WINDSWEPT: 1896 THE DAY YOU WERE BORN

1896: Windswept: The Day You Were Born

Relentless cramping ceased with your appearance and your cry, the word “Angel” took its place as I reached towards your squirming body. Wrapped in the warmed towels from the wood stove, I knew you were safe from the harm that propelled me to this possibility of a new life. I wanted you to know everything the way I understood it in that moment. As you can see I scratched out the numbers on this journal, knowing it would begin the day you were born.

My life began in a place whose borders, ill defined by nation and language, remain disputed by many. At the time I only knew of a charmed life of laughter and love and abundance.

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A small wood piece blackened, partially burnt, held tightly in momma’s fingers thickened like the wood itself, from kneading the bread, and pushing the wheat grains against the rock until it powdered. Against the flattened honed wooden plank, she scratched out a face with an open mouth, curling a line from the mouth up to the sky.    

“Our story,” she hummed. Momma scratched out the face of the singer, the one who sang the tales of the beginnings of time.  She etched around the small drawing and it joined others around the house decorating the step that I ran around on summer days.

The blackened mark washed with winter snow and summer rains, but the scored part of the drawing remained. Each plank began the story Momma sang to me at night, in her soft low voice. Poppa joined with the Harpuu at times and I fell asleep with the stories of the falling leaves turning to dirt under heavy snow, that melted in the spring to show the waiting green sprouts beneath, of the river magic that flowed with a song of promise, a river that caressed the earth and brought it life.  

“Our language, our song,” hummed momma.

“We have the Kalevala now!” poppa pointed to the small book.

“A written song,” she took the familiar charcoaled wood and scratched a letter on the hearth, before the wooden fire that warmed our home, heated our food and in a hollowed out rock imbedded in the sides, baked the bread we took to the fields.

“Me too!” The black stained my fingers as I tried the different letters and sometimes drew the man who sang the story of the mother Louhi, whose daughter I dreamt I would be someday.

Sometimes my hands turned black from all the scratchings, and when I touched the warmed bread we shared with the warmed broth that covered our vegetables, it turned black too. I wanted to wash them in the river, where the fish swam so easily, and wipe them on the river grasses so they wouldn’t stain my bright blue skirt that same color.

Momma never scolded, there was no reason to. The dangers from the river that bordered the property were repeated to me.

“Do not go to close to the water, it will reach up and pull you under so you cannot breathe,” she said.

When I approached the edge I saw the fingers of water creeping up the side, some pulling the roots of the plants under, and disappearing, some floating up but never standing again. I did not want that to happen to me. So, I stayed away.

Once again I looked out at the plains outside my home and the sun and wind pushed my way, joyful playthings that danced and twirled and sang with me. The wind moved the sparse grasses on the field. The sun danced on the sheaves of wheat that momma and poppa put in standing stacks as far as the edge of the road. A long stalk pulled them together in a stand. When they worked together, it was play, like the dance they seemed to live all day long with smiles and laughter and joy in the moment. I ran after momma. I wanted to hold her flying long dark blue skirt that swirled when she moved across the field. Poppa’s coarsely woven shirts and pants clung loosely around him as he wandered up and down the fields in tandem with momma.

Sometimes he would turn quickly and, too close to stop, I ran into him and his large palms slid under my arms to lift me to the sky, where the sun caressed my face in the laughter that filled the summer days.

One Spring the snow was trampled under foot of heavy men, men whose sounds did not flow out in gentle words of life and harvests that brought abundance and bread to all. The trampled snow flattened the green that became tall and golden by summers end.

And when they saw the etchings on the small porch I ran by every day in summer, they tore it down, and sharp pieces, splinters, and only parts of faces remained. They pushed the door down to our home and crushed the Harpuu leaving the gut strings on the floor.

I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds I heard until the heavy boots, their flattening destruction and darkness, went away. Momma and poppa stood still next to me, and I was not afraid. Still I felt momma’s hand as she grasped mine so tightly the pain had turned to numbness. Her hand was cold.

They stood still that day and spoke of plans.

“They will not return,” said poppa.

It was then that momma began to shake, and the tears came, like the rain that poured before the river flowed, after the ice melted, before the spawning of the fish, before the harvest. It seemed they flowed until that fall before the frost began.

One small piece of the porch drawing remained and it stayed inside. Poppa sanded it slowly with another piece of wood until it shone, then with the splinters that remained he pieced them all together, and one day I heard the sound of singing that I longed for every day. The Harpuu was reborn, and the strings sang with the voices that surrounded me.

It told the story of the earth, how it was formed, how strong the bard’s song could be in the face of danger, how deep it went to bring the winter on and then return again. How it searched out answers with words, and healed with the breath of spring.

I wanted those days to last forever.

That winter momma grew heavy and her footsteps slowed. A gentle quiet overtook the winter howling and she didn’t venture out to play. Poppa took me skiing and sledding every day and momma cooked. The smells of bread rising and the milk churned into butter that melted into the valleys of the piece torn off at the end of day. The home so warm it felt like the sun on my face, heated until it seemed to burn and I turned away.

