FinNALA Newsletter
May 2014, Volume 7, Number 2
Publication of the Finnish North American Literature
Association
© May 7, 2014
Subscribe/Renew Your FinNALA Membership
Continue your connections with the
literary and scholarly community in Finnish-North-American Literature, and support FinNALA simultaneously. Renew your
membership on line or by mail.
Visit our website at www.finnala.com to renew
online.
To renew by mail, send $20.00 by check
or money order payable to "FinNALA" to
Beth Virtanen, President
FinNALA,
FinNALA,
P.O. Box 212
L’Anse, MI 49946
Thanks
for your continuing membership and support as we near our tenth year as an
organization!
Announcements
Offer your books for sale
at FinnFest 2014 FinNALA Table
FinNALA is planning to have a booth at the tori at FinnFest 2014 in Minneapolis. For a small fee of $25 US, you can have your work for sale there, too. If want to make your book(s) available at FinnFest 2014 (Aug. 7-10) in Minneapolis, Minnesota, then FinNALA has a great opportunity for you.
For
a modest $25.00 (U.S.) fee, FinNALA will:
1. display your book on its table in the Tori for the duration of FinnFest
2. keep a small reserve supply to replace sold books
3. keep a record of all books sold & pay each author for sales of their books
4. keep you from having to pay the $300 fee to rent and staff your own sale table
5. staff the FinNALA during all regular Tori hours of the FinnFest.
We think this will be a great opportunity for our authors to gain exposure and to make some money, whether they can attend or not.
1. display your book on its table in the Tori for the duration of FinnFest
2. keep a small reserve supply to replace sold books
3. keep a record of all books sold & pay each author for sales of their books
4. keep you from having to pay the $300 fee to rent and staff your own sale table
5. staff the FinNALA during all regular Tori hours of the FinnFest.
We think this will be a great opportunity for our authors to gain exposure and to make some money, whether they can attend or not.
If you’re interested and will be present at FinnFest, please contact me as soon as possible at bethlvirtanen at yahoo.com.
If you are unable to attend FinnFest and wish for your books to be sold at the FinNALA table, please contact the FinNALA president at the email address above so we can make arrangements to make your book available.
~~~
Advertise with FinNALA
Feature
Your Work, Product or Services in Kippis!
The FinnFest 2014 issue.
The Finnish North American Literature Association (FinNALA) is
seeking advertisers interested in marketing their merchandise, publications, services,
and more to a Finnish-North American literary audience and the community that
supports them.
We have advertising space available in Kippis!
Ad rates are modest and support the publication and dissemination of literary work by a multicultural and multinational group of poets and writers.
Advertising rates and sizes are listed below:
One-eight page (business card) $30
One-fourth page $50
One-half page $80
One-page $150
Send your print-ready ad copy and contact information to Beth Virtanen, FinNALA President,
at bethlvirtanen at yahoo dot com. If you wish the Kippis! team to design your ad, please do email us (bethlvirtanen at yahoo dot com), and we can work together on layout and
pricing.
We have advertising space available in Kippis!
Ad rates are modest and support the publication and dissemination of literary work by a multicultural and multinational group of poets and writers.
Advertising rates and sizes are listed below:
One-eight page (business card) $30
One-fourth page $50
One-half page $80
One-page $150
Send your print-ready ad copy and contact information to Beth Virtanen, FinNALA President,
at bethlvirtanen at yahoo dot com. If you wish the Kippis! team to design your ad, please do email us (bethlvirtanen at yahoo dot com), and we can work together on layout and
pricing.
Submit payment by PayPal at www.finnala.com or send a check
payable to "FinNALA" to
Beth Virtanen, President, FinNALA, P.O. Box 212, L'Anse, MI 49946 USA
Beth Virtanen, President, FinNALA, P.O. Box 212, L'Anse, MI 49946 USA
~~~
Request for Literary and
Scholarly Publication Updates!
Hi
everyone! I am working on research for two projects in which I am engaged. The first is to update the FinNALA bibliography, and the second is for a presentation I have been asked to give regarding the current state of Finnish-American literature and its critical analysis for FinnFest 2014.
Please do send a list of your publications to me at bethlvirtanen at yahoo.com. With your contributions, I will strive to make a comprehensive update of the bibliography on our website and use it along with other research products within the presentation I will make to the larger cultural community at FinnFest in the Twin Cities this summer.
Thanks so much!
Beth
Virtanen, Ph.D.
President,
FinNALA
~~~
Kippis!
Kippis! is taking
submissions for our FinnFest 2014 edition, which take place in early august.
There will be a printed and online version of Kippis!. Submissions will be accepted through June 15, so don’t hesitate to polish up those great pieces of work
and get them into us. Surprisingly, we are running a little lean on poetry, so
keep that in mind. Submissions of fiction, nonfiction, essay and other prose
are being sought as well. We can’t guarantee fame and fortune but, if your work
is accepted, you will be read by a thoughtful and sympathetic audience.
Send submissions to gkwuori at hotmail
dot com. Please request submission guidelines if you are not familiar with
them.
~~~
16th annual Sibelius Academy
Music Festival
Finlandia
University will be sponsoring its sixteenth consecutive music festival
featuring extraordinary musicians from the famed Sibelius Music Academy of
Helsinki, Finland.
This year’s festival will take place
from September 21-26, with concerts in Chicago, Houghton/Hancock and Calumet,
Michigan.
Pianist Kristina Annamukhamedova will present a classical repertoire
including Beethoven, Schumann, Chopin and Sibelius. A cappella female vocal group, Ensemble
Norma, will perform cutting-edge
music, which straddles folk, pop and jazz.
For more information, please visit the Finlandia
University website at www.finlandia.edu/sibelius
Vocalists, Ensemble Norma
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Publications
Finn
By Waino W.
Korpela
Excerpts of book review of Finn, by Jane Lepisto Published initially in the Finnish American Reporter-October 2013.
Editor
Ernest Korpela describes the book “Finn” as a “collection of writings by Waino
W. Korpela which embodies a host of perceptions of his father’s native land-its
people, its history, its culture, its struggle for self-determination, its sisu, and its perspective on life.
He has
lovingly and painstakingly collected his late brother’s works into this book .
. . The readings evoked memories of their family, home, sauna, electric fence,
camp in the woods, Model-A pick up, long school bus rides and times we shared
visiting one another’s kitchens . . .He has used that legacy to weave the
history of his father’s native land and perseverance of its people into a
tapestry which depicts the Finns’ heritage of sisu.
Submitted by Ernest
Korpela with the permission of Jane Lepisto and the Finnish American
Reporter. Copies of “Finn” can be
obtained from Ernest Korpela at (715) 742-3349 or by emailing him at: Korpela at cheqnet.net
~~~
The New Orphic Review
Ernest
Hekkanen and Margrith Schraner have just finished publishing the Spring issue
of The New Orphic Review, entitled
“e-Hobbyists in the Land of e-Literature”. It contains work by writers from New
York, Kentucky, Maine, Colorado and British Columbia.
