Baked potatoes went into the oven, set for 425 degrees—a very hot oven—and everyone was warned that dinner would be ready in about an hour so they were to wrap up whatever they were doing and prepare to sit down.
Before the main dish, which included green beans, which she browned in butter, adding slivered almonds she told me she ordered in bulk from a grocery house, we had a “salad.”
That was another new experience for me.
I had set the dining room table, being careful about where I put the knife, spoon, and fork, and putting a crystal glass just to the right of the silverware.
The salad consisted of fresh lettuce from the garden, doused with a combination of apple cider vinegar and olive oil, and a bit of sugar.
It was delicious, and I filed away how Grandmother had made it in the back of my mind, intending to start a recipe book as soon as I could.
The folllowing morning, after checking the children’s rooms and reminding them to put things away where they belonged, I started in on the clothes I had taken off the line before dinner the night before. After folding the ones that didn’t need ironing, I had dipped the things like Risto’s shirts, Milma’s good blouses, the tablecloths and napkins in starch (I was grateful to Mother who had taught me how to make boiled starch) and rolled them up awaiting ironing.
Again I was in for a surprise. I did not have to put flatirons onto the stove to heat them. The Lappalas had a gas iron, which I simply had to fill and set to the correct temperature. Thank goodness I did not scorch a single one of Risto’s white shirts or Milma’s blouses or anything, and the rest of the ironing took half the time it took me at home even though I had at least five times the amount to do. Still, that night I was asleep on my feet by the time Grandmother began to make dinner. I helped her with the meat loaf—putting the chuck roast through the meat grinder, cutting up fresh onions from the garden, adding eggs and milk, salt and pepper—much as Mother did. That night I didn’t have to peel the potatoes because young Risto had shoveled out a bunch of new potatoes—the small red ones that tasted so delicious boiled in their skins and buttered—and again we had fresh vegetables from the garden—carrots that night. They were so small I didn’t have to peel them either—just washed them and set them in a pot to boil right before we were ready to eat so they didn’t get overdone.
Somehow again Grandmother had managed to make a dessert—this time a rhubarb pie—that was as good as Mother’s. Thank Goodness I knew how to make good piecrust so I had been able to help, too, with that. And the rhubarb had been so small and red and sweet that we just had to cut it into small pieces, add sugar and pour it into the pie pan. Grandmother made a design on top of the piecrust—a rhubarb leaf that looked so real I wanted to touch it. Instead of cutting slits in the pie, she had done as Mother often did—decorated the top.
The Cook Coop Creamery had delivered a can of fresh milk, one of cream, and one of their special cottage cheese that morning so our salad that night was a mixture of canned fruit cocktail in whipped cream. YUM!
I knew I would eat well at the Lappala household!
The work continued. On Wednesday I cleaned the kitchen, scrubbing all the counters, the table, and chairs, cleaning the stove and oven and scrubbing the floor after I had swept every crumb. Once it was dry, I waxed it before laying down the clean rugs. The dirty ones I brought into the summer kitchen to wash the following Monday. I had found clean ones in the “pantry” off of the kitchen where all the supplies were kept—a barrel of flour and one of sugar, big cans of salt and pepper, other canned goods like beans, carrots, beets (pickled and plain), peas, and lots of jars of canned fruit—raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries made into jam; chokecherries made into syrup and a couple of jugs of real maple syrup I supposed had been given to the Lappalas from their parishioners. In one big covered bucket, I found wild rice—obviously hand-parched.
The pantry also had counterspace for mixing and some dried herbs hanging from the rafters. It was like the pantry Mother had but much larger and full of more exciting canned goods and many jars of every conceivable berry that grew in our area. I wondered how the Lappalas had time to pick all of them but gradually found out that, like the salmon and the wild rice, most of them came from grateful parishioners.
On Wednesday I tackled the upstairs, not only the bedrooms but two “water closets”—inside toilets—with bathtubs and showers that needed to be scoured and scrubbed at least once a week. I also ventured into the master bedroom, where, as I had expected, the bed was made and all of the clothes had been put away. But the floor obviously needed a dustmop and scrub pail, the rugs needed to be shaken well, and the furniture needed dusting. The children’s rooms, too, needed to be dustmopped and their floors scrubbed and waxed, their rugs shaken well and replaced if they were at all soiled.
By Thursday, I woke up exhausted, but nonetheless I tackled the downstairs again, this time with scrub water and dust rags—dusting every bit of wood and washing every knick-knack and even taking the books down off the shelves, which Reverend Lappala told me I did not need to do every week.
He almost caught me that afternoon while I was working with the books. I saw the title Silas Marner and had the book open and on my knee when he came into the room. “Oh,” he said, “You like to read?” He made the statement into a question and so I answered, “Yes, I do. Very very much.” And then I added, “I’ve never seen so many books before in my life—even more than the school I went to had in their library, and I would like to read every one!”