My hair grew long and Momma touched each strand as if it were gold itself, caressing the ends and touching them with a light oil so they would respond to her plaiting fingers. She wound them round my head and tucked them under, never pulled them tight, they only found their way to the top of my head as though they were meant to be a crown of sorts to celebrate the winter and the closeness that we felt.

Spring came and lazy purple flowers pushed themselves out to greet me, and sprouts from the field began their journey to become wheat again.

One day momma screamed out, and I ran to see what happened. A pool of water lay beneath her and she breathed so fast I thought she might collapse.

“Find Poppa and let him know it’s time.”

I ran out to the mudded fields where poppa dug another hole for the post he was about to place.

“It’s Momma and she says,” poppa never let me finish.

He dropped the shovel and ran wiping his hands against his pants. It seemed as though the running got faster with every step as he let the mud cake on his mukluks, large hunks fell off as he ran.

I only had my shoes on and took to the side of the field and tried to match his step to no avail. He was at the house and called for me.

“We must make ready.”

I followed his instructions and heated water over the open hearth, and stoked the fire and brought more water. I rolled  the towels into bundles and placed them on the stone shelves on either side of the fireplace where we baked bread and waited for the heat to do its job.

Momma leaned against the central beam in our house and groaned and in between the groans walked slowly around the square shape of our house. The wooden floor creaked with her step. She passed my bed in one corner, past the fireplace in the center and then announced.

“I must lie down,” and found her way to the moss filled mattress that she and poppa slept on.

My poppa began a song I had not heard before, it spoke of new life, of the love of Louhi’s daughter for her beloved, of promises of wealth and happiness, of the power of the song to heal and stop contention. I heard them humming in the past but never a song that went back so far.

My momma became silent and the cry of a first breath broke the silence, and she sobbed and stretched out her arms for the squirming mass that had emerged.

“Urho” they said in unison as poppa wrapped the mass in the warmed cloth and placed him on my momma’s chest.

“That’ll do.”

The little one didn’t actually do much except to sleep and nurse while momma’s step improved. The summer fall and winter went by lazily, like so many before and by Spring Urho began to walk and I to chase him as he did and catch him when he fell. He laughed with those falls, in a way that made me laugh with him. With the next summer, the wheat grew he stepped more frequently onto the fields and sometimes if I turned away he disappeared. Momma carded some wool and dyed it with the berries she found in the fall and they turned a bright red and she shaped the red felted squares to his feet so he could go faster across the fields.

The wheat once again stood tall and Urho laughed and ran and ate with us, drank from the wooden cup instead of mother and chewed his food happily.

Usually in the afternoon I fell asleep on the hearth and Urho fell asleep next to me. I had showed him all the scratchings I had learned from mother, and how to draw Vainmoinmen singing to us all, and how to write the letters to the words. He took the charcoal and wanted it in his mouth, and I chided him:  “It isn’t food,” I said.

He laughed and grabbed the stick again and ran out the door. I sighed and chased after him, but when I got to the porch, he wasn’t there. I called out “Urho.”

I thought I heard him answer and ran towards the fields.

“Urho, Urho, come back.”

In the distance I heard a laugh.

“Momma and poppa, Urho ran.”

The sound of his laughter seemed to emerge from the stream, the one I shouldn’t go near. I cried louder for my parents.

“Urho, stop.” I shouted now, perhaps my shouts could be heard and he would listen to me.

Nothing in response, and I felt my insides tighten, pulled in towards the center of my being.

I ran quickly and soon approached the river where the fishes swam, where the stream would reach up and grab you, and there was only the river’s song, no Urho.

 “Ah there you are!” I shouted at the reflection of red upon a rock. But it was only his little shoe!  “Urho,” I now was sobbing as my parents approached and I pointed.

The red patch, visible against the black rock reflected gold in the sun light as I pulled on my parents. Poppa jumped into the water and pushed himself against the water towards the speck of red that called out to us, in its aloneness.

“Momma, he ran, he ran away.”

I felt so small, but momma didn’t reach out to me to help me up, as I crumpled to the ground. “I stayed away from the river, I promised to stay away, I did.”

“But Urho didn’t know, he couldn’t know how vengeful the river was, how it could grab you and pull you under.”

Poppa cried out when he reached the red patch, it WAS Urho’s shoe, the one momma made out of the wool and colored with the berries on the shore.

“Urho” he cried.

The only sound in response was that of the river, as it babbled and laughed its way towards the ocean. Poppa shouted back.

“I’m going to look, call the neighbors.”

Momma ran back to the house and left me alone. She pulled herself up on poppa’s horse and began the ride to the village to ask for help.

I sat still, then I walked along the river alone, looking and crying. Momma and poppa and Urho, all gone.

The afternoon winds picked up the sounds of poppa’s splashing and the pounding of the hooves on the road to the neighbor, until all I heard was the wind.

When I walked I tried to remember the song of the family, the one that kept me safe all winter long and it was gone.  

