More Faults of heritage

I am interested in finding stories, that are told about my ancestors and other relatives. Luckily especially my dad’s side of family has a tradition of telling little anecdotes about family members. Sometimes I have been able to verify the facts about or around those little stories, sometimes not. But all of them I have been able to place in time more or less, and they tell a lot about people who lived before. It is beyond fascinating, but I am sure I wouldn’t have continued digging around for more, if my eldest wasn’t so enthusiastic about them. She read the first little story I wrote last spring, and has been clamouring for more ever since. 

Some stories are funny, others not so much, especially knowing the circumstances they took place in.

The stories of Civil War are among the ones I want to know more about. I know quite a bit about the reasons and consequences of the war, and through the stories of people who lived through it I can see what did it really mean.

My great grandma's father and uncles all took part in the Civil war on the Red side. Reini brothers, the sons of Hermanni and Anna Reini from Ruovesi were adults or young men when the war broke out in January 1918.

Edvard, the eldest, was a married father of four in his late thirties. He was taken prisoner after the capitulation of Red Tampere in April 1918 and died in the Tampere War prisoner camp in late June. Family story was, that he was shot, but the Finnish open database of war deaths 1914-1922 tells that he died of hunger. Gravesite not known, but he could be buried in the mass grave in Kalevankangas graveyard.

Then was Sakari, who had four kids as well (my great grandma, then 13, one of them) and was a non-combatant in Punakaarti of Ruovesi. He only took arms in the very last days of war, when he was among the few dozen reds that were cornered in Raatihuone in Tampere. They held out for a time, and there was even some talk of fighting til death, because there would be no mercy for them anyway. In the end the starved, thirsty, wounded men and women ran out of bullets and surrendered. So Sakari was taken prisoner, wounded to a leg. Due to some weird misunderstanding, Sakari ended up in a hospital train to Oulu. The Red Cross nurse in train knew he was from the losing side of the war, but did not tell anyone. He was found out when the train arrived in Oulu many days later. This little side trip may have well saved his life, as there wouldn’t have been any medical care, food or even water in Keskustori, where the capitulated Reds were gathered for many days before marching them to hastily built prison camps. Badly wounded man would have had very little chance there. Thanks to a nurse with some pity, four kids got their father back alive.

Meanwhile, my father’s mother’s father, Jaakko, participated in the civil war too, on the white side, and was among the troops attacking to Tampere, where Reini brothers were taken prisoners.

Grandson of Sakari and daughter of Jaakko ended up married. I kinda appreciate the irony of history and the dual nature of my heritage.

Here's Jaakko, age 17, when he fought in Finnish Civil War.

I have no photos of the Reini brothers taken at this time, unfortunately.

Running in the family way

 Today I've been thinking a lot about grandparents. Mainly my own.

Here are my both grandmothers as young women. The first photo is my mother's mother Hilma Aune Emilia and the second my paternal grandmother Terttu Eeva Inkeri (the dark haired smiling nurse on the left).

What have I inherited from each? Socially as well as genetically. I think in Hilma-mummus case I've gotten the ability to first and foremost try to see the good in people. What I most admire about her, was her incredible resilience and that she never seemed bitter about anything. She lost her father quite young, lived through war, toiled hard as a farmer's wife and buried five of her nine children - one as a little baby, four as adults, and still she remained positive. She never judged people, or talked nastily of anyone.

I am a little disappointed that she never talked about her childhood or youth so that I was present. I would have liked to know her better, to form a more multidimensional picture of her. 

My own mother has started to look so much like Hilma-mummu in her later years, that it is borderline scary. 

Terttu-mummu, or Tummu, as we called her, wasn't always the sweet granny. She could bloody well hold her own, and then some, in an argument. Soooo anyway, that's where that certain stubborness partly comes from. Although I can't give all the credit to Tummu here. 3/4 of my grandparents were stubborn to the point of hardheadedness. 

She also taught me to appreciate poetry, arts and crafts. She was an avid knitter and embroiderer. She made me my first very own kansallispuku, and always supported my childhood attempts at a craft project. Everyone in the family laughed at us, when I got some grand idea, like making a First Nations -style costume from scratch or making an audio book of my favourite novel, and Tummu got just as excited as I was and helped me plan and execute.

