wander on
Across
uncharted lands.
The
sun blazes, bleaches bones
Of
broken bodies nailed to creaking
Crosses
beside the road. Emptied
Vessels
long forgotten lie
In
burning sands below the unknown
Victims
that cook on the crooked crucifixes.
Lining
the path, dull and ragged
Shards
of shattered urns sink
Into
the sands that cook my feet.
Beads
of sweat drench my clothes,
Which
collect the grit and dust swirling
In
the arid wind. I wrap my face
With
a silk scarf and wipe my sweaty
Hands
on my stained white robe.
Shrieking
vultures shred corpses
Caked
in grime lying mangled
Along
the trail, slumped over
Stumps,
or impaled on rusted iron
Spits. Skulking scavengers gorge
Themselves
on green and gray entrails
And
rotting tissue. Distant cliffs
Distorted
in heat mirage echo
Howls
of rabid canines calling
Packs
to hunt in sage-littered
Dry
gulches. A steamy wind blows
Across
the valley. Silt slung
By
sudden gusts pelts my garments,
Slips
through layers, grates against
My skin, and stings me eyes.
Along
a strip of bushes budding
Under
brown leaves of twisted
Trees,
a ten-foot-long lizard
Lurks,
lunges at a browsing buck.
Jagged
teeth gouge and tear
Gaping
gashes in thin hide.
Infected
by the beast’s acidic
Drool,
the deer leaps away,
But
weakens day by day. Following
The
taste of larvae-laced meat
In
the air, the lizard finds the stag
Standing,
stomping, and snorting, but unable
To
flee. Claws clutch hind
Quarters,
fangs flay open flesh.
Hisses
greet groans; jaws
Grind
gristle and bone. A challenger
Smells
the kill, advances to steal
The
meal. The giant reptiles rush,
Rip
into each other. Incisors
Dripping
disease slice through scales
And
pierce limbs and paunches. As the duel
Drags
on, a tiger pounces from cover
And
carries the carcass away.
As
I walk onward—
Toward
whatever lies ahead—
My
sword hacks into hungry boars
Charging
from behind brush and slashes
Serpents
lashing at my legs. Drawn
And
raised, my gleaming steel blade
Carves
carnivores, drips blood.
Seeking
a secure place to rest
And
view the wretched void around me,
I
climb a crumbling mesa. A cooler
Breeze
blows atop the narrow
Table. A drink from a flask of water
Refreshes
my mind. A few dates
And
bits of bread sustain my strength.
Wine
lifts my spirits. Below me,
Drifting
dunes and stranded stands
Of
stunted trees stretch to hazy
Horizons. Sandstone towers loom
Above
desert pavement. Pale
Clouds
hover motionless over
Sheer
shale cliffs. Canyons and chasms
Divide
barren plateaus. With my blade
Cleaned,
sharpened, and sheathed, I descend
And
renew my search for a stream that will lead me
Out
of this horrid land.
~~~
The Gateway Arch
An arch between America and Finland
Respected as one of the masters of American
20th century architecture, Eero Saarinen (1910 -1961) was born in Finland on
the 37th birthday of his famous architect father Eliel Saarinen.
A landmark seen by many Americans of Finnish
background is the Helsinki Railway Station Designed by Eliel Saarinen. At age
13 Eero moved to the United States with his family. In 1929 he was a student of
sculpture in Paris, France and completed his studies at the Yale School of
Architecture in 1934.
In the
United States there is a long list of architectural monuments by Eero Saarinen
including the Gateway Arch in St Louis Missouri. In 1948 he won the design
competition for the Gateway Arch, which was completed in the 1960s, but the
reward was sent to his father by mistake. Father and son settled the situation
in good humor. The cost of construction for the Arch was 13 million dollars. In
today’s currency that price would be $97,300,000.
This
stainless steel arch, on the west bank of the Mississippi River, sits where the
city of St. Louis began. Gateway Arch was built to honor President Thomas Jefferson,
the explorers Lewis and Clark, and the settlement that fur traders Pierre
Laclede and Auguste Chouteau started here in 1764.
Gateway
Arch is the tallest memorial in the United States and is the highest arch in
the world. Earthquake proof and with footings embedded 60 feet deep, the 630 foot arch is a hollow stainless steel
tube that can sway up to nine inches in either direction. It can stand winds of
up to 150 miles per hour. Inside the tube a lift system takes visitors to the
observation deck at the top. Over four million people visit the Gateway Arch
annually. This landmark is fittingly an arch between the United States and
Finland.
The
Gateway Arch by Eero Saarinen in St Louis, the highest Arch in the world stands
proudly piercing the sky at 630 ft.
Mirjam
Rand's latest literary project American
Monuments: The Stories Behind Our
Icons makes an ideal gift. It includes the Gateway Arch and 25 other
American monuments. Xlibris USA ISBN: 978-1-4990-4336-5 Tel:
1-888-795-4274
~~~
Drifts
By Eila Savela
By Eila Savela
In winter we forget.
So much lies buried
under the weight of drifts.
Strangely, the first flurries fall in
gentle waves,
floating in translucent swells.
On contact, the heavy flakes dissolve
Into wet beads, pooling in quicksilver
streams that drip from the underbrush
and eaves.
Autumn’s embers sputter in the wet snow.
The vague dread that filters through
as autumn withers and dies
never prepares us for the coldest
season.
At best, we recall senseless fragments,
numbed feelings,
purged of the traumatic elements.
Nothing prepares us for the shock of
arctic air,
the shatter of crazed ice beneath our
feet,
the stinging slap of freezing sleet
mixed with snow and bitter grief.