For more information contact hekkanen at telus dot net
For more information contact hekkanen at telus dot net
~~~
Night Train Red Dust
Poems from the Iron Range
By Sheila Packa
Book review by Leah Rogne, PhD
Professor, Minnesota State University, Mankato, MN
Sheila Packa’s poetry is at once
deeply personal and widely universal in its evocative exploration of
fundamental human experience. Using the red ore dust with which she was raised,
she paints vivid images of birth and death, work and struggle, hope and
despair. Packa captures the unrest of immigrants leaving their homes in Finland
and the unrest of the bitter labor union conflicts of the early days of
twentieth century on the Iron Range of northeastern Minnesota. At the same as
she chronicles events from the broad sweep of history as the country extracted
iron ore from the ground and labor from the immigrants, she shares tender
stories from daily life, using the micro-lens of her personal experience
Especially arresting is the way Packa weaves into her book
material from historical sources, including newspaper accounts of the union
organizing efforts of Elizabeth Gurley Flynn and reports on the gritty work of
physicians who tended to the medical needs of the miners and their families in
the early days. Women —whether in the mines or on hardscrabble farms — are
equal players in Packa’s Iron Range, a refreshing treatment of a region often
seen as differentially the province of the male. From the story of men and
women fighting for their survival and dignity in the days of industrialization
to the image of a fragile grouse in the gunsights of a hunter contemplating its
mortality, Packa captures the beauty and the contradictions of the place and
times that have made the Iron Range iconic in history.
Sheila Packa. Night Train Red Dust: Poems of the Iron
Range. (Wildwood River Press / distributed through Ingram). ISBN:
978-0-9843777-7-0. The book’s website is
here: www.nighttrainreddust.com
and its Twitter account is @nighttrainred
Creative Contributions
Prose, Poetry, & Memoir
~~~
A Father’s Day Tribute
By Diane Dettman
in memory of her
father, Harold Elleson, who passed away in June, 1987 at the age of
sixty-eight.
My
father was the oldest child and only son in his family. He became a survivor at
the age of nineteen when his father, a locomotive fireman for the Omaha
railroad, was killed in a train accident on August 6, 1937. With the tragic
loss of his father, my dad became the primary provider for his mother and two
younger sisters. The railroad company compensated the family by guaranteeing
him a permanent job with the railroad. After he completed his machinist
apprenticeship, he began repairing locomotives on the Chicago Northwestern
railroad in a dingy roundhouse in Minneapolis, Minnesota— not exactly his
“dream job.”
In 1944, a justice of the peace united
my parents in holy matrimony and in 1945 my brother Tom was born. A couple
years later, I arrived early when my mother—startled by a bird—fell and broke
her leg. Tucked in an incubator at the hospital and my mother at home with her
leg in a cast, I depended on my father’s “milk deliveries” to sustain me.
I know those daily visits bonded us. As
I grew older, I loved snuggling into his lap as he read the Little Golden Books
to me at bedtime. When he arrived home from the work in the afternoons, he
often gave me a gentle whisker rub and let me eat the cookies left over in his
lunch box.
Dad wasn’t much of a travelin’ man. Our
summer vacations often consisted of trips to my Finnish grandparents’ farm in
Babbitt, Minnesota during haying season. In 1955, we took our one and only
family summer road trip to Alhambra, California to visit my dad’s mother. With
the windows rolled down, my older brother and I sat in the back seat of the
Plymouth fighting as the “Burma Shave” signs flew by. The trip seemed endless
with the rumble of the wind whipping past the windows, the country western
twang crackling on the radio and my nine month-old brother fussing in the front
seat. My father was happy when we finally
arrived in Alhambra—well, at least for a while.
His excitement for California waned
quickly. Fed up with the Los Angeles traffic and endless visits with distant
relatives, Dad’s patience maxed out.
Early one morning he packed us back in the car and drove all night through the
desert. After spending several nights in cheap motels, we arrived back in
Minnesota.
My dad was an “every day guy” dedicated
to his family, a wonderful provider and a loving man. When I married my husband
John in 1972, my father walked me down
the aisle with a very serious look on his face. At the reception John turned to
my father and said, “I’ll take good care of her.”
My dad answered, “You better”. Then he
smiled and winked at me. I thought that’s
my dad!
Diane Dettmann’s the author of Twenty-Eight Snow Angels: A Widow’s Story of
Love, Loss and Renewal, her story of starting over after the sudden death
of her loving husband. She’s also the coauthor of Miriam Daughter of Finnish Immigrants, about Finnish grandparents,
Paul and Hilja Kaurala raising seven children in Embarrass, Minnesota in the
1920s. She is a contributing author
for the Women’s Voices for Change
website and has presented her books at various venues including international
conferences in Finland and Canada. Information on Diane Dettmann’s website:
http://www.outskirtspress.com/snowangels
~~~
Ghost Riders of Elysium
(from “Lightning Ride: a Descent by
Bicycle)
By Michael King
Entering
and sprinting over the meadows of Elysium on my trophy-taking mount, Greek and
Trojan heroes hover on opposite banks of Lethe.
The tonic of oblivion tempts, and they indulge.
While the downpour steams, the phantom
of Rampant Redline Ray, the fastest cruiser pilot that I ever knew, whips
alongside me on a burnished ruby sled.
Another ghostly rider, on a polished pearl sleigh, follows Ray’s wheels
closely.
“Who are we chasing across these fields
we must haunt forever?” the second shade asks Ray. They pull ahead and block us in a blur;
Custom Cruiser heeds.
“It’s Rhyming Rider,” Red answers. “I
knew from the sight of the Pouch of Pallas slinging from the shoulders of a
Schwinn rider,” he sighs. “Besides, what other initiate of our sport would dive
into the depths of damnation, and what other driver would dare the temptation
of our Dreary Lethe.”
“Pedaling Poet, to what end have you
come? To ride the trails of oblivion as we do? Trust me, no trails here below
match the majesty of the trails of life above. Linger no longer than to tell us
of the racing up there,” says First-Turn-First Phil, whom I suddenly
recognize.
“Let me loiter long enough to learn from
you, my loyal teammates, some tournament-tested techniques, so with them I may
bring you triumph under the sun,” I plead.
As I attempt an embrace, shoulders of nothingness fly from my
grasp. “My friends, why do you slip
away?” I ask. “Let me touch your sweating sinews once before I return to the
above,” I beg.
My friends answer together, “We have no
fibers, and we no longer sweat, though our tournaments never end as we chase
untouchable trophies here in our hazy internment camp. So, tell us, who is
champion now?”
“You are the only champions I know.
Certainly, my mentors, you have won eternal fame for your exploits,” I reply,
chilled.
“Better to be a novice above than a champion
below,” they say together. “We did not
ride well enough, we suppose, as we now ride only the fading tracks in our
failing imaginations. So, our comrade on wheels, complete whatever mission it
is you have embarked upon by racing over those far crags you see to the south
of the headwaters of forgetfulness.”
“Surely, one lap around these fields can
do no harm. Let’s race once around in remembrance,” I protest.
“One lap and you will be thirsty; one
sip of Lethe and you will be lost, like us. The trail you must follow to
rejoice again in the light of Day will be test enough of your mettle. Rhyming
Rider, race away.” At that they retreat,
listless on their shadowy mounts, behind the veil of violently pounding rain.
~~~
Two Poems by Michael King
At late fall’s dawn I’m set up on a boulder on
the
bank, before camp’s picture window.
Purple and
vermillion
stretch above the eastern skyline, tips
of
trees obscured by mist that sets upon the lake.