Tummu was very active on all kinds of associations, like Maatalousnaiset, who had a lot of themed gatherings. Usually they gathered in some members' house and learned and tried out new handicrafting techniques. And I was always welcome to participate. 

So when I started my deep dive in handicrafts some decades later, I had some kind of passing familiarity with many different techniques. I had carded wool and tried spinning, felting, weaving, bead embroidery, sewing, crocheting, candlemaking... I had an excellent mesenate and coach as a kid.

Tummu would have been beyond herself with pride to see me study traditional costume making. I am certain my first real job would have been to make her a costume, were she alive. 

This is my both grandmothers around the time I knew them. Hilma-mummu's portrait with her darling Muru was taken some years before I was born. By the time I came along, cattle was no more, but it is an exceptionally good portrait of Hilma-mummu. 

Tummu's pic has me and my childhood bestie, Bordercollie girl Grisse as a bonus. Yayyy, we're cute!

Here are my grandfathers. Kalervo Johannes and Viljo Antto. Handsome devils both. 

Kalervo, my mother's father, was a farmer who believed in manual hard work. He didn't much admire education or authorities. Kassu-vaari had a devilish sense of humor, and sure didn't turn down a dram or six of vodka or cognac. He smoked and took snuff for over sixty years but kept his own teeth and lived to be ninety. He was very skilled carpenter and could do basically anything of wood. Basketmaking was the craft I remember him doing when I was a kid. My mom still has one or two big wooden shingle baskets of Vaari's making. 

Traditional shinglemaking and basket weaving is very intriguing and I'd very much like to learn it. And I think I might have a little bit of Vaari's healthy criticism of authority...

Viljo Antto, my Äijä was the eldest son of a factory working family,  became his single mother's right hand at age ten and worked to help educate his siblings before studying to be construction foreman himself. He was a factory town boy, but bought a farm around the time everyone else was moving out of the countryside. It was his dream and he enjoyed country life immensely. Running the farm was never his main occupation, but a passionate hobby. He was natural with practically any animal, and I think that is the greatest thing I learned from Äijä. To appreciate and approach animals, see them as living breathing creatures that definitely had personalities and were always to be treated well. 

I was taught to respect animals, but never fear them.

And here's the granddads as granddads. Kassu-vaari cracking a saucy joke and Äijä taking a nap after lunch. Again, photobombed by yours truly, and my fave fairytale of a wolf and seven little kids (the goat kind).

Both Vaari and Äijä served in the IIWW, but from a very different perspectives: Vaari hadn't been in the army because of a childhood illness that had bowed his back and during the Winter war he was a non-combatant in the front lines, at night digging open the trenches that artillery fire had crumbled. During the intermittent peace he was supposed to go to army to make him an infantryman, and he went, in a way... He had seen 3,5 months of furious war up close and personal, had a farm to tend to, was newly wed and his wife was pregnant. He damn sure wasn't going to waste his time learning to walk in step, he had hay to make. Thanks to an understanding higher officer he got away with it. In war he did his job well, but again didn't think very highly of higher-ups.

Äijä was over ten years younger. He was 12 when the war began, and volunteered as soon as it was possible, after turning 17. He became a non commissioned officer and was active in matters of defense all his life. He was proud to be "an officer and a gentleman".

Mental well-being as a victim of pandemia

Yeah. The headline says it all, I guess.

But so that it´s said out loud: I´ve always felt a deep admiration for teachers, preschool teachers and caregivers plus medical staff. Now even more, like most people of right mind at the current situation.

There is a reason, why I´ve never even considered home-schooling my kids. Or many reasons.

Yeah, I could offer them a hell lot of substance in some subjects that are near and dear to my heart, but they´d come out of it knowing a lot of weird history facts, everything about traditional costume making, sewing and such, but very little else.

We made plague doctor masks for everyone, though. They do look cool.

And my six-year old knows how to draw guillotine, and what it does. (For that one I really refuse some of the credit: I was just as surprised...)

So I´m sure you can see from these examples there really is a reason I do not home school my children, and that society really should not let me do so if they want normal, stable taxpayers out of my offspring. Thank you.

