Showing posts with label Finnish Heritage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Finnish Heritage. Show all posts

Friday, August 29, 2025

FIRST GENERATION

 


Our grandparents sent long, descriptive letters from across the ocean, while we recited the pledge of allegiance to a flag of forty-eight stars in a one-room schoolhouse, the familiar language of home left at the door, along with the breath-damp wool of scarves and mittens in winter. I am an American now, we were made to recite again and again, and to write it in our notebooks until it became as familiar as our own names, the names which others could not or would not pronounce correctly, and could alter with the stroke of a pen. Our prayers, too, were in English, but only when spoken out loud. Our parents, aunts, and uncles braided the old language with the new, sometimes losing track, beginning again, sometimes inventing a new word where no other could be found. But our silence, in endless variations, was easily understood, neither awkward nor American. It sat as easily as a hammock stretched between two pines, swaying gently from east to west, responsive to the slightest breeze.

Thursday, July 3, 2025

MY GRANDFATHER'S DAY BOOK

 


Worn and dappled with age, it creaks slightly upon opening, must in its creases, a small narrow door leading immediately into the past. The winding blue script within -- all of it in Finnish -- I can only translate in part, a reminder that language, like memory, can only take us so far. What is left out of this ledger -- this list of dates, facts, and figures -- must write its own story elsewhere. There is no listing for the cost of whiskey and cigarettes, no mention of the son drowned on the other side of the world, nor the wife who followed soon after, no price mentioned for the arsenic that took her. The margins are narrow. There is room only for what he is willing to record, that which makes sense and can be easily measured. I don't know where my own days stand, so many squandered with laziness, the stubborn refusal of youth, so many unaccounted for. I know only that their shadow grows long, no matter which direction I stand. If I am found lacking, grandfather, let these words be a start, let my debt be paid in the telling.

Monday, November 11, 2024

LEARNING TO SWEAR

I didn't speak much as a child, though 
I learned early, as we all did, which words 
to avoid saying, even if muttered under our breath,
stepping carefully around them,
like broken glass littering the sidewalk,
referring to them, if compelled to,
only by their first letter or two. They were words,
mostly of bodily  function, that came with
punishment, words that got your mouth 
washed out with soap.
Later, I tried them out on my tongue,
alone in my room, foreign words,
oddly shaped and sharp, the sound of them
vaguely startling, even when unattached
to any particular meaning or context.
Last week, my daughter pleaded 
to learn a swear word in Finnish, which
I foolishly gave in to, a small stone
that will eventually be thrown 
back at me.
But since she was born, I have been trying
to unlearn the lazy and the vulgar,
leaving the slings and arrows 
to Shakespeare,
and those more clever with speech than me.
I want more praise, more praise,
less cursing of the gods we continually implore.
I want her to know -- and to know 
myself -- that I revere
this most ordinary of lives,
with its drudgery and inconsistencies, its shifting language 
which can never describe it all,
its welcoming silence at beginning and end.

Friday, August 30, 2024

MAN AND CROW

 

No one remembers now how or when, but the crow took to Grandpa Nels, and he took to the crow, until it began to follow him far into the field, the two of them talking about whatever it is that a man and a crow discuss -- the likelihood of rain, the ordinary things that matter most, or what it means to be alone on this earth. When he carried water from the well to the barn, again and again, the crow tagged along. When he fed the fox that slept in the shed, never bothering the turkeys in their pens, the crow kept watch. Grandma said the bird was so smart it could count and answer your questions, and always knew when you were talking about it. They took to speaking Finnish, the way they did to keep the kids from listening when they argued. They forgave it for stealing coins and buttons, a thimble, and even Grandpa's teeth, which were eventually returned. When it vanished, no one knew just why. It simply had crow work to do, perhaps a family of its own to watch over. But it left its absence in all the places it had been. Grandpa's shadow grew thin, his body frail, and whatever had been spoken between them remained so, white clouds sweeping clear the summer blue sky.

