Wakes And Weddings

No-one lives for eternity, and eventually the time came to bid farewell also to Finnish Great-grandmother Elisabet and to everything that went with it; farewell to the visits to her beautiful home, farewell to the captivating conversations encapsulating a hundred years of history, but most important of all, farewell to the dash from the front door to that Wedgewood box to consume those heavenly, melt-in-the-mouth squares of chocolate (see post Tanks And Treasures).

                                                         

Finnish Grandma Elisabet 's funeral is a wonderful and dignified occasion, but totally different to that of our Spanish Papa (see posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook). We wait for weeks to carry out the burial so that the family can gather from Finland and Sweden, until finally the day is upon us and we come together at the chapel in Helsinki to bid farewell and to pay our last respects. Here we all are; children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, beloved friends, and amongst these guests can be found our own small family. Eleven-year-old Hugo, seven-year-old Sofia, their Finnish Papa, and finally there is myself. I am wearing an outfit that Grandma Elisabet loved to see me in; a long and simple dress which I would often wear to family parties and other similar occasions. This is my own way of paying respect to the shared moments and to the memory of the Grand Old Lady of the Hayshoe clan (see post Grandma Elisabet And The hayshoes). Having lived in three distinct cultures, I feel no particular pull to the customs and rituals of any, and even though on this occasion they all concur with the accepted convention of wearing black, I choose not to comply. This in no way belittles the visitors who are indeed clad in black, but my grief is internal and the colour of my clothing has no bearing on this emotion.

Many times, during the early years of Hugo and Sofia’s childhood I would inform them that, as far as their Mama was concerned, family decisions were made as follows; the rules are, there are no rules, we simply make them up as we go along. I guess that this was their Mama's way of adapting to the needs of each new culture without the constraints of previous codes of behaviour hampering the natural evolution of change. And as long as the decision on a specific matter was clear, consistent and justified, Hugo and Sofia were satisfied. On this occasion of Grandma Elisabet's funeral I have once again done just that. And in the deepest recess of my mind, I close my eyes and imagine the fashion-conscious Grandma Elisabet of her twenties and thirties, staring out at me from the many photographs of her youthful years that she shared with me on our numerous visits to her home in Helsinki, and nodding with firm approval at my choice of outfit coupled with my blatant 
disregard for convention.

                                                                 

It is a truly sombre moment for everyone gathered, and we are all aware of the enormity of this loss. Grandma Elisabet was well loved by all and with her departure disappears a life of close on a century and bursting at the seams with monumental history. Born in 1907 as a subject of the last Romanov Emperor, Nicholas II, and within the Russian Autonomous Grand Duchy of Finland, the young girl Elizabet was just 10 years old when the Russian empire collapsed toppling Nicholas II from his throne and simultaneously making way for the Independent Republic of Finland of today. The young adolescent Elisabet witnessed the establishment of the USSR in 1924, rising from the ashes of the fallen Romanov Dynasty, and was also present at its eventual collapse and disintegration sixty-seven years later into fifteen independent states. Two World Wars and seventeen US Presidents from Theodore Roosevelt up to George W. Bush also pass through Elisabet's timeline. Even her last years of living are not without impact, for she witnesses the fall of Two Towers and the world turmoil which follows. Farewell to this spectator with a ringside seat to the greatest of shows, Twentieth Century History.

                                                         



But our loss is predominantly personal, for Elisabet was primarily a much-loved Mother, Grandmother, Great-grandmother and wonderful friend, and after the service is finished and the wreaths have been placed on the coffin, I walk over and add to the sea of flowers a simple bunch of five pink roses purchased just few hours earlier from the local grocery store. The roses do not quite fit in with the elegant wreaths surrounding it, but this does not trouble me for this is my own way of saying a personal thank you to Grandma Elisabet. Thank you for having loved this little Spanish girl just the way she was, and thank you from Hugo, Sofia and myself for all those memorable moments spent at your home and in your company. Moments that gleam like precious jewels within the walls of that magical place that we called Memories. Goodbye Grandma Elisabet, you are gone but not forgotten. One day, that Wedgewood box will once again guard within its interior those heavenly squares of chocolate for the next generation of young Hayshoes, my own Grandchildren (see post Tanks And Treasures). for the next generation of young Hayshoes, my own Grandchildren (see post Tanks And Treasures).