Where was Vainamoinen, with song he brought the souls from deep in the earth to make the land rich and grow again. I began to sing a new bard’s song. I closed my eyes and wished for Urho.   

“Please bring him back to me

I want my little Urho

He played so well

He drew your face upon the hearth

Please bring him back to me

My little Urho

My brother with his shoes in red

He drew your face upon the hearth

Sing the song you sang before the Winter long

Before the snow began to fall

Before the river flowed

Before it raised its fingers to pull my brother down.

Please bring him back to me

I want my little Urho

He played so well

He drew your face upon the hearth.

Take care to send the water away

It took my little brother

It stole him with its fingers.

He drew your face upon the hearth.

Please bring him back to me

I want my little Urho

He played so well

He drew your face upon the hearth.”

My arms outstretched as I sang a song that wound its way through me, from earth to sky, it took over the wind and sun and the river grew silent, and the wet rocks began to dry.

At the edge of the river I looked for the fingers that would pull me in and take my breath away, and they were gone. As I slipped into the river I kept walking until I saw poppa who, stopped by the shore, head in hands, was crying still.

He cried a river of tears and the more he cried the more the river seemed to stop its flow. Before my eyes it dried and poppa became wetter.

“Poppa?” He face became a river, and drained below to the earthen bank he now stood upon. He didn’t move.

My walk along the riverbed that became a road led me to a pile of rocks now dull in the dry hot sun, surrounded by pebbles. One flew in the air and I startled, but nothing stopped me as I approached. When I reached the other side of the rocks that pulled and turned the water only that morning I saw a pile of mud. It moved and more rocks flew  from the mud.

“Urho?  Is it you?”

A laugh escaped and I saw two eyes peer out from the grey pile of mud and sprigs of hair escape from above them. Two arms emerged and then I knew. I knelt beside him and placed my arms under his to scoop him up like poppa did to me only a few summers before. I lifted him to the sun and twirled around and around until the mud spiraled off of him like droplets from a spinning wheel.

“Poppa, poppa,” I ran up to the lonesome figure I left at the side of the bank, the figure who had lost hope that day for so many hours.

He slowly brought his kneeling mass to a stand and out of the river of tears that flowed through him his eyes opened.    I ran as mud covered as Urho, folded against my chest as he did so many times before when we had played.

“You found him!”

“No, it was the song, I sang the river away and the fingers that pulled him in left him alone.”

“Oh Saime.”

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Never did I feel that way.”

“And momma?” 

“She will only feel relieved, and glad you are both ok.” 

I heard the noise of the river and saw its fingers start to return, and raced to the side across the mud and rocks and all the green roots the river had taken for its meal. Urho clung to my back as I climbed the banks. Too tall for poppa to lift, instead he lifted Urho from my back and cried and said: “you are my earth child.”

We began the walk back to the little wooden house we called our home, whose design had become more elaborate with time with bent wood curled around the corners as though to welcome all who ventured by to look and inquire. The wooden porch and elaborate railing had its place and welcomed us to play. As momma returned on the workhorse, similarly all neighbors who helped each other till the land and harvest and build the houses plodded to our home.

“What have we here?”

“Lost son return to home to be welcomed by us all.”

They jumped off the horses and we all laughed in relief. And momma welcomed everyone in: “bread and soup and some chicken, please set with us a while, and we tell the story of how Urho returned.”

“Of course, because you see we have a cause for celebration and plan to do that now.”

The hearth was lit and flames jumped out into the house to warm it, but the tall neighbors warmed it well with talk. The women followed on foot with food to share.

“Now Saime, you must grace us with a song of Urho, the Earth Child.”

I felt the color rise on my face and I remembered the stories I heard so many times. Poppa lifted up the Harpuu and began to strum. The people dressed in felted shirts and hats stood and took a breath in to join in song:

Across the sea we brought the song

Before there was a land

But only sea and we sang

All of us in a band

The story of the battle,

Not with swords or bloodshed

But done with stories

Of our life lest we forget.

Only the sea and we sang

All of us in a band.

Only the sea and we sang

All of us in a band.

You brought him back to me

My little Urho

My brother with his shoes in red

He drew your face upon the hearth

So he could walk the earth

The little Earth Child

My brother with his shoes in red

Who drew your face

The light sounds of the strings moved with my voice as I sang the songs my momma and poppa sang for me, the ones I will sing for you as you go to sleep.

Momma’s blue dress was made from the blue stain of  blueberries and the cloth and dye were set in salt water and so the color never changed. It seems to have darkened with age, however I never let it go that far.

It was a joyous time, there were so many of us, we called ourselves Karelia and sang of the sea and our beginning, from the northern lands, so many fought over. We listened to the sounds of languages that told us where a person harkened from, for us it meant another reason to sing, of life and living with all the possibilities of another place and another time when others could visit.

Urho grew quickly that summer and we kept the red shoes, I have them still and brought them with me and will place them on your feet. They brought good luck to Urho that summer, they were made by your grandmother, one that you will only see through this small diary I write for you this year.

You see, momma and poppa live in this story, as does Urho, and this is the way for you to meet them and keep their fading memory alive.