Sunday, July 28, 2024

GHOST STORIES

 


Visiting the Finnish Lutheran Cemetery,
the small clapboard church leaning wearily toward
the empty highway, my cousin reminds me
of what the gravediggers told her, how the residents here
grow restless in the evening, walking and conversing,
as if not yet settled on this idea of being dead.
"But," she reminds me, by way of disclaimer,
"they have been known to partake in the whiskey."
Everyone has a ghost story around here:
restless ghosts walking the creaking staircase all night,
opening the heavy doors and windows, shaking
the rusty box springs of the bed, or the mischievous one
who locked the unsuspecting dog in the car overnight,
and the stubborn one who followed the family when
the farmhouse burned to the blackened ground.
My ghosts, by contrast, are so reserved, hardly stirring
from their bodies of air, speaking only from the measured
silence of the page, leaving even the dust in its place.
I told you, dear friend, to visit as often as you like,
test your presence in this once-familiar world,
read the poems you wrote when still a teenager,
amused, I would imagine, by what seemed
so important to you then. Haunt me as you like, love.
Come close. Hover, the way you sometimes did
when I worked, if only to see if you are in the words
I have not yet begun to write or understand.


Thursday, April 11, 2024

ALL ABOUT THE BLUES

 

It's all about the blues, you remind me,
smiling, nodding in affirmation -- dry, chalky blue
of the sky brushing itself one way, then another,
unfathomable cobalt of the great lake churning below,
haint blue of my mother's Appalachian home,
undiluted sininen of the old country,
midnight rising like a bruise beneath the snow.
How many have come to greet us today,
come to call us back to the pulse and hum of this
indelible world, this never-too-familiar world,
this world of unfolding luxury, fear, and surprise?
You say there is a horizon here some days,
and sometimes we must make our own.
You say the colors we love most are the ones
we can never know by name, would not want to know,
colors that no amount of mixing could create.
Not until later, when you have painted this
landscape and placed it in my hands, its colors
still wet and shimmering -- reaching for one another,
as all things will -- do they begin to reveal
themselves, becoming at once a place I could
walk into, land or no land, sky or no sky,
a place in which I could easily drown.

Saturday, March 16, 2024

ODE TO MESABA CO-OP PARK

 

Back then, there were places where our feet
could not freely walk, where our bodies
could not stand without standing apart from those
some would deem polite society,
our eyes and broken speech giving us away,
patched overalls with a tie on Sunday mornings.
They put up signs: No Indians or Finns Allowed.
They called us Reds, Commies, Jackpine Savages,
called us Barbarians, wearing only our flesh
from sauna to lake shore, steam rising like a thousand
unsettled ghosts, speaking a language full of
closed doors to outsiders, the clicks and
clacks of birds and fallen branches.
Some of us still believed in God, though our sin
was having dared to question the ruling class, dared --
like young Twist -- to humbly ask for more.
But we made our spaces sacred through sweat.
We built a floor on which to dance,
a schoolhouse so our children could learn,
placed our chairs up in the trees, high enough to see
the black sedans of federal agents below,
our minds drifting with the untethered clouds.
Back then, we were dangerous, we were other,
reluctant revolutionaries in this new land,
wanting only to live our quiet working lives.
But sometimes the rabble needs to be roused,
the earth itself shaken from slumber,
the forest called to by name until it answers
in kind, until it invites you as family, and as friend,
its open door leading you gently further in.

Friday, August 11, 2023

MY DAUGHTER SPEAKS OF BIRDS

 

My daughter speaks of birds, speaks in wonder
of their sing-song call and response,
their endless reserve of resilience and guile
in the face of all manner of adversity,
the sudden and startling grace of their flight,
which, after all this time, continues to
amaze those of us standing
flat-footed on the earth below.
She asks which bird I might come back as
after I have departed from this life,
and how she will know it's me.
"Fly close to me three times," she suggests,
"then give out one call." This seems
a reasonable request, provided my new
bird-self can remember the details.
Our ancestors, after all, believed that
the soul was carried in, and away,
on the wings of the sielulintu,
that the whole of earth and sky were formed
from the broken shell of a fallen egg.
We settle, for now, upon a common jay,
brightly handsome but unassuming,
vigilant in watching over its family, never
straying far from its wooded home.
We have, I hope, the better part of this life
to draw our fragile maps,
perfect our signals, our language
of mutual understanding.