Stubborn
undulations meet rocks, spray ice. One
loon’s
wail
haunts as orange glows sneak upward.
Contrasted
on
grey waves they coat, evergreens contend with browns.
Then
the sun climbs up, pours its bronze and gold onto
the surface, where a beam of ivory reaches out
the surface, where a beam of ivory reaches out
to
me, beneath a hardwood’s bare possessive limbs.
While
shutter clicks record the scene, breakfast scents creep
over
brush and rise with cinders left by last night’s blaze.
Stingray
The
color of candy-red lips, she drips
Raw
torque. Blown V8 muscle claws and rips
Rubber
into any surface we meet
On
the unpredictable path called street.
No
Ford or Dodge can catch her stinging rays.
I
shift her gears and the gas pedal stays
Pinned
to the floor as we blaze down the road.
She
slides through a sweeper and we explode
Onto
a straightaway. Trees look like sticks—
Doin’
one-thirty-five gives me a fix.
I
love to fly in her fiberglass shell.
The
engine whines as we Hot Rod to Hell.
We
outrun all in a mad power surge,
Until
screaming steel and flames kill the urge.
~~~
A Last Eve in Nepal’s Eden
By Russell
Jokela
(1998 Journal
Excerpt)
As I write these lines now I sit on a
riverbank before the close of a most perfect and beautiful evening. The sun has set – a fiery orb beyond an
African savannah it seems. The sky
darkens and we’ve just returned from our final outing: observing birds, poling
on the great Crocodile River, and watching the sun descend beyond its Himalayan
valley. All the jungle loses color now
and turns silhouette. We hear river fowl
call and clack, the air quiets, and the river’s trundle turns distinctly
melodious. The wilds seem more peaceful
in the dark, soothing the solemn mood of this final evening. Dare we say goodbye? “Good evening last light that slips from this
page, allowing these thoughts and feelings, and leaves us alone again!” We shall not know this day again, except that
it repeats itself in the fruition of tomorrow; a reincarnation of endless
spells carried out on the landscape of eternity.
As all remnants of light disappear, we
take candle-lit showers in thatched huts, eat with others in the dinner
rotunda, and thereafter retire with forest guides and camp staff to the
open-air fireside. We kept rhythm to a
sweet old guitar, told stories of the forest, of the day, the animals we
encountered, and some we didn’t. The
stars were as numerous as the myriad leaves overhead, through which our silent
moments rose with the sparks and wisps of the fire. Perhaps only my eyes traced their movements,
up through the thicket of nodding leaves to the stars there, and made out
Orion. His scabbard is a kind of map,
for reasons only the ancient Egyptians knew, to lay out the pyramids at Giza. It is a mystery that leads me from my
companions. Nature is full of these
mysteries, as we came to reflect upon again, out here in the jungles of Nepal.
How little we know and how much we’ve
forgotten, removing ourselves, as we have, from the wilds is another mystery in
itself. Our lives now are a scratching
of the surface. The things we know, and
the things we attend to, often being too complicated, are beside the point.
The stories of the stars, the stories of
the animals, of the forest, of rivers, the stories of time, and of great
mountains, are written on the palms of our hands, in the beat of our hearts, in
the instant you hold your breath and observe nothing but the wealth of the
moment. We are rich beyond measure, of a
wealth that does not burden, and needs no accountant. It is a wealth the self-same as air, which
all alike have equal share.
Driving off through the open plains in
the morning, the jungle now behind us, I realized what the wilds give to us
that we cannot leave behind.
~~~
The Horsefly and Jade Spider
By Russell
Jokela
(at Kuwadori,
July 2000)
On my first day of cleaning and
preparing the old thatched-roof house for our Meister School meeting in August,
as I was organizing the trash in the ‘doma,’ or entryway, my ear was caught by
the sound of a madly buzzing insect near a small overhead window. I believe it caught my attention because it
was fairly loud and incessant, and therefore that of a large fly or bee, as
opposed to a less notable small bug or housefly. Another point which caught my attention and
had me look was that it seemed to be rather immobile, as if as usual ramming
into the window’s glass for its light, but there was no sound of it hitting the
glass or flying to and fro.
Then as I finally looked, it hung
suspended from a single strand of a spider’s web, and spun madly in circles;
not circles with radius, but circles as though the web strand were a rigid axis
which pierced its body, and around that by its own locomotion spun.
The fly was, as I know it, a ‘horsefly’,
which are commonly nearing an inch in length and quite strong. His or her mad endeavor was no doubt to
escape, and she flit and spun with great force and frenzy. And I wondered that she might escape, the
odds seeming in her favor, the opponent being a single strand of web. But the strand did not seem to give way.
About eight inches away I saw hanging a
small spider which was so minute and slender that I thought she feared the
fly’s immensity, or at least felt no hope of catching this rare prey. But as I soon learned, it is difficult to
estimate the will of a spider. She had a
body, to begin with, smaller than a grain of rice, and legs so fine, long and
slender as to be imperceptible, or as some antiquated silk needling tools of
yellowy jade. They operated
independently but mutually, manipulating the fine thread, or rhythmically
plucking it to feel its motions, as fingers slowly at a harp.
The whirring, spinning fly did not seem
to break free, though dangling straight from a single line. The resilience of web is extraordinary, and
must match the will of its maker, or in time the will were derived from it;
such is its divinity, an anchor line which only gives way when the whole ship
is at risk.
A curious thing was that the more the
fly spun the higher it climbed. The
motion was as if it were on a pulley invisibly operated. On occasion it would rise up slowly, and I
saw that if it did not break free, it would entangle itself further in the
overhead, crisscrossing lines. I
imagined that the web it were on tangled about its body and thus rose it up,
and in fact one of its wings did fold in half and become immobile. Here I could envision its end, and the spider
on fearless legs climbed over to it while it were still in seizure and attached
extra lines as she could, carrying them distant and tying them off.
All at once the fly, though in
comparison immense, froze motionless, perhaps exhausted, and the little
knitting lady went naturally about her work, tying off Gulliver and magically
hoisting him up to near a leathery sack the size of a small pea. Was it her incubating offspring?
She had seized a large and perhaps rare
prey in a matter of three minutes. She
continued to rope it off and wrap it in a fine cocoon of web. The fly, I imagined, in due time, upon losing
all possibility of escape, darkens its mind and eyes and passes away on its own
– as nature would have it – not waiting for the impaling fangs and the slow
draw of blood. Why would nature not
supply this effortless and freeing channel to those who would use it?
The next morning, returning to work, I
visited the feasting grounds again to see what new events were taking
place. I found the spider still at the
board some twenty hours later, drawing the last remains of bodily fluid from
the absent fly. The spider’s body had
swelled to five times its previous size, and now matched the shell of her
brood, though her colors became the palest pastel green diluted with
white. She was shiny and delicate while
at her gruesome task.
Not wanting to disturb her while at her
breakfast, I went about my work preparations.
But the next time I looked, some thirty minutes later, the fly’s carcass
had been thrown out of the web, and she was tending to her peapod ones. I picked up the fly’s carcass, and found it
crisp and empty seeming. Its unknown
life, in these Japan Sea mountains, transforms miraculously to spider food,
perhaps spawning the new brood of spiders; though not its own children, through
its death, life is brought to life. Its
dreams may have been unrealized and dissipated with the morning dew, other
dreams were born, and perhaps not unlike its own dreams too; and the event of
its life vaguely reported here.