Cursed winds rip through the fragments,
stripping the season bare.
Only the husks of wild, perfumed
flowers,
barren stalks,
break through the snow.
Colors fade to monotonous tones
of ivory and grey.
Following the edge of lean shadows,
the waning light lingers
on birch trees glazed with ice,
stranded in snow that
blankets the cold, hard earth
in slow, silent drifts,
buried under the weight of snow.
~~~
An
Old Midwife’s Tale
(excerpt)
By E. Savela
Great-Aunt
Aili was teaching me to make a himmeli,
a traditional Finnish Christmas decoration, meaning a labor-intensive pain in
the you-know-what. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, sorting
and cutting straw.
It was time for one of her stories.
“When I was a girl, younger than you, I
used to help äiti[i]
milk the cows. Back then we didn’t have machines but did the milking by
hand—did everything by hand, don’t you know. But I didn’t mind. They were such
lovely cows . . . Muurikki, Mansikki, and Mairikki.” She leaned across the
table.“Have I ever told you about the tontut?”[ii]
“The what? What the heck are tonttus?”
“Not tontus
. . . tontut. They’re the barn
elves.”
“You’re telling me that there are little
elves in tights and pointy caps hanging out in the barn?”
“No, of course not. And don’t look at me
like that. I’m talking about real elves now.”
Despite myself I was intrigued.
“They’re earth spirits. You can’t see
them, except maybe a glimpse from the corner of your eye. Äiti saw them, though. She said they’re like baubles of light,
flitting here and there.”
“How do you know they’re real?”
“Oh, seeing isn’t the only way of
believing. I could feel their presence, especially in the hayloft, where äiti left offerings for them.”
“Offerings? Like what?”
“Usually a bowl of cream or a slice of
buttered rye bread, sometimes a piece of cheese. And she sang to them when she
did the milking, to keep mischief makers at bay.”
“Mischief makers?”
“Keitolaiset[iii]
and shape-shifters, bears and wolves.”
She had to be kidding. But I could
usually tell when she was joking and she seemed to be perfectly serious, even
distracted, lost in the depths of memory. Then she began to sing in a low husky
tone:
Pikku
tontut, navetan tontut
kuule
lauluni.
Kiltit
tontut, navetan tontut,
suojele
mei’än karjaa—
kaunis
Mairikki, tumma Muurikki,
punainen
Mansikki—
ja
tuokaa makeaa kermaa.
Kiltit
tontut, navetan tontut
kuule
lauluni.[iv]
A soft, sad silence followed. With a sigh,
Aunt Aili roused herself. “Oh, it’s been too long since I’ve heard that song.”
“How long?”
“Let me think. Since isä,[v]
your great-grandfather Kalervo, was killed in the mines. That would have been
the summer of ’23. Äiti was too busy
to do the milking anymore. Your grandfather Tero and I took over.”
“What happened to the tontut? Did Grandpa Tero leave them
offerings, too?”
“No, but I did. I was under strict
orders from äiti to keep them happy .
. . or else.”
“Or else what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
_________
i. Mother. Great-Aunt Aili’s mother
was my paternal great-grandmother Marjatta, who emigrated from Finland to
Minnesota with her husband Kalervo Koski in 1910.
ii. Brownies.
iii. Malevolent elves.
iv. Little elves, barn elves, hear
my song. Kind elves, barn elves, protect our livestock—beautiful Sweetie, dusky
Blackie, red Strawberry—and bring sweet cream. Kind elves, barn elves, hear my
recitation
v. Father.
~~~
Museum Piece
By Kaarina Brooks
Look! A skimmer!
Haven’t seen one
in years.
Not since we
were
at Aunt Elsa’s
farm in ’49.
And look at that
butter churn!
Just like Aunt
Elsa’s!
The cream
refused to turn to butter
till she took
over the churning.
There’s a
what-cha-ma-callit!
Grandpa used one
just like that
to slice slats
from pine logs
and weave them
into baskets.
Hey, aren't
those skis a hoot!
With leather
straps
to use with
curly-toe boots.
I had a pair
like that…
My God!
I just realized—
my whole life is
in a museum!
~~~
Two Poems
By Wendy S
Anderson
This Morning the
Doctor Said Cancer
Ruby
is talking to her garden,
on
her knees with her trowel
and
those old pink gloves.
An
ocean is coming, she says,
and
it will race into my head,
tumble
over rocks and moss and thorny spots,
fill
every nook
with
salt and sand
and
the deep-green smell of foam.
Anemones
will float
from
the reef of my hair,
my
nose will be a shell,
my
lips a perfect blue stone.
I
will not look after you, she says,
my
hands as useless and frail as fog.
The
rest of me will be given to seaweed
that
tangles up my ears
and
muffles everything but waves
pitching
up, then down, then back again,
sweeping
me along.
Little Miss
She
was always falling
or
running into things,
an
inelegant, clumsy child.
Like
the time she limped
and
wore those purple-gold
arms
to third grade,
or
that bright violet eye
one
day to high school.
She
said later
she
didn’t much
recall
her girlhood
but
for one recurring dream:
her
father,
on
the floor
by
her bed,
waxed
like a candle.
She
would light him up,
her
fear melting
as
he burned.
Wendy Anderson’s book An
Ancient Trail to Home, Finishing Line Press, Kentucky will be out soon.
~~~~
FinNALA Newsletter Editorial Team:
Terri Martin, Editor-in-Chief
Sirpa Kaukinen, Assistant Editor
Beth Virtanen, Publisher