                                                          

After the funeral has finally taken place, we return to Grandma Elisabet’s home where the family prepares to hold The Reception. Now, The Reception is not dissimilar to The Wake I notice from what I see around me at Papa’s Wake. It's just held in reverse order after the funeral, without the deceased and with ample catering. There is not a drop of drink nor food at Papa's Spanish Wake (see posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook), yet at Grandma Elisabet's Reception, the tables are heaving with every delicacy you can imagine. Everyone is remembering the deceased in the same way as at Papa's Wake but with food and drink included. The feast is fit for a king: hot food, cold food, savoury dishes, sweet dishes, cakes galore, refreshments of equal variety and everyone is hungrily tucking in regardless of the sad occasion they have just attended. This is my first Finnish funeral and I am perplexed by the robust appetite and jolly countenance exhibited by all considering that a dearly beloved Mother, Grandmother and Great-grandmother has just passed away.

                                                                 


My Spanish girlfriend, Alma is floored by her first Finnish funeral experience and the subsequent Reception that follows, 'How do they do it?' she asks me with genuine awe,' I have never seen anything like it at any funeral back in Spain. It's like a huge party with the guest of honour not invited. If you did not know that it was a wake reception you would think it was a wedding banquet where the bride and groom had forgotten to attend!’ In all fairness, in the midst of this lavish consumption, the guests are animatedly sharing with one another happy recollections of Grandma Elisabet in the same way that we do at Papa's wake, and instead of the coffin in the middle of the room, there is a beautifully framed photograph of Grandma Elisabeth strategically placed on the banquet table that we must pass as we refill our empty plates. The photograph stares out at us all as we approach it, and would shout out if it could, 'Don't forget, this party is all about me!' And of course, we do not.

                                                        


Cousin Sebastian's eyes are like saucers as I share these recollections with him; strange Finnish relatives that recount with obvious pride stories of nearly five-hundred-year old ancestors wearing shoes stuffed with hay. If it were his relatives, he would make sure to keep it quiet, but not these Finns, they seem quite happy to shout it from the roof-tops. Mothers boldly driving cars the size of tanks. No wonder that the Nation produces such amazing rally drivers, if this is what the children are exposed to from such an early age. Then come their funerals; waiting for weeks to bury the deceased, wake receptions with catering paralleling wedding feasts. It all seems like fantasy for this Spanish cousin on this small Spanish Island, at this moment in time as we sit in the dimly lit sparse mortuary, chatting with one another in hushed tones and with not a morsel of food or drink in sight and Spanish Papa’s coffin just a few feet away.


To be continued...

Next post 7th April : The Professionals


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

Tanks And Treasures

On many occasions, when the newest generation of Hayshoes were still small, I would bundle up Hugo and Sofia into the family car and drive the short journey to Grandma Elisabet's home (see post Grandma Elisabet And The Hayshoes). Once there we would all spend a few quality hours together. Grandma Elisabet lived in Central Helsinki and within walking distance of the elegant Stockmann department store, the Finnish equivalent of Selfridges, and if you stood on the balcony on tip-toes and looked left, you could see the roof-top of the chic red-brick building in the nearby distance. Back in those days, the value of this central location was something I neither appreciated nor understood. Rather it frustrated me that finding a parking place in the centre of town for our enormous and unwieldy family car, a Toyota Land Cruiser, was such an ordeal.

Please do not misunderstand me, as with my children I have loved all my cars equally and this vehicle was no exception. Each one has formed an intrinsic part of our family life, and their names will always remain embedded within me even though we have long ago parted ways. I still remember with fondness from my England childhood, the first car that Papa owned, a small Hillmann Imp named EUD-244C. (see post Watching The English Part I And II). So, please allow me at this stage to introduce you to our current and much valued family member, BJS-355, otherwise known as The Tank. 