I do have my ways of making sure that I corrupt my dear little banshees just enough to make them think Why Not instead of Why. But really, they do need their school and their teachers...

And so do I.

I mean, how the hell does one build these schedules and routines everyone talks about? Okay, morning´s easy. You get up and feed the kids. Then the fifth grader basically goes and does her school thing (I´ve tried to keep up... But usually when I gird my loins and go to her all ready to help and explain and go through her work list, she just sighs and tells me she´s done that all) 

But how the hell do I work with the preschooler? I can´t become a class full of peers and a teacher or two... My schedules have always been sketchy to say the least. Lunch happens... Well, when people get hungry and I need a break from working.

And really, my heart breaks when I look at the day after day gloomier face of the Happiest Baby in the World. She misses school and mates beyond anything my introvert soul can fathom.

I did a corontine crime couple of days ago. My friend brought her two kids over, and all four ran amok outside for four hours straight. Together. Two 12-year olds, an 8-year old and a 6-year old. This hasn´t happened in quite some time. No fighting, no screaming at each other, no dissing the younger by the older.

When I saw the ear to ear smile on my kids´ faces, I decided to do that again as soon as possible. Because I realized I hadn´t seen them happy in weeks.

So really, the two possible weeks of maybe school could save at least my sanity and let me see my girls smile again. The summer will be long and awful anyway, because all the events and festivals are cancelled, I can´t tell them when and if we get to do anything nice or even see grandparents. I don´t even know how to support us financially after this month. To know someone else looks at especially my youngest and sees her and cares about her wellbeing for even a few days means a lot. Because frankly I fear I´m loosing the perspective and running out of tools to keep their spirit up...

Tiedän.

Tiedän.

Nyt kun maailmanlaajuisen koronakriisin takia epävarmuus ja huoli myös toimeentulosta nyt ja tulevaisuudessa vääntää aika monen vatsaa, niin olisi ihan mainio aika sanoa Mitäs Minä Sanoin niille, jotka suureen ääneen puoltivat aktiivimallia, puhuivat laiskoista työttömistä ja olivat sitä mieltä että itse pitää pärjätä ja kaikesta tinkiä, jos ei kerran pärjää.

Mutta en halua sanoa niin.

Koska minä tiedän. Minä niin tiedän, miltä tuntuu olla koko ajan huolissaan toimeentulostaan, siitä että joutuu näkemään taas yhden pettymyksen lastensa silmissä kun he haluavat tehdä jotain, mennä johonkin, saada jotain. Ja on pakko sanoa ei. Koska ei ole varaa.

Ja kyllä, minä haluan ymmärtää lähtökohtaisesti myös niitä, joiden lähtöelintaso on omaani paljon korkeampi. Mikä se lähtökohta sitten onkin, niin epävarmuus ja totutuista asioista tinkiminen ON tuskallista.

Minä tiedän, ja niin tietää aika hiivatin moni muukin pätkätyöläinen, osa-aikatyöläinen, vajaakuntoinen tai muuten tämän yhteiskunnan silmissä epäonnistunut. 

Me tiedämme todella hyvin, miltä tuntuu niellä se katkera kalkki että joutuu luopumaan taas jostain, mikä parempina aikoina oli selviö, tai edes mahdollista. Ja miten tuskallista on nähdä kuinka onnekkaammat tekevät paljon sellaista, mistä itse pystyy vain haaveilemaan. Ei se ole kateellisuutta, mutta välillä käy raskaaksi olla aina iloinen vain toisten puolesta, ja sitä tunnettahan ei voi ikinä näyttää kenellekkään. Se pitää ihan itse käsitellä, niellä ja jatkaa iloitsemista edes niiden toisten puolesta, koska sekin on paljon parempi kuin ei iloa ollenkaan.

Sehän tässä on hirtehisesti naurattanut, että oma työpolku on niin repaleinen ja epävarma, että yksi maailmanlaajuinen kriisi ei sitä tilannetta pahenna. Epävarmuus ei ole minulle mitään uutta, enkä ole ainoa.