Thank you spider, thank you fly. As
simple as you are, so am I.
~~~
The Story Behind the Police Log
By Lisa Kline
(Finlandia
University student)
Operator: “911. What's your
emergency?”
She never even heard the words as
her hand holding the phone slid down to her side. This wasn't how she had
planned for her birthday to end. This wasn't how she had planned for her life
to end. But at this very second her husband, Matias, was standing three feet
away, pointing his loaded 12-gauge at her that he had pulled out from under the
bed.
“Go ahead, Anni! Call me a drunken
loser one more time! Come on! Call me a drunken loser, I dare you,” he shouted.
Anni had just gotten home from her birthday
dinner with the kids. She had taken them up to The Hut in Kearsarge for her
free birthday dinner. Matias didn't come along. He was too drunk for public,
and the only thing Anni wanted from Matias for her birthday was for him to be
sober. He couldn't afford anything anyway, except for the watch that he bought
her after he pawned his mother's acoustic guitar. So she took the kids for her
ribs, full rack, and frozen custard just like she gets every year. Afterward,
she dropped the kids off with their father and went home, anxious about what
she would come home to.
The house was dark. Anni paused by
the glass on the sink and took a whiff. Hitting the hard liquor again. “Damn
it!” She knew then that he had passed out upstairs in bed. “He's getting the
sheets sour again,” she thought. She viciously stomped up the stairs. There he
was, sound asleep, bloated body, snoring his fool head off. It was only
eight-thirty and there he was lights out like the champion drunk he had built
himself up to be over the past four years.
Anni wasn't heartbroken this time.
It was her birthday and she had had enough! She slapped on the bedroom lights
hoping to blind him, but he didn't even twitch. This only boiled her blood even
more. She gave him a good shove on the arm; she was in the mood for a fight
now. She shoved him again, harder this time.
“Wake up, Matias! It's my birthday
and you're passed out! Wake up, you drunk loser!” She was ready for it now,
hoping that the pitch of her voice would rouse him. Matias gave a mumble,
startled out of his dark dreams, if he even dreamed in that state.
Anni walked over to the dresser,
threw her clothes onto the floor, and wiggled into her sweats.
“I'm sick and tired of this, Matias!
Every day! You don't work, you do nothing! Oh, wait. That's right you blow the
snow for the neighbors! Let me applaud you!” Anni felt her heart start to pound
in her chest. “God, I can't stand you anymore! You're such a drunken loser, you
know that?” Anni climbed into bed, but she was too wound up now to sleep. She
gave Matias another good shove in the back for good measure. He was awake now
and his temper was about to blow.
“You know what, Anni? I'm tired of
your shit!” In one swift motion, Matias rolled out of bed, reached underneath
the box spring, and produced his father's 12-gauge shotgun. Anni didn't know
what exactly went through her mind at that second, but she knew enough to grab
the phone off the nightstand, turn slightly, hit the 'Talk' button and, without
looking, dial 911.
“Go ahead, Anni! Call me a drunken
loser one more time! Come on! Call me a drunken loser, I dare you,” Matias
shouted. His eyes were a blurry blue and his blond hair was wild. “I swear to
God I'll shoot you! Call me a drunken loser, Anni!”
“Just put the gun down, Matias! Put
it DOWN!” She knew that somehow she had to let the operator on the other end
know that there was an emergency, but without Matias's knowing.
“Say it! Say I'm a drunken loser!”
“No! Just put the gun down! Please,
oh please, just put the gun down! Please, Matias! Please I'm begging you, don't
shoot me! I'm begging you!” There were only two thoughts that were going
through Anni's head in those brief seconds. “My kids. My kids are going to miss
me so much,” and “My guts, my intestines, will be all over the wall behind me.
It will be a mess.”
With the phone still in her hand,
Anni slipped around the edge of the bed and dared to pass Matias.
“Where are you going?” Matias asked.
“Away from you!” Anni shouted, as
she ran down the stairs. In a blur she grabbed her purse and scrunched her feet
into her slippers. She remembered she still had the phone in her hand! “Hello?
Are you still there? Did you hear all of that?”
“Yes,” a female voice replied.
“Where are you right now?”
“I'm getting into my car! I'm going
to lose you though!”
The warm, mothering voice replied,
“That's all right. We have your location. Do you have a safe place to go?”
“Yes! I'm going straight to my
friend Helmi's house. She lives right on Calumet Avenue, just straight down the
street.”
“Officers are on their way right-”
and her voice was cut off.
Anni drove down the hill and turned
onto Calumet Avenue. Still shaking, she decided to pull over and breathe. As
she parked out front of Dairy Land, the seasonal restaurant that was closed for
the winter, she didn't notice much of anything except that she couldn't control
her trembling legs. It was cold, end of January, and she hadn't brought her
coat with her. Just then a pair of headlights came down the street from the
opposite direction and the police cruiser they belonged to pulled up slowly
next to her car. Anni slowly nodded her head to give them recognition that she
was the caller, the subject on the police log.
(Author's note: Inspired by Finlandia faculty member, Lauri Anderson’s book: Back to Misery Bay: "Dostoevsky's Three
Annas" and Other Stories from Michigan's Upper Peninsula.)
~~~
Looking Back
By
Bella Erakko
I
look back mystified
perhaps
(I say to myself)
I
was the one deranged,
lost
in my own mental kitchen full
of cobwebbed memories
and
determined hope,
like
unwashed dishes.
After
all, my mother
(who
I had never liked very much)
was
demented. Totally.
Imagine
my surprise when
she
“passed over”
and
didn’t even
die. No,
she
chatted, pointed, explained
dead
people to me.
Finally
I gave up
and
hired a translator --
psychic,
for short.
With
time and space dispensed with
(the
wave of a holographic wand)
Elsie
rumbled on of past likes and dislikes:
Dancing,
yes. Boating, no.
So what’s it
like, Mom? on the other side
I
open kitchen cabinets to put plates
on
the table—two—one for me,
one
for you.
I
open the refrigerator door
where
corpses long put in now commune
without
need of voices (or a brain
for
that matter) and find
I
don’t have near enough plates.
I
meet the interpreted Elsie
and
her guests -- a lively crowd
no
longer bothered by carrots
growing
white tendrils in the vegetable bin
or
ice cream decked with hoar frost..
It seems music has more notes, light
more
brilliance, love more purity, time
a
rusting mechanism abandoned
in
a parking lot overfilled with space.
It’s
a delightful party, totally minus
a
brain. It seems
souls
don’t need them,
the
fragile sturdy bridge
between
them traversed as
easily
as day melts into night.
~~~
Blind Date
By W.S. Anderson
He was naked and wet
as a country road in April
when I came jalopying along,
dents shined, headlights dim,
ready for a few ruts before the flat.
But he wound graciously onward,
his mist coaxing me along.
The lake sloshed somewhere off his shoulders—
the dim dozen eyes of deer,
trout lily and trillium popping open,
the cool, damp smell of spring air.
Something told me, Pull over.
This trip needs to be savored,
this road needs to be walked.