Wednesday, August 2, 2023

THE COUNTY LINE

 

(Tyyne Natus, 1906-1953)
Having waded through the green waves of ditch grass
and wildflowers, bramble grown nearly waist-high,
the prickly stems of young strawberries
and the private cosmology of gnats, we arrive
like casual explorers to examine the broken foundation,
hidden from view off the highway, of what once was
The County Line Bar, place where my grandparents --
only yesterday it seems -- served up drinks
to the always thirsty locals and those passing through,
and no doubt consumed as much as they sold.
Who's to say that these ruins are not sacred,
or their ghosts worthy of remembrance?
Just over there, my grandmother stood for what has
become my favorite photograph of her, framed
on either side by my grandfather and two regulars,
laughing, girlish and seemingly without care,
her small dog held close against her, one cloud of breath,
all but invisible, hovering in the crisp winter air.
This is how I want to remember her, her smile
like a sudden flash of daylight, the gold in her hair
shining, even in black-and-white -- before the loss
of a son on the other side of the world tore
something in her irreparably, before the alcohol bruised
and the weight of her days became too much.
I need to remember this moment, if only for myself,
to remember that she knew joy upon this earth,
the ease and gentleness of common things,
that she loved and was called beloved in return.

Sunday, June 4, 2023

AN AFTERNOON IN EARLY JUNE

 

It was the day of our neighborhood fair, the street closed from one end to the other to make room for carnival rides, local food vendors, and musicians. Kids with faces painted as jungle cats or superheroes strode up and down, panting dogs lapped up the water left out for them. Someone at the coffee shop had paid in advance for the next person's order, a gesture which was quickly taken up by the next, and the next, on and on, each new customer surprised by this mild act of generosity. The cash register grew quiet, the tip jar was emptied and filled again. I like to think this small, impromptu ritual went on long after I left, their smiles and nods, the polite raising of their glasses, stranger to stranger. "Kippis!," as my daughter and I say at home, a Finnish toast I first heard as "keep us" -- as in, keep us well, keep us together, keep us close to the source of this love, whatever the name. Keep us here, savoring that first sweet sip the whole length of the day.

Sunday, May 21, 2023

FINNISH PANCAKES

 

We stand at the kitchen counter,
my young daughter and I, mixing together
the milk, flour, sugar, and eggs by hand,
and per the family recipe, we do not measure
too closely, and are careful not to over-mix.
This recipe, handed down from her great-aunts,
and much further back than that,
is more feel than science, I am reminded,
not so different than writing a poem or falling in love.
In other words, it's always the first time.
When in doubt, add more butter,
always remember who you are cooking for,
and don't be afraid of small mistakes.
We can never resist peeking into the secret realm
of the oven as it browns and bubbles up
over the rim of the pan, as if from the earth
itself, lovely in its imperfection. Moments later,
lingonberries and maple syrup dripping
from our lips, we agree that this must be the best
batch yet -- until the next, and the next.
This is sustenance, after all, but also
a kind of song, a calling back to a world
long past, before setting out into the bright
expanse of this new day.

Thursday, May 4, 2023

CAESURA

 

Sibelius, too, near the end,
learned to love silence
more so than the notes which
he once constructed,
held one finger up to the air,
as though about to sign
his name -- but, of course,
his name was already there.