Tällä hetkellä sitä epävarmuutta löytyy vähän pirusti. Että jos turvallinen elämäsi ja maailmasi yhtäkkiä natisee liitoksistaan, niin parhaan lifecoachin saat, kun puhut lähipiirissäsi vaikuttavalle pätkätyöläiselle, yksinyrittäjälle tai pitkäaikaistyöttömälle (nykyiselle tai entiselle). Meillä piisaa nouhauta tämän kaltaisen epävarmuuden sietämisessä, tai ainakin voimme tarjota todella kokenutta vertaistukea.

SItä toivon meidän ihan kaikkien puolesta, että tämä epävarmuus ei johda sellaiseen arvojen kovenemiseen, josta muutaman vuoden saimme kärsiä. Ne teistä, jotka eivät olleet työttömiä tai tuen tarpeessa ette sitä välttämättä huomanneet, mutta me jotka olimme, jouduimme oikeasti tosissaan miettimään kenelle kertoa huolistamme ja purkaa epävarmuuden tuomaa pahaa oloa. Vastaus saattoi olla välinpitämätön, pilkallinen tai jopa syyttävä, sen mukaan kuinka syvälle silloisen hallinnon luomaan kuvitelmaan Omasta Pärjäämisestä kukin oli uponnut.

Edelleen mietin kenelle puhun silloin kun ei vaan jaksa, eritoten jos motin loppuminen johtuu taloudellisesta epävarmuudesta. Sitä asenneilmapiiriä en toivo takaisin.

Nou Moti- päiviä tulee meille kaikille, onnekkaimmillekin. Silloin pitää olla oikeus valittaa, ruikuttaa ja panikoida. Ja joku joka halaa ja sanoo että kaikki järjestyy. Aina ei jumalaut tarvi jaksaa! Eikä kaikkia valituksenaiheita ole tarkoitettu ratkaistaviksi: en minä halua lainaa jos tulen itkemään rahattomuuttani. Minä haluan halauksen ja sen, että joku kuuntelee. Sitten jaksan taas sinnitellä seuraavaan rahapäivään. Ja jos en, niin minä pyydän apua.

Sama juttu on nyt, tässä hetkessä: kun asiat muuttuvat yhtäkkiä ja kaikki yli viikon päästä tapahtuva on yhtä kysymysmerkkiä, se on hirvittävä shokki, eikä sitä voi ratkaista tässä ja nyt. Mutta voi antaa ja ottaa vastaan myötätuntoa. Se kantaa taas yhden paskan hetken ja päivän yli ja tuo lähemmäs sitä, että asioita voi alkaa ratkaista.

Ja vinkki kokeneelta: mistä tietää, että on aika itkeä jollekulle oman jaksamisen loppua? Silloin, kun Me Selviämme Tästä muuttuu maailman epäuskottavimmaksi ja ärsyttävimmäksi lauseeksi, jonka kuullessa jeeppi karkaa Veteliin ja kutut niin syvälle mettään, että niitä ei löydä sieltä avohakkuullakaan. Silloin on aika vetää henkeä ja avautua oikein huolella jollekulle, joka ei tuomitse. Jos ei sinulla sellaista ihmistä ole, niin nyt on aika hommata tai kouluttaa siihen vakanssiin joku.

#metoo and The Documentary

Yeah, I watched it yesterday. THE documentary about Harvey Weinstein.



And for me the saddest realisation was that there was nothing surprising or shocking in a way.
That is how deep ingrained it is to beware of men with power, especially certain type of men.

I don´t pretend to know better than most or anything, but I´ve also met men who are essentially bullies and unable to see the fault in their ways, because they think they know better and thus are entitled to do whatever it takes to get there. And I don´t mean just or even mostly sexually.


When you add the sexual predatory and utter disregard of others´ limits you get the H. Weinsteins of this world. Protected by their status and forgiven in posterity for their genius.


And I´m glad, wildly happy, to see #metoo starting to cast down those gods on clay pedestals. Because I feel it is all connected to the systemic reasons that women have to do twice as much to be half as admired. Somehow acting like a monster is synonymous to being very good at what they´re doing, which frankly sucks and is untrue.