~~~
Grandfather’s Hammer
By Eero Sorila
My grandfather (1876-1962 ) was walking about his farm property some twenty years before Finland became independent from Russia. In those days many were called by the name of their farm house instead of the proper family name including that of my grandfather. Luckily for me my own father used the official family name. The property name Kangasniemi would have been even more of a tongue twister than Sorila.
My grandfather Erkki Kangasniemi was
farming in Finnish Ostrobothnia (Eteläpohjanmaa)
in the village called Tuuri. The village name means luck but he encountered
better luck by opening a blacksmith shop instead of
farming the land of about 400 acres. The hammer felt better in his hand than
the scythe.
As I was a young boy and looked at the
bellows, the hearth, anvil and the homemade tools in the blacksmith shop it was
like opening a treasure chest. At that moment my
appreciation towards my grandfather grew in leaps and bounds
because he had built the blacksmith shop and the tools by himself.
The skills of a blacksmith in the village were sought after and many steel products were needed. He made steel rims for wagon wheels, rectangular pancake pans from sheet metal and much more. The most significant project for the blacksmith was still to come. The owner of the local sawmill Mr. Inha was in desperate need of help.
The skills of a blacksmith in the village were sought after and many steel products were needed. He made steel rims for wagon wheels, rectangular pancake pans from sheet metal and much more. The most significant project for the blacksmith was still to come. The owner of the local sawmill Mr. Inha was in desperate need of help.
Broken
Axle
The axle holding the circular saw blade
was broken. It had been broken into two pieces.
All work at the mill had come to a stop, Production was at
zero and the employment prospect looked grim. The whole catastrophe was caused
by the broken axle. It is fair to say that the village life revolved around the
axle.
When the axle is in good shape it signified life, when it was broken it meant death. The sawmill owner most probably spent many sleepless nights for not finding anyone who could repair the broken axle. The situation was hopeless. Mr. Inha had heard of Erkki Kangasniemi but had some doubts if a blacksmith who mainly made rims for wagon wheels and pancake pans would be able to repair the broken axle.
When the axle is in good shape it signified life, when it was broken it meant death. The sawmill owner most probably spent many sleepless nights for not finding anyone who could repair the broken axle. The situation was hopeless. Mr. Inha had heard of Erkki Kangasniemi but had some doubts if a blacksmith who mainly made rims for wagon wheels and pancake pans would be able to repair the broken axle.
He however grabbed onto
anything as a drowning person would, even unto a reed in the water. ( Hän tarttui kuin hukkuva oljenkorteen ) The local
tycoon, Mr Inha asked my grandfather if he could
repair the axle. There was no time or need for lengthy discussions and
theories. The iron needs to be molded when it is hot, goes a Finnish saying, (Rauta on taottava kun se on
kuuma ).
Reality dictated
that the broken axle meant bankruptcy for
the sawmill owner and the end of livelihood for the villagers. In those days
there were no such amenities as unemployment insurance.
The blacksmith lowered the axle pieces
with his big callused hands gently
unto the flames of the hearth. The fire
cleansed all
impurities from the steel, which had been subjected to
extremely high heat.
The fine sand placed around the axle functioned as heat stabilizer. Sand
welding was the name of this operation.
The temperature of the flames controlled by the bellows had to be perfectly
right. A certain color of the melting steel was an indication for the
blacksmith when the hammering had to be done. That moment had arrived.
The axle pieces were lifted unto the
anvil and with a homemade hammer the pounding started. Hammering
sounds were heard in the village. The air was vibrating with suspense
as to what would be the outcome. My grandfather’s
hammer was in reliable hands. He
was calm as a fermenting yogurt cask (rauhallinen kuin viilipytty) but relentless with the job at
hand. The
steel was screaming in agony under each blow. Sparks were flying
like fireworks on July 4th in America. This time
however the sparks fell like diamonds unto the pitch
black floor of the blacksmith shop. They were sparks of hope for an expected celebration.
The broken axle pieces started to unite
under each hammer blow. Molecules found their right place in an orderly manner
like scouts in a flag raising ceremony. The original state of the axle was soon to be
achieved. That which had been broken was made
new. After the axle received its last treatment in the lathe it
looked like the best product from a Sheffield foundry. Soon the
sawmill was in full operation. Mr. Inha was jubilant, the
people of Tuuri returned to work and nobody including the sawmill tycoon would ever
question the skills of the local blacksmith. It was time to celebrate. The sweet heat of the sauna near the blacksmith
shop never felt so good.
In 1962 when our family returned home from a summer holiday, an envelope
with black frame had arrived in the mail. The firm grip on the blacksmith’s
hammer needed to repair the broken axle had been released and my grandfather
had died. It was a sad homecoming.
When
Erkki Kangasniemi-Sorila celebrated his 70th birthday as pictured
above he had fond memories of his long career as a blacksmith including the
time when he repaired an axle around which the village’s life rotated.
Eero
Sorila has a degree in history and has written many articles of adventure
travel since 1969.
His
articles have been widely published in Finnish and North American magazines.
Green
Mattress Under the Stars, a 217 page book featuring
55 photographs, contains many of the unbelievable stories.
Available
through USA bookstores and Amazon.com $19.99
~~~
Two Poems by Charles Peltosalo
Copper Plate
Copperhead
colors,
Silvery
bronze, fire tannin,
Copper
plates round like suns adorn your cinnamon breast:
Your
thin-worked skin glistens, undulates,
Shimmers
like glass beads and diamonds under a metal sky.
I
watch you bend the light each effortless turn,
Witness
the colors dance in your snake-dipped gold escape from
Your
circle outward; it spreads a billion shards,
Each
sliver spinning from your center like a wheel.
Shine
forever, copperhead, silent Etowah man transiting the grass.
The
marsh awakes, slowly stretches like a seasoned runner.
Mounds
of eager sweetgrass plume upward 100 ways.
Roused
cattails fluff their wooly manes and
The
moon-high water climbs the slow-receding banks.
Summer
vapors press their fine beadwork together into undetectable diamonds and
heavy-weight the air.
Pine
flowers spire, laughing in the breeze to the pollen-hungry sun:
Amoneeta,
beat your wings,
Stretch
your claws,
Gouge
in circles, shiny furrows, wavy lines.
Etch
this copper plate of day.
The
paper-thin, fed by sun-squeezed juices flit about the flowers’ constellations,
and
Recreate
the stars.
Black
and yellow swallowtail, purple thistle hopping,
Dragonflies
and monarchs string their tiffany pearls all along the swaying green,
Black
and space-blue escorts close behind, multiple jewelers to create the royal
Faberge day.
Their
flight proceeds like Autumn leaves folding,
Muscadine
and gum set swinging with the nectar wringing.
Young
swamp-stationed cypress shoots small fingers green as each anole
Prowling
the honeysuckle vines, brighter emerald than the earliest day of May.
Fragile
flowers hang their purple bells, tissue-soft pastels posing,
Then
in a breeze, losing their violet peals over the cut-glass pools:
Mirror-slides,
seedling ringed,
Their
hummocks dotted with gold-banded baby gators,
Dipped
into by pig and otter,
Sipped
at by bobcat, panther, bear.
Untrackable
reflections flash across them.
White-head
eagles show up as small quick darts and dots,
Then
lose their mirror-kin over land.