Thursday, March 16, 2023

MY GREAT GRANDMOTHER AT 75

 

In the photo, grown cracked and distant
with age, my great-grandmother Kustaavas is seated
outdoors, her plain dress dignified, unadorned,
a large birthday cake balanced on her lap.
Her face, remarkably unlined, looks on, quizzically,
head tilted slightly to one side, a thin glimmer
of a smile shining forth through shadow.
She is centered perfectly in the frame,
as she was undoubtedly in life, yet clearly seems
unaccustomed to such a fuss being made.
In the lower left, the back tire of a Model-T
casts its lengthening shadow, a tangible bridge
stretching from one century to the next;
while further off to the right, a milk pale stands
as a reminder that this life is a life of work,
its chores never finished, and that cows, chickens,
and children pay little heed to the sabbath.
But in this moment, at least, she appears content
with it all, the moment of stillness well earned.
In the next, she will draw her breath in deeply,
blow the candles out like so many sparks
of light in the night sky, out past the camera's
shuttered lens, beyond her own imagining,
far enough to find us here, still in need of such light.
Send more, Isoäiti, send more.

Sunday, January 29, 2023

THE SOCIALIST OPERA HOUSE

 

It's long gone now, the place where the working class Finns met to raise their banners and sing the songs of labor, to act upon the stage a world that made a bit more sense, taught the lessons not yet learned. Gone now the farmers with broken English and missing fingers, the rebel girls and rabble rousers, the miners who shed their blood for a day's pay and a day of rest in this land of the free. Gone now, one dream swallowed by another when no one was looking. Though the bones of the building remain, housing yet another office, yet another bank. But the stage is still there, hollow, and long unused, holding close its secrets in dusty curtain folds and boards. The old songs are still there for any voice to lift again. The prop ship still hangs in the dust of darkened rafters, white sails torn and frayed, ready to set sail for a paradise, real or imagined, so very far from here.

Thursday, January 19, 2023

ALL THE LOVE WE LAY CLAIM TO

 

My great-grandfather Juho leans forward slightly
in his chair, as though about to speak
or to reach out his hand one last time
to his beloved, at rest in the casket beside him,
its doorway already covered in handfuls of flowers
and soil, heavy and damp, the solemn faces
of men in the background looking on, weary,
their funeral suits and ties virtually interchangeable.
But the mourner up front wears his work shirt
for this, the hardest labor he has endured
in a lifetime of work, his hands having carved
long into the night a seemingly endless array of roses
and filigree into the wood, as he had once carved
into the marriage bed, and the children's cribs,
hands that look suddenly exposed and empty,
lingering like uncertain birds too long into winter.
Could he have imagined this moment when he arrived
from that other world, with neither currency
nor language, to stake his claim and break this
ground open like a sacred book of secrets?
He must have known, without ever having to say,
that the earth we till must be fed in return,
and all the love we lay claim to must be met equally
with grief, solid as the ground on which we stand.
This, it seems, is the only bargain we are offered,
our baffled silence continually interpreted as assent.

Sunday, November 27, 2022

AT THE NATURALIZATION CEREMONY

 

The families begin arriving early, the men in freshly
pressed suits, pocket squares, the women in bold patterned
dresses and colors that defy the gray drizzling skies,
their faces without exception beaming with light,
young children at their sides looking up,
knowing this day to be something extraordinary.
"There are people who live here who hate this country,"
the young woman from Colombia explains
to a local newscaster, shaking her head, "but to us,
this is still The Promised Land. It's everything."
I can't help but think of my own ancestors, who, too,
arrived with nothing, learned to speak this strange, unruly
language, drive cars, fight this nation's many wars.
It's hard to imagine my steely-eyed great-grandfather,
never caught smiling in a photo, wearing a face of
such unabashed joy. But what do I know of another's heart?
I know only this moment, this day, this swell of pride
as these new citizens make their way up Kellogg Boulevard,
their small flags waving in the chilly damp air.
It is as though a hundred or more makeshift boats were
setting out, each on a separate but similar course.
Even when they have all but vanished from view,
their voices can still be heard singing, laughing,
proclaiming -- so many different dialects, different
songs, so many different ways to say Home.