My childhood has left me with issues yes, but one thing I can be proud and happy about: My parents, neither of them, never, ever told me in words or deeds that I can´t do something because I´m a girl. Or that I´m somehow a weaker vessel, and should be protected by others.

My dad might be a chauvinist asshole in some regards, but he was always fiercely proud when I did something to break the limits of being a girl. Oh, he never said it, but a child learns to read between the lines, and the incidents he was laughing about and talking to his friends were always about me being nosey, smart ass, unruly, breaking the rules or doing things my own way.

Being comfortable in situations that could be scary for little girls.

He never told me I look beautiful, but was secretly proud when I climbed a tree and tore my trousers.

He never said anything nice about my eyes, but he told all his friends how I could harness a horse at the age of six and didn´t cry when I fell from sled full of firewood when the horse bolted.

He didn´t give a shit about what I was wearing, but when I graduated as the best of my school - no contest - he almost, almost told me he was proud of me.



I feel I´m very lucky I never had any brothers, because that might have polarized the situation.


Well, anyway. My childhood has left me with the unhealthy level of being chronically the “good guy” but in time I´ve learned to balance things and see the ridiculous in guys as much as dolls.


The most important thing I´ve learned as a one half of a very unusual friendship is never to judge a woman or an underdog before hearing their story. The ones in power I judge more harshly, because, well, I´m not aiming for sainthood and usually they are just worse than at first glance and can´t be hurt by my judgement anyway.

The thing is, I haven´t learned the culture of fear and avoidance as a way of staying safe. Yes, it could have bitten me in the ass big time when I was young, but I still want my girls to have that same fearlessness of going to places and doing things and being just a tad clueless when it comes to unwritten rules of what girls should or shouldn´t do or say. It is much harder to unlearn the fear than going places all blue-eyed and just doing what you came to do. Especially in places where the unspoken limits of being a girl are very strict I enjoy acting a Nordic Idiotesse.

As in: of course I drink vodka with the guys! I like vodka more than champange. And: Yeah, I´m walking around the mountain village in Morocco all alone and smiling and nodding to all the men and women staring. Jus´bein´ polite, y´know… Or: Of course I can go sit with the men in a party if their conversation interests me more, and I won´t be silent either. We´re all friends here, right?


The great thing is I´m fully aware of every toe I put out of line and every feather I ruffle and I enjoy it immensely.

That´s my Girl Power and my way of raising the rebellion. Maybe it makes someone actually think, that yeah, nothing exploded, she seems to be okay. So maybe these old rules aren´t needfull or good.

That is what #metoo is doing too, except the acting clueless part. It is saying out loud things that by old rules should be left unsaid. It is all about demanding to be heard and seen in full equality. And I love every moment!

An heirloom

Not much of a project this one. And still one that makes me hold my breath...

Today I carried home an heirloom. Not mine, but one that holds a special meaning for my children. This is a Vyborg region national costume, that belonged to my girls´ great grandmother on their fathers side. 

My job is to make adjustments to the size, so my elder girl can use the costume. Oh, some basic things to be done for a costume that hasn´t been used in twenty years. Washing and checking, maybe redoing the waist of the skirt with linen instead of the plastic-ish band it has now. But not really much to do. The costume is in a prime condition. 

There are two shirts, one with long and one with short sleeves and two aprons of different length. Just the silk ribbons that go around the head are missing. Mainly because original owner was a grown woman (albeit very petite one) and had a grown woman´s headgear for the costume.

The thing that makes me hold my breath with this one is that I know how precious this costume was to its previous owner and how proud she was to use it. She was born and raised in Vyborg, and mourned the loss of her home town in war keenly even though she had moved away before it. She was witty and moved quickly and raised four pretty impressive sons.

My firstborn has always been a petite girl, who is said to be a lot like her paternal great grandmother. She is very proud of her Karelian heritage. In first grade she wrote that Vyborg is one of her important places in the world. When I took her to Karelian heritage events, she always asked beforehand where was it that her roots were. Muolaa and Viipuri. She made sure she stood up in the right place when those were mentioned.

I must say that it makes me humble and proud and emotional all at the same time to be able to connect these two through this costume. 