Two
marsh hawks acrobat with piercing playful cries’
Loose
down markers to gravity’s bowl.
They
soar the invisible ways,
Each
pass a flirt with this stone-slow other two-foot.
Their
each bright call: “Live life well and come back to Earth like me!”
A
star-dipped bluebird hops about the fence tops,
Rapidly
flits like an unstuck slice of nearby sky, he parallels my path while
Red-winged
birds like jangled keys sing, and
Leopard
frogs plunge faster than the eye, slower than the ear;
Alerted
turtles slide and dash, disappear, set a perimeter the safest spot out,
Each
radar eye and nostril.
Gators
large as logs splash, then sink:
Rulers
return to the marshes’ caramel gold’
In
a hush, everyone awaits my trail gone cold.
A
brisk Summer breeze from the Southwest blows,
Gator
litters, mother’s muscle filigreed, leap en masse to waterholes.
Hunting
marsh hawks call and spin as
The
uncountable ants begin to lace the greening forest floor with redug grains
again.
I’m
suddenly surrounded: Here,
Violet
iris, black-eyed susans are luxury spent on
Carpets, brocades, blankets for the day’s
décor;
Summer’s
colors today somehow brighter than each walk before.
Baby
bobcat, playful yearling,
Emerges
innocent as a kitten from Northeast compass woods,
Sits
on haunches,
Yearns
to play.
Run
home to mama,
Run
home forever.
You
and yours, quick hide away.
Startled
black snakes, shiny rubber tubes,
Race
and bounce through the grass, or rest,
Sit
coiled in the sun like cats on a lawn.
Black
pig, brown pig, then the smaller brown-and-whites,
By
the root-low shadows amble by unseen,
Slip
off to the tested black-water streams.
There
the bristle, tooth, and hair are stroked and groomed and preened.
Amoneeta,
sail in low, spread your wings,
Extend
your claws,
Trace
in circles, wavy lines,
Etch
the coppery plate of day.
All
you innocents, playful yearlings,
Run
home to mama,
Run
home forever.
You
and yours, quick, hide away.
Long Time, No
See
Mt.
Sentinel, my best friend in Missoula, long time, no see.
I
missed you terribly; next time I’ll do a better job.
It’s
been so long that Gypsy, my bandana-ed terrier who climbed you with me so often
last century, had to reincarnate several times and
stick around the M-Trail, noble loyal friend
that she was, until I returned.
In
truth, Gypsy is a spirit I can’t rewrite like that.
She
comforts me from the other side and accompanies me when I’m not there.
I
miss her terribly, too, but next time I’ll do a better job.
My
friendly hill, you who taught me to pray like a local and drink deep water,
Who
taught me why to dance each step, grace-driven, and
Syncopated
my breath to heart,
You
lifted this body’s song from its’ dark chamber,
Chanting
it into the light with your lyric trails.
It
takes a truly sorry person to miss you so badly;
Next
time I’ll do a better job.
After
40 years of climbs, 23 since my last,
I
finally remembered a fast site,
A
place I’ve often paused-long time, no see.
Life
could be worse than to one day have my ashes spread by a stone person’s
outcrop,
There
where ravens’ wings meet the canyon’s breeze.
When
I got to your top the other day,
I
looked off into the neighboring woods and thought I saw little people.
It
was normal people farther away than thought.
Maybe
still, some little people saw me, closer than I thought.
Well,
my mountain, my teacher, whose mule deer ears hear me 500 yards away when I
pause or rattle,
My
schooling on the lakebed below never really stood a chance
With
all your magic and your beauty in my gaze all day.
Such
inviting stairs to the bears’ and eagles’ beyond,
My
great good luck, exquisite pretty sky, stars and lights and wind;
Off
walking in the clouds I’d go.
Good
health and great fortune as fuel, strong steps here is where degrees were
earned.
The
town never had a chance as I made my way close to that revealing sky
Which
doubled its’ approach by its’ matching speed.
Long
time, no see, my friend,
My
pretty hill, my banked eternity.
I
love you and I’ve missed you terribly.
Next
time, I’ll do a better job.
Charles
Peltosalo (the one with the glasses) and friend
Cgpelt
at embarqmail dot com
~~~
Autumn
A translation/adaptation of Lauri Pohjanpaa’s “Syksy”
by
Waino W. Korpela
Taken from the book Finn
Two very old crows
on a fence in a field
sat silently nodding-
emotions concealed.
The reeds had turned brown,
the sky had turned gray
and a steady, cold rain
spawned a bleak, autumn
day.
“The crane has flown
south,”
one said to
the other,
though it seemed that he
spoke
to himself not his
brother.
Silently perched,
long minutes passed by,
“He left yesterday,”
the other replied.
And the cold tune yet played
as rain danced on water
but the friends were
conjoined
in the warmth of each
other.
A blink of an eye,
a tug at a feather,
accepting their fate
in wet autumn weather.
A whiff of grain drying
was brought by the wind.
Gathering darkness
The day at an end.
Two old, wet crows
sitting mute on a fence,
each with his thoughts-
hither, thither, hence.
Then one spread his wings
and cawed a goodbye.
“Nice chatting with
you,”
the other replied.
~~~
The Magnificence of Nature in Finland
By Elsie Jaehn
As our plane touched down at the
Tampere airport in mid-May, the birch trees were just beginning to leaf out,
revealing fresh, green color, a remarkable contrast to the dark green of the evergreens
and cedars interspersed in the picturesque scenery. Ah, we were back to experience yet another
three-month hiatus in a land much closer to the Arctic Circle than Lantana,
Florida, is to the Equator.
When we arrived at the cottage,
nestled safely among 100-ft birches deep in the forest overlooking a placid
lake, we were happy to be in our “summer” home, away from the hustle and bustle
of city life, a place to regenerate and renew our mental, physical and
spiritual selves.
As we raked together mountains of
fallen leaves from last fall, the greening of nature was becoming more and more
evident. The land that was practically
barren when we arrived, had, within a week’s time, burst into a fabulous green
celebration of life, invoking feelings of gladness and joy within ourselves.
The farmers’ rich, brown fields were
neatly plowed and ready to accept plantings for this year’s crops. The scenery, as we drove to our weekly
grocery shopping at Prisma in Kangasala, was an absolute delight to drink in and
revel in its beauty. In early June, the
fields and meadows were overflowing with colorful wildflowers that provided
many bouquets to grace our dining table for the duration of our stay. The
forest floor was covered in a carpet of lily-of-the-valley whose pleasing
fragrance permeated the air as we took long walks along the gravel road.
To accentuate Midsummer Night
(Juhannus), the purple, white and pink Lupines suddenly appeared, almost
overnight, in great abundance along roadways, in fields and in most everyone’s
garden. What a joy to behold nature’s
ever-changing bounty on a daily basis and add to it the ongoing sound of the
cuckoo bird off in the distance, echoing clearly its repetitious tone
throughout the forest setting.
The long summer days periodically
brought the great white swan couple and their youngsters to the shoreline of
the property where we would sit in our swing and watch their activities,
ensconced in the serenity of the forest environment. Mama Koskelo, with eight or nine babies nestled
safely atop her back, was also a frequent visitor, foraging for food among the
lush marsh grasses at the edge of the lake.
