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 new 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 10th March: 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.

The Notebook

Its our Spanish Papa's Wake and the whole village has gathered with us to offer their sympathies and to Share The Sorrow (see posts Share The Sorrow and Gathering And Remembering). Darkness has now fallen, night is upon us and most of the earlier visitors with a few exceptions have come and gone, but our small family of four, Mama, Sis, my English niece Zara and myself are still here. I am now beginning to understand the essential idea of The Wake; for the elapsed time between death and burial, the immediate family remains awake and accompanies the deceased during their last hours in this world never leaving the body unattended for one single minute. By remaining awake for this entire period of time and Sharing The Sorrow with little or no food and drink, the family feel and share some of the physical suffering of the deceased as he faces his last struggle before going over to The Other Side. Anyone that wishes to can pass by at any time of day or night to pay their final respects, and we the family are there to receive them and to acknowledge their kind gesture.

Now I remember Mama telling me as a child how Grandma Filomena, Mama’s Mama, oversaw her own husband’s funeral with a beady eye, making detailed mental notes of who complied with etiquette and attended and who did not. Mama said that in between wailing and sobbing, some of the strictest Mamas would similarly find time to furtively note the name of all those that attended The Wake and burial of their loved ones. Any deviation from respectful behaviour would also be noted. This information would be stored away for future village wakes and burials. Breaking with protocol of course came with its own consequences; similar non-compliance at the next funeral of said non-complying family. I now see that within each village, The Wake and subsequent burial is an internal power struggle for clan superiority. The more persons attend, the greater the family prestige. The hierarchy of family expected to oversee The Wake is also important; first and foremost, spouse followed by children, preferably all, then grandchildren, some absences here allowed. I look around at our family of four and note that we have complied with standard requirements respectfully.

Despite the later hour, new visitors arrive in a slow and gentle stream, offering their sympathies to our small family and then staying on for a few hours to chat. The old ladies of the village that arrived as soon as the doors open hours earlier are still there, seated nearby on the other side of the coffin to our family, chatting with one another, sometimes dozing off but clearly in no hurry to go anywhere. Cousins arrive after finishing their shift work, young parents come by after putting their children to bed, all find the time to pass by and accompanying us with Papa on his last day on earth. Mama insists on staying by Papa's body until the moment of the funeral so Sis, Zara and I share the final night hours between us, and in this way Mama is accompanied during her final moments with Papa. In between our night shifts we return to the apartment for a few hours of snatched sleep. On my night shift with Mama I talk with Cousin Sebastian.

I have never had a brother and Sebastian is as close as I will ever get. He asks me about my life in Finland and how Wakes are organized there, how do they compare to Spain? I tell him that I am not an expert having been only to three funerals in my entire life, but the one I remember most clearly is the first one, that of Sofia's and Hugo's Finnish Great-grandmother, Elisabet. And in the dim-lit and hushed surroundings of the Mortuary, I return with Cousin Sebastian 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.

To be continued....


Next post 24th February: Grandma Elisabet And The Hayshoes


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.