The Professionals

The reminiscing moments of the early years in Finland with Grandma Elisabet are now over (see posts Grandma Elisabet And The Hayshoes and  Tanks And Treasures and Wakes And Weddings), I am once more back at Papa's Wake on our Island of Tenerife and Cousin Sebastian has just said his goodbyes. It´s Sunday morning and the darkest hour before dawn, and Mama, Sis, and I are still at the morgue silently watching over Papa's coffin just feet away from where we are seated. We are now beginning to feel the strain of the Wake and it challenges with no food or drink and little or no sleep  (see  posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook). The stream of visitors has abated but still it continues albeit at a drizzle of a pace. The elderly ladies that arrived many hours ago when the mortuary doors were first opened are still here, and are now dozing in their chairs set around the coffin on the opposite side to our family with their walking sticks resting beside them. Clearly there is nobody for them to talk to at this late hour so they rest. Yet, when a new visitor appears, they sense the arrival like a hawk, immediately perk up and start a new animated conversation with said persons. They are the oldest visitors to come and pay their respects, yet they are the last to leave. Everyone else has already come and gone but they are still here. How do they do it, where do they get this energy from? I think to myself.

I come to understand that these elderly Ladies dozing on the other side of the coffin are not at all idle, rather they have an incredibly busy schedule as they go from Wake to Wake, one after the other in rapid succession and with enormous efficiency. Earlier I heard them discussing with one another the next Wake that they will be attending in the adjacent village. Now I see that they sensibly gather their strength in between Wakes with strategically placed power naps during the lull periods. ‘What clever Ladies!’, I think to myself. Whoever told me that they were both retired pensioners did not know what they were talking about. They are most certainly both in full-time employment and that is as Professional Wake Visitors. I cannot for the life of me understand how they keep up this frenetic pace. It must be positively exhausting going from one village to the next, day after day in search of the next Wake. 

Sometimes, the Ladies get lucky and two people from the same village die on the same day and then the Wake is held simultaneously for the two families in adjacent rooms of the same mortuary. That way they cover Two-Wakes-In-One with minimal travel time. If the village mortuary has only one room, then it’s too bad and the two families must share it between them, an invisible demarcation line suddenly springing up and running down the centre of the room dividing two deceased, two mourning families, and two Mamas each with their own internal notebooks. These are the most challenging of all the Wakes, the Ladies concur, one must ensure to divide one’s attention equally between both sets of mourning families. Drat those mourning Mamas and their internal notebooks. They notice everything! (see  post The Notebook).Yet, despite this, the Ladies feel special compassion for the two mourning Mamas. As well as ensuring that everybody attending their own Wake behaves in accordance with protocol, they must make sure to do likewise for the deceased family on the other side of the demarcation line! 

We are still chatting with our visitors, but I have noticed that the subject of the conversation has slowly evolved in a completely new direction. It's no longer about Papa, rather the visitors are now talking about their own personal matters with one another, with us, and I realise that as well as a place to ‘Share the Sorrow’, The Wake is also an enormous complementary therapy session for anyone that cares to attend. No one is in any rush to leave, there is no eating or drinking to get in the way, and anyone that cares to can relieve themselves of their innermost secrets, safe in the knowledge that nothing will be divulged outside the confines of the mortuary. What's said at the Wake stays at The Wake. As is common in many village communities, people take on multiple jobs and so it is also at Papa’s Wake. For Mama, Sis and I, the Chief Mourners, are also Chief Therapists. We are going nowhere so happily listen to the grievances and woes of ours visitors who have now transformed themselves into clients. As one generally selects one’s therapist according to age and other criterion, it is similarly done at this Wake. Mama is immersed in her own discussions with her own line of friends and family all of similar elderly age and background, whilst Sis and I are tending to our own peer group, the middle-aged set. My English niece Zara has been gracefully excused from this important secondary duty, for she has been unable to meet the stringent language requirements. Had her Spanish been deemed sufficient, she would have been immediately assigned her own much in-demand therapy line: adolescents.

There are plenty of topics to cover but the overriding theme seems to be relationships; with children, with relatives, with friends, with neighbours, with spouses, partners, past, present and for some, hopefully future. Most conversations are now beginning with the words, 'I have never told anyone this but...' and we listen with patience, kindness, an open mind to each of our client's predicament, pronounce our learned opinion on said topic, and then move onto the next intimate chat with the next person sat around Papa's silent coffin. And it's not just us having this conversation, I hear that they are all equally engrossed with one another in similar exchanges. Everyone clearly seems to know that, when attending a village Wake, a complementary therapy session is always available if needed. How wonderful, I think to myself. Therapists in England and Finland would be horrified to learn about the efficiency of Wake Therapy. They do not realise how fortunate they are, that in their own countries there are no Wakes for them to compete with for their business. For if there were, they would be out of a job in the blink of an eye. Why pay for therapy when you can get it for free? 