On and off we had storms that
gathered momentum as the wind blew sharply through the forest sending the tall
birches into a frenzied swaying motion that resulted in sheets of rain falling
all around us. About ten minutes later,
when the rain and wind had passed, an indescribable stillness filled the vacuum
left by the exiting squall. Not a leaf
rustled in any of the trees, and as I allowed myself to be mesmerized by the
scene, I felt as though the forest was quietly enfolding me into its very
self. It was at times like those that I
absolutely knew that we were one. We are
not separate from nature; we are an intricate part of it. Those precious moments verified that truth for
me over and over during the course of the summer days we spent in nature’s
lush, green habitat deep in the Finnish forest.
In July, the forest offered us wild
blueberries galore, ready for picking by those who were so inspired, and
blueberry pies were on the tables of all who had guests for coffee and cake on
those pleasant summer afternoons. At the
beginning of August nature brought us wild raspberries to feast on and more
pies to bake. Ah, what a glorious bounty
is given to us annually. We are so
blessed!
As the short summer season wore on
and the rain continued to visit us frequently, we knew that very soon the
forest would provide us with an abundance of Kanttarelli (Chanterelle)
mushrooms, and so it was to be. By the
end of July we had feasted on them a number of times, even giving several bag
fulls away to neighbors and friends.
Once the magenta Horsma (fireweed)
was in full bloom, we knew that fall was not too far away. Meanwhile, the farmers’ fields were covered
in mantles of bright green color, as their crops grew quickly during the long
summer days. Roadsides were ablaze with
purple thistle flowers, yellow yarrow, white daisies, and, of course, fields
and fields of Queen Annes Lace, Finnish style.
And then, as August began to
encroach into the season, farmers began harvesting their crops, the Mountain
Ash trees began sporting their bright orange berries, the Heather plants on the
church ridge were dressed in their brilliant lavender hues, and the
Lingonberries were beginning to turn bright red, a sign they were almost ready
for picking and making into jams and jellies.
Yes, fall had come to the countryside.
By the time we were airborne once
again in mid-August for our return to hot and humid south Florida, the Finnish
summer season had been taken over by the scenery of fall. The fields and meadows were tired; they had
completed their season’s work in such a short span of time, and we had the
pleasure of experiencing the beauty of the summer season one more time. We will have fond memories to last us over
the winter until spring brings us back to this delightful land and the summer
cycle begins anew.
~~~
Oh, the Century!
(lyrics to a
song)
By
Joanne Bergman
1
Oh,
the homesteads! All the farms and the towns and the merchants and teachers and
lawyers.
Ah,
the lumber, when the sawmills appeared with the loggers and cooks and the
sawyers.
Ah,
the set-tlers! All the Irish-Italians, the Slavs, and the Swedes and the Finns.
And
the Lappalas, Milma and Risto came too, and they lighted a lamp burning still.
2
Ah,
the forests! All the red pines and white pines and cedars and popple and
birches.
Oh,
the building! All the hospitals, depots, and town halls, schools, taverns, and
churches.
Our
two churches! Mesabi U. U. and Alango were two--now we’re one.
The
Lappalas, Milma and Risto had faith, and they lighted our lamp that burns
still.
3
All
the farmers! All the oats, hay, and barley and carrots and spuds and the
turnips.
Oh,
the gardens, all the dill and the pickles and rhubarb and lilacs and tulips.
Oh,
the worship! All the Jews and the Christians and pagans, and agnostics, too.
And
the Lappalas, Milma and Risto were here, and they lighted a lamp burning still.
4
Oh,
the dance halls! Step to polkas and waltzes and schottisches all the night
long.
Oh,
the music! The ac-cord-ian-ist played using right and left brains, ev’ry song.
Heat
the sauna! Our sisu defies all the cold and the ice and the snow!
For
the Lappalas, Milma and Risto were here, and they lighted a lamp burning still.
5
Oh,
the iron! With the open pit mines and the ore boats and union fights, to-o.
All
the mining, all the hard hats and rail cars and steel that helped win World War
Two-o.
Thank
the miners, in the open pit mines and the hazardous work un-der-ground.
But
the Lappalas, Milma and Risto were here, and they lighted a lamp burning still.
6
Oh,
the cent’ry! Oh, the Fords and the highways and ru-ral e-lec-tri-fi-cation.
What
a century! Yes the decades and years and the changes in civ-il-i-zation.
Unitarians!
With our Old World beginnings and New World opinions we
sing . . .
.
. . For the Lappalas, Milma and Risto were here, and they lighted a lamp
burning still.
Author’s Note:
In 1912 the reverends Risto and Milma Lappala established
the Vapaa Kristillinen Kirkko (Free Christian Church) in
Virginia, Minnesota and the Liberal Christian Church in Alango, 20 miles
north of Virginia. Risto died suddenly in 1923, and Milma, now a widow with
four children, continued to lead both congregations until her death in
1950.
In 1991 an arson fire destroyed the Alango church, and the two congregations merged in 2001, strengthening what is now known as the Mesabi Unitarian Universalist Church, now 102 years old, in Virginia.
In 1991 an arson fire destroyed the Alango church, and the two congregations merged in 2001, strengthening what is now known as the Mesabi Unitarian Universalist Church, now 102 years old, in Virginia.
The churches continue to function as one, most frequently with lay-led services. the combined congregation continues to meet in the original 1913 building designed by architect John Okerstrom, where they frequently sing from the hymnal De Colores. I wrote the centennial words to De Colores for the Centennial Celebration of July 8, 2012.
~~~
Erasing
By Lauri
Anderson
As
soon as he’s dead, contact your chosen funeral home and insist that they
incinerate the body as soon as possible.
Do not put an announcement in the paper.
Ask them not to put one. If
necessary, pay them a small bribe. Once
his body is reduced to ash, do not buy an urn.
Do not put the ashes into a cardboard box or shopping bag because they
will be very hot—put them into a pail.
Pails are very inexpensive at the dollar store. You may want to cool the ashes with water
before you take them to the town dump and throw them away. Preferably, choose a part of the landfill
that is about to be bulldozed so that the ashes will disappear into oblivion
and the man will be erased.
Begin next with his dog. Go to the master bedroom (where he slept with
wife #1, wife #2, wife #3, and …) and enter the only closet. To the right is a box on the shelf. In it you’ll find a handgun and
ammunition. Don’t be surprised. After all, this is America. Load the gun, take it downstairs, and enter
the kitchen. The pantry will be on your
immediate left. On the lower left shelf
just inside the doorway is a bag of duck jerky.
The dog loves this stuff. Take a
piece with you and enter the living room.
The dog will be on his chair,
the one he always sat in after his hip and knees went to hell. Face the dog and enunciate distinctly the
word out. The dog will instantly perk up. His tail will wag wildly and he’ll leap from
the chair and run immediately to the door.
On the wall near the door the dog’s leash hangs from a hook. Attach the leash to the ring hanging from the
dog’s neck. Take the dog outside and
into the backyard. Bend and with your
left hand, offer the dog the piece of jerky.
The dog will come forward to take it.
With the pistol in your right hand, shoot the dog in the head. If you do it right, he’ll instantly be
dead. Throw the still-leashed body onto
the grass by the garbage container behind the front steps. Return to the kitchen and wash your hands. Under the sink is a package of official city disposal
bags. Take one, return to the dog
carcass, and throw it into the bag.