Wednesday, October 5, 2022

SNAPSHOTS OF MY GRANDPARENTS, CIRCA 1947

 

for Nels and Tyyne Natus
They lean into each other, almost imperceptibly, as two old drunks, long familiar with one another, often will, partly out of love, partly out of habit. They wear neither their Saturday clothes nor their Sunday best, he in plaid farmer's jacket and frayed cap, her hat tilted like a lazy flower to one side of her bronze-tinted hair. Their smiles look slightly weary, as if lacking the energy to rise fully above the surface. But this seems to be a moment on which they could agree -- no arguments here, no shouting in the old language or the new -- years before she chose the arsenic over the simplicity of sunlight, before the cancer carved through him a path which no living thing could ever hope to travel. In this moment, the silence is not pointed but as gentle as the smoke which surrounds them, bringing them somehow closer, their pale eyes narrowed slightly against the light.

Thursday, August 4, 2022

TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS AT FUNERALS

 


It was, my cousin reminds me, once quite common for one family member or another to snap a photograph of their loved one in final repose, a keepsake to be placed among the golden locks of hair, the bronzed baby shoes, and that tiny bracelet that somehow fit on your grandmother's wrist. They would not have minded, we would like to imagine, going as they were before the Maker in their Sunday finest, faces freshly painted and powdered, sunken cheeks glowing rosy once again. In childhood, those images never failed to startle, while thumbing the thick pages of the family album -- the scene shifting suddenly from kids laughing through the candlelit glow of birthday cake, or your mother holding your sister next to a dog whose name no one can recall, to a waxen, expressionless face peering above a casket's satin pillows, its exterior dark and final. It seemed ghoulish, and perhaps selfish, the need for that one final image of one who could neither smile nor offer consent. But perhaps such clinging is not unreasonable. Perhaps I am no different, telling this to you, conjuring with words the unreliable visages of the past, endlessly attempting to name and reclaim a part of the world that has long since departed.

Tuesday, May 17, 2022

FINNISH FUNERAL, AITKIN, MINNESOTA (1939)

 

It's impossible to know who is behind
the camera's noisy shutter, capturing these
mourners gathered beneath a haze
of summer sun, in somber black and gray,
gazing, without exception, at the dry ground.
Not so unusual, perhaps, for a people
known for their stoicism, for not making such
a fuss about this life, whose language has
many words to describe the existential weight
of snow and ice, but lacks any future tense.
The pallbearers stand on the back of the flatbed,
the hand-carved coffin between them,
men long accustomed to labor, not quite
prepared for this task, their faces shadowed
by grief, hands held close to their bodies,
as if already clutching at bits of earth.
My father is the baby here, knowing only
his own hunger, memorizing each face,
the sound of their voices, each particular touch,
while my mother, many miles away, has not
yet opened her blue eyes to this world.
My great-grandmother is about to move,
slowly, just outside of the picture frame,
becoming, seemingly overnight, part of what
we call history, that lengthening shadow
we each carry, yet never quite manage to catch,
that which shows no sign of stopping
for us, or even of slowing down.

Sunday, April 24, 2022

WE ARE STILL HERE

 

We are still here, do you understand,
standing amidst the mountains
of rubble where our children now play,
their faces reflected in the shattered glass
of storefronts and depots, the stagnant
water filling in the tracks behind you.
We have scorched the earth to ash
in order to welcome you, burned down
the humble homes our fathers built
so that you may not know their comfort.
There will be no bed for you here,
no rooms for you to enter, not a single
floorboard for you to walk upon.
For we are still here, do you understand,
singing the old songs and the new,
whistling past the graveyards you have
built as swiftly as we can fill them.
We have, you will see, made room there
for you. We are not uncivilized.
We give you seeds to fill your pockets.
We build statues of you in the snow.
We stand, you will come to know,
as the deep forest stands, unyielding,
breathing in the entirety of sky at once.
We are still here, as even you can plainly see.
We will continue to be here until not
a single blade of grass remains,
nor a single mayfly buzzing in flight,
nothing but the breath that breathes life
into these words, however simple,
upon which we will stand, beginning anew.

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