 I also come to understand that the Village Wake is not just a place for mourning, rather it is a social event that the entire community gathers for, which also happens to include a death. And after the tears have been shed, the Wake Therapy begins. Should the Wake Family members not have the necessary expertise, help is at hand. For the elderly ladies sat on the other side of Papa's coffin, The Wake Professionals, are also excellent Wake Therapists in their own right with countless sessions behind them, and I am sure many more still to come. I re-examine these two women, now chatting animatedly to a set of newly-arrived visitors, and I view them with utmost respect. Their appearance at each and every Wake for miles around ensures that no deceased leaves this world forgotten, and I feel nothing but gratitude that they have honoured our Papa's last hours on this Earth with their presence. Dawn is finally breaking over our Island and Zara has now returned to the mortuary. Sis and I are relieved for the next few hours for some much-needed rest before the last part of this wonderful gathering reaches its final stage. The Funeral.
 

To be continued...

Next post 5th February : Goodbye Mercedes Man



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.

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 ten-years-old when the Russian empire collapsed toppling Nicholas II from his throne and simultaneously making way for the Independent Republic of Finland in December of 1917. Eight years later, and rising from the ashes of the fallen Romanov Dynasty, young adolescent Elisabet witnessed the establishment of the USSR in 1924,  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). 

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 sitting 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 29th January : 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 lengendary 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 22nd January   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.

Grandma Elisabet And The Hayshoes

Together with Cousin Sebastian, I return back in time to the early years of my life in Finland. To a time of contentment, filled with fond recollections and inextricably intertwined with Grandma Elisabet. It's Papa's Wake (see posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook), and in the dim-lit and hushed surroundings of the mortuary, Sebastian and I revisit those happy days.

Great-grandmother Elisabet was a wonderful woman and older than Finland itself; born at the beginning of the nineteen hundreds within the Autonomous Grand Duchy of Finland, then a part of the Russian Empire, when she died it was within The Independent Republic of Finland. With her passing disappeared a mind crammed with nearly one hundred years of accumulated history. From the outset, Grandma Elisabet as we called her, adored me and I adored her; she loved me unconditionally and just the way I was. Shortly after our first encounter I was asked to write out my name in its entirety on a piece of paper, 'Maria del Carmen Garrido Sanz', so that she could share with her visitors the never-ending exotic name of her favourite grandson's Spanish wife.

Now, Grandma Elisabet was descended from a family named Hösko which had its origins in the little Finnish town of Jämsä. This Swedish name was later replaced with the Finnish version of Heinäkenkä, meaning 'Hayshoe', and Grandma Elisabet proudly told me that the historical family name stretched back over nearly five hundred years and sixteen generations to the rule of King Gustav Vasa of Sweden in the mid-fifteen hundreds. The family crest bearing the year 1539 confirmed this ancient lineage. Even older than the Romanov dynasty of Emperors that ruled over Finland for one hundred and eight years, the origins of the Hayshoe name was still shared with pride by family members, as Grandma Elisabet recounted on one of my many visits to her home in the centre of Helsinki:

According to the family legend, back in the year fifteen hundred and something, a certain Finnish peasant representing his fellow countrymen visited the Court of the Swedish King in Stockholm to lament about the unreasonable amount of taxes being levied by the Swedish Crown on what was then the Eastern most province of the Swedish Kingdom. In time, this person was duly brought before the King, who upon enquiring from his courtiers with whom he was having his audience, was duly informed that he would be meeting with, 'a man with hay in his shoes'.  'Bring in the Hayshoe!', was the legendary response of the King, and thus was created the family name of Hayshoe. The veracity of this story has never been fully ascertained but if indeed accurate, a more beautiful way of creating a name is hard to find. Why the need to stuff your shoes with hay in the first place, it seemed rather odd I once innocently asked. Well, for a start, it's a jolly good way of keeping your feet warm in a middle-aged and Arctic Finland, where your disposable income after taxes to the Swedish Crown have been paid would not have stretched to fancier footwear. A logical response and I duly rested my case.

Upon her marriage, Grandma Elisabet assumed as was then custom, her husband's surname and the Hayshoe family name faded into the background. But the Hayshoe blood still ran in her veins and that of her children and grandchildren. With my arrival, it now boasted within its already diverse genealogy a little Spanish girl, and within the space of a few years would be augmented with the next generation of Hayshoe offspring: Great-grandchildren in the form of Finnish-Spanish Hugo and Sofia. This much loved Great-Grandmother also became for me the Grandmother that I had left behind on my Spanish Island, as a little six-year-old Spanish girl departed with her family for new lands named England (see post Share The Moon). The regular visits to Grandma Elisabet's home would become for Hugo, Sofia and myself, moments of great contentment and was a place where incalculable riches awaited these two young Hayshoes. But first they would have to be delivered there in the family car, a feat not without its own challenges. 

To be continued....

Next post 15th January: Tanks And Treasures


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.