Now The Tank, or robust all-terrain four-wheel drive Toyota Land Cruiser to which BJS-355 belongs, is the car of choice for the United Nations on its many demanding humanitarian missions across the globe and rightly so; trekking across thousands of kilometres, it dexterously navigates along barely existent roads, until finally delivering its precious cargo of passengers and humanitarian assistance to often remote and inaccessible corners of the Planet. It was also an excellent choice of vehicle for Hugo and Sofia's Finnish Papa on his many lengthy journeys across the Finnish border and deep into Russian territory, for the Soviet Union had by now made way for the return of Mother Russia.  


But my drive was neither penetrating into the Russian motherland, nor on a demanding humanitarian mission, rather this was a simple visit to a Great-grandmother's home on the other side of Helsinki. The greatest peril I could expect to meet on the road ahead of me on this fine summers evening, if I were to be that unfortunate, would perhaps be a slippery banana skin discarded onto the highway by some reckless inhabitant. But Finns never litter, for this fundamental cornerstone of respect for the environment is ingrained into them from birth and passed down from generation to generation along with the Mothers milk which they ingest, so this misfortune never befell me on my numerous traverses across town. Once we had uneventfully reached our destination, came the most hazardous part of the entire journey, the search for a place to park. And this is where the fun began with an exhausting game named ‘Parking'. 

I always hoped for a space the size of a football field, but was usually rewarded with a narrow corridor making the parking a stressful and draw-out manoeuvre. 'Why can't I have a small car like everybody else? I would ask myself with exasperation on these occasions, 'just my luck to be lumbered with this Tank!' My parking skills, or lack of them to be more precise, never passed unnoticed by my passengers seated in the back. 'You're not very good, Mummy! ' would be seven-year-old Hugo's profound and somewhat correct summary, whilst three-year-old sister Sofia, seated next to her brother would momentarily interrupt her intense thumb-sucking to look up and pass her own valued opinion, 'Hurry up, Mummy, I want to go wee-wees'.  




After countless futile attempts at squeezing into narrow road-side slots, I would eventually capitulate and park The Tank in a literal football field: The parking square of the nearby Market Hall, and from there we would walk the remainder of our journey to Grandma Elisabet’s home on the Kalevankatu street. As The Tank unloaded its precious cargo of three, Hugo and Sofia’s depleted Mama truly felt that she had indeed completed her own demanding United Nation humanitarian mission; for this Spanish-English Mama  had fearlessly journeyed across Helsinki in her Japanese Tank and would soon deliver two young Spanish-Finnish-English children to their immensely grateful and aged housebound Great-grandmother. A Finnish Great-grandmother, with an ancient family name bestowed centuries earlier by a legendary Swedish King   (see post GrandMa Elisabet And The Hayshoes). And all executed within a proximity of just one hundred and eighty kilometres from the imposing Russian border, for this is the distance separating  Helsinki from its neighbour, the great Eastern Power. 

Once we had eventually made it to the front door of her beautiful home, Hugo and Sofia would run straight into Grandma Elisabet's lounge to compete for the illustrious prize of who would be first to open a small Wedgwood jewelry box sitting delicately atop a beautiful Rococo coffee table. For this fine porcelain box, my first gift to Grandma Elisabet upon my arrival in Finland many years earlier, contained delectable treasures. Initially, within its interior lay a single square of chocolate for whenever Hugo happened to come by and visit his great-grandmother. After Sofia had joined our family, the number of chocolate squares were duly increased to two, and the box solemnly guarded its contents awaiting the arrival, unexpected or planned, of its two eager recipients. Hugo and Sofia were well aware of the bounty that lay within the delicate box atop that table, and their haste to uncover and consume knew no limits.


And whilst Hugo and Sofia each feasted upon their reward, I would listen with fascination to stories, some very sad, about Grandma Elisabet's childhood in a country that was still part of the Russian Empire, and where the Independent Republic of Finland of today was still but a faraway dream. But no-one lives for eternity, and eventually the time came to bid farewell also to Grandma Elisabet and to everything that went with it; farewell to the visits to her beautiful home, farewell to the captivating conversations encapsulating one hundred years of history, but most important of all, farewell to the dash from the front door to that Wedgewood box to consume those heavenly, melt-in-the-mouth squares of chocolate. 

To be continued...

Next post 24th March : Wakes And Weddings

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.