Carry the bag to the roadside.
Early Friday morning the city waste truck will come by and take away the
dog. You’ll never see it again. The dog will be erased. That part of the man will be erased. If there is blood on the grass where you shot
the dog or threw the carcass, rain will soon erase it. The world and you will be safe from that
memory. Don’t forget to rewash your
hands.
The man died with mementoes from the
unusual places where he once lived and worked.
Because he never returned to those places and lost all contact with
former students and friends from these places, you can safely assume that no
one in these odd corners yet remembers that he ever existed. Destroy these items—a Palauan grass skirt,
Hausa hats, an Inuit painting, Trukese leis, Igbo masks, Yoruba fans, a Tibetan
mask from a Nepalese refugee camp, a Hausa grammar book and dictionary, a
Turkish cezve, a Hittite shirt, a
six-foot-long map of Togo, a large map of Truk Lagoon. Mementoes of this kind should not exist in
Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Burn them
(or sell them on eBay, which amounts to the same thing). Mementoes from Paris and other European
places are less distinctive and less of a threat. Just throw them in with the rest of his
possessions. The same should be done to
Mexican items.
This guy taught weird stuff
sometimes. In Commonwealth Literature he
taught authors who write in English but who are from Africa, the Caribbean, the
Pacific islands, India, Pakistan, Guyana, New Zealand, Tristan da Cunha, and Australia.
He also taught Finnish-American literature and Island Cultures of
Micronesia. Why? What’s that all about? Why should money be wasted on such
esoterica? Students need to study engineering,
science, math, management, economics, and health sciences. The wave of the future is in Sports
Management. Everything else is just a
waste of time. Fortunately all of his
classes have died with him and we can get back to the practical, to useful
stuff that keeps people broadly ignorant.
There’s nothing more irritating than an educated population. Just look at what happened back in the ‘60s. Those liberally educated masses ended a war
and segregation and got civil rights for minorities, women, and workers. They reformed schools. They messed up. Now we have to roll back and erase their
mess. Erasing this guy is just one small
step for mankind.
He’s
a weasel too. He knows next to nothing
about music but has written about meeting Ravi Shankar one afternoon in Paris,
about meeting a West Virginia woman who was there as a child observer when her
father sold some moonshine to Hank Williams in the wee morning hours of January
first in 1953. A couple of hours later,
Hank was dead. He’s seen Hal Lone Pine,
Joan Baez, and Bob Dylan live in concert. So what?
If we erase the man’s words, we erase the events.
Clean out his office. He has approximately 2500 books in there,
including the major works of all of the world’s major writers. He has an equal number of books at home. Books
define him. That’s what he is—books.
He’s also grammar and punctuation.
Students have called him a grammar Nazi.
Yes, he is guilty. We do not need
a Nuremberg. Destroy all of his grammar
and mechanics books. Give the other
books to the college library. They will
sell a few by the front door—ten cents each.
The rest they will throw away, though
they might keep The Graves of Academe, an
original edition of Howl, Provence and
Pound. Who knows what they might
choose to keep? It doesn’t matter. The saved will be shelved in the stacks. After all, today’s library is a computer
center. Today’s young people spend their
time reading from computer screens and phones and iPads. They don’t even know what stacks are. They never wander the stacks. He will be erased.
Throw
out all printed matter found on or in the three desks, the filing cabinets, the
chairs. Much of it is in cardboard boxes
unopened since the ‘70s or ‘80s. Here
and there are drafts of manuscripts, including several completed unpublished
novels. REMEMBER—the most dangerous
aspect of this man is his writing! Be
sure any and all manuscripts are destroyed.
Be sure to include photos of his mentors—Hemingway, Cather, O’Connor,
Joyce, Dostoyevsky.
These cover the walls.
Finally, rip down all of the stuff on
the hallway walls near his office. The
man created an elaborate collage of himself, selfishly spreading his
self-promotion to the walls of colleagues.
This collage is made up of dozens of cartoons, of satirical comments on
academic conferences concerning baseball or Ali. Destroy all of this collage.
From all of the print in and outside of
his office, be sure to save only all references to strategic plans, assessment,
and board meeting minutes. He’d hate
that.
Now turn to the man’s home—the place
he’s lived since 1978, the place he bought for $22,500. Burn it and all that is inside after you have
removed pictures that his children might want.
Otherwise, people might remember that he existed while they are driving
by. Include the garage.
After these steps we will be safely rid
of the man and his damned books. Yes,
copies will still be scattered about the country and in Europe (especially in
Finland), but publishing has changed and his publisher has changed too. His publisher now only keeps a book in print
if the author is constantly setting up places to sell the few printed
copies. Within a couple of years, his
publisher will have killed off all of his books and he’ll be forgotten. About four thousand bookstores have closed,
so most outlets for books have disappeared.
So has he. Yes, he had nine NEH
grants and spent summers with academics doing research on esoteric topics such
as Twelfth-Century Provencal Literature (Mount Holyoke), Contemporary Islamic
Literary Topics (Colorado College), Commonwealth Literature (Indiana
University), The Contemporary Mexican Novel (UGuadalajara), The Russian Novel
(Cornell), American Humor (UNew Mexico), Appalachian Writers (Ferrum), and so
on. It doesn’t matter. Academics are notorious for meeting all sorts
of people that they’ll promptly forget ever existed.
So he will very quickly be erased. A thousand years from now no one will know
that he ever existed. All of his words,
words, words will not just be forgotten—they will be erased. But since we are doing nothing about climate
change or population control, our descendants will be erased by then too.
If in the next thousand years
Dostoyevsky’s writings are erased, we’re all in trouble. We will be the blankness of the remainder of
this sheet.
Yes, it’s been a very long winter. James Welch had it right. Here in this part of the world we all have
winter in the blood. Our boards are white. We erase them to blankness.
Lauri Anderson is a long-tenured English
Professor at Finlandia University and has published multiple books, the most
recent being From Moosehead to Misery Bay
or The Moose in the VW Bus, North Star Press ISBN 978-0-89839-6644
Lauri
dot anderson at Finlandia dot edu
~~~
The Rabbit
Hole
By
Lisbeth Holt
How
do I get out of this place?
How
did I even ever get here?
Who
made that final push; was it me?
And
why now, why here, I repent
For
whatever it is that I may have done
And
obviously must have done
Or
I would not be here;
Here,
in this strange convoluted place!
I
don’t like this growing inwardness of my bones
Or
this fragile softening of my skin;
The
fragmented bursts of my words.
No! This is not a stage I had envisioned:
I
had dreamed of a far-arching ascent into the ethers
Or
secret exit into a hidden wilderness.
Not
this! A macabre carnival house of sorts;
To
show up and not be me!
How
appalling a scene
Here
in the rabbit hole where I am under scrutiny.
Can
I execute a final redemptive leap of faith
And
return to that miraculous state of grace?
My
inner fire must discover the way
To
spiral upward in a radiant flame…
Today
will be the day of my great escape!
I’ll
consider it a nightmare that I had
And
then blessedly awoke to be me again –
Bruised
but free again, in embrace of angels.
Lisbeth
Holt
travelbylis
at aol dot com
As always, what a beautiful issue, Terri and Sirpa! Thank you!
ReplyDeleteThanks!
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