Bitchiä nypläten - Lacemaker/Pacemaker

It´s been over a year since the idea of learning to make lace occured to me. Now I´m finally de-traumatized enough to map my road to where I am now... 

Nypläyksen opettelu tuli eteen puolisentoista vuotta sitten. Sen verran kävi järki taas minunkin päässäni, että menin oikein kansalaisopiston kurssille. Mutta persaus edellähän minun piti sielläkin puuhun lähteä kiipeämään...

Ihan eka, parin pikku harjoituksen jälkeen oli paidan kauluksen reunapitsin eka versio, edelleen yksi suosikkipitsini eli raumalainen PIMPPU! (tirsk)

First actual lace I made was simple, classically beautiful model from Rauma. It´s name sounds like it means pussy, which was only one of the reasons I chose it...

Noin toinen (okei, kolmas. Tein kapeamman reunapitsin ensin) yritelmä olikin sitten Frimodiglai-tykkipitsi. 68 nypyläparia, ihan tolkuton määrä neuloja ja täysin alkeelliset ohjeenlukutaidot kohtasivat itsepäisen luonteen. Arvatkaa vaan kumpi voitti?

It is far from perfect, but this is the beginning of what I wanted to learn when I went to lacemaking course. 68 pairs of bobbles meets a headstrong amateur! Guess who won in the end? Me. 

As I said, it ain´t perfect but this lace adorns the cap of my national costume, and I´m darn proud of it!

Sitten tutustuinkin karjalaisiin nyytinkeihin, ja taas se oli menoa!

Hirveä kiire kerätä pihasta oikeanlaista sammalta ennen kuin ensilumi peitti kaiken. Sitä sitten kuivailin sienikuivurissa kunnes sain oman kötsikän kasaan.

Eka nyytinki oli Pyhäjärven essun välipitsi. Rusinapitsiä, jonka julistin välittömästi vihollisekseni. Miten jukolavit lanka voi lähteä takaisin YLÖSPÄIN kesken kaiken...

Mutta papeloiden ääni on aika rauhoittava.

Next flame was to learn Karelian- style lace. Thicker yarn and colours, plus rougher technique was my thing immediately. And the sound of those bigger bobbins (called papelot) clicking is beautiful...

Kolmiväristä nyytinkiä Seiskarin saarelta. Nämä saarelaismallit ovat edelleen suosikkejani ja helpoimpia hahmottaa...

Nyytinki-lace in three colours from the isle of Seiskari.

Nypläyskurssi alkoi siis syyskuun alussa. Vein Raumalta tilaamani Frimodiglain mynsterin noin kolmannelle kokoontumiskerralle. Opettaja kehotti tekemään ensin vielä jotain helpompaa, vaikka sen kapeamman reunapitsin. Kun kerroin tehneeni sen jo, hän totesi ettei minua vissiin voi pysäyttää...

Uudenvuoden päivänä päättelin valmiin pitsin. 

Helmikuussa opettajani jo naureskeli kertoneensa kollegoille, että hänellä oli eräs aloittelevat oppilas joka halusi tehdä Frimodiglaita. Nämä olivat kauhistelleet, että et kai anna sitä vielä aloittaa! Opettajani totesi että no paha mennä estelemään kun se teki sen jo...

Here´s the 68 paired beginners´ nightmare all done! 

Mikä on hei oudoin paikka missä oot nyplännyt? No ehkä Turun Hovioikeuden odotustilat. Odottelin kutsua todistamaan.

What do you guys do when it´s a long day waiting to be called to witness a criminal case in a courtroom? Lacemaking is the perfectly normal answer.

Pitkä päivä, niin kyllä syntyi pitsiäkin...

Viimeisen puolen vuoden aikaansaannokset. Kyllä se Pyhäjärveläinen rusinapitsikin alkoi taipua ekan puolen metrin jälkeen...

Some Nyytinkis I´ve made in the last six months or so

Bitchinnypläyshän on terminä tietenkin äärimmäisen epäkorrekti ja vihjaileva. Siksi kiitänkin sen keksimisestä ja käyttöönotosta parasta ystävääni ja jatkan käyttöä täysin häpeilemättä.