“Well, there’s no time like now to get started,” he surprised me by saying, and, reaching over to see the title of the book in my hand, said, “That’s a good one to start with. Freshmen in high school usually read at least a cutting from that text. I personally prefer reading the whole book.”
“Oh, I would, too,” I gushed, knowing I was gushing but completely unable to speak in a normal manner. Books were all the world to me, and here was a richness I had not expected.
“Well, why don’t we start by setting aside some time every afternoon for you to spend reading?” he suggested. “You can start right now.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I disagreed. “I’m not through dusting the downstairs.”
“The dust will be there tomorrow,” he said.
I dared to comment, “And so will the books!”
He grinned and said I had won that point. “But once you finish, I hereby give you permission to delve into our bookshelves at will. And I would very much like to discuss your impressions of Silas Marner after you’ve finished.”
“That’s a deal!” I exclaimed, and, holding the book carefully in one hand, finished the dusting, trying very hard not to skip anything even though I could hardly wait to begin reading.
On Friday, with the house in order, I asked Grandmother for cooking lessons. She started me off with a white sauce she said she intended to use for dinner, adding canned beef. She made one pan and I another. That wound up to be a wonderful method of learning because I could watch what she was doing and copy her actions as carefully as possible.
Another request I had was to learn to bake bread. Mother made rieska at home, but obviously the Lappala family ate bread that had risen in pans instead of being pricked down when the pans were in the oven. It must have something to do with the yeast, I thought. But when I asked Grandmother, she said that the methods were very similar. “The big difference is in the rising,” she told me. “Regular bread is shaped differently.” She showed me how. “Then it’s set to rise until it double in size.”
She showed me how to check to see when the bread dough had doubled—by simply putting a finger into the dough. If the mark showed, it was ready to go into the oven.
For dinner that night she had planned to make a chocolate cake with seven-minute frosting. I’ll never forget the mess I made trying to get that cake together. I tried with all my mig
ht to do exactly as she was doing, but I got lost somewhere between the wet ingredients and the dry ones. Thank goodness, she was able to rectify my mistake, but my cake didn’t rise as high as hers, nor did my frosting taste or look nearly as good.
“Making seven-minute frosting is an art,” she said, trying to make me feel better. “I think the secret is in trying it again and again until you get a feel for it.”
I was willing, but I wondered whether the Lappalas would want to waste all of those egg whites!
“Until you get the hang of it,” she suggested, “why don’t we just put a butter-cream frosting on your cakes?”
Even that didn’t turn out quite as I had hoped because I had not gotten all of the lumps out of the powdered sugar before I started mixing it with the butter. But it definitely was an improvement over my earlier try.
“Don’t despair,” Grandmother said sympathetically, “remember I’ve had fifty years of experience with cooking and baking. You’ll learn, my dear, you will learn. As long as you have the will, you will learn.”
I had the will all right, but I wasn’t sure whether or not I had the patience! Fifty years! That seemed like an eternity before I would be able to make my cooking and baking compare with Grandmother’s.
On Saturday I gave the house a quick once-over right away in the morning because that was the day for company and activities—beginning with a wedding, a baptism, the sermon for Sunday, and a seemingly steady stream of visitors. It had supposed it to be my day off, but instead I was almost busier on that day than I had been on Monday through Friday.
By the time I got ready for bed each night, I was too exhausted even to read more than a chapter of Silas Marner. But with every chapter, I grew to enjoy the book more and more. I loved to read about Silas and his voluntary “exile” and had finally reached the part where a young mother falls asleep in the snow.
I wanted with all my heart to continue reading, but my eyes refused to stay open, and so I put a marker into the book, set it aside, and snuggled down to sleep. Thank goodness I had a good breeze from my high window so the upstairs, which should have been the hottest part of the house stayed cool, and I was able to sleep without covers most nights but once in a while a stiff breeze would blow, and then I’d be grateful for the down comforter Milma had so kindly placed on my bed under the spread.
It was another of the innovations I was to enjoy while I was at Metsola, and I greeted every one with a sense of joy and gratitude. What had started out seeming to be a difficult task became easier every day. The only trouble still was the children, who—although they did follow directions and straighten up their rooms every morning—refused to acknowledge me at all. When they spoke to me, which was seldom, it was as if they were talking to a place above my head. Still, they were doing what they were supposed to do so I felt I had accomplished something, but I certainly had not managed to find a place in their lives.
When I finally did, my gratitude knew no bounds.
9: Ceremonies
First thing that Saturday morning, when I got downstairs for breakfast, I realized something special was going to happen because Grandmother was out-doing herself with goodies—tiny cakes she was frosting and “piping,’’ making flowers on top with the tip of a utensil I had never seen before. Already a chiffon cake was in the oven, rising in its high round bowl with the hole in the middle, and at least two kinds of cookies—not only oatmeal but some chocolate ones she said she intended to frost with seven-minute chocolate frosting.
“May I help?” I asked, eager to start.
“Oh, my, no, my dear,” she answered in a rather abstract way. “These are all for this afternoon’s tea party.” She looked up and took a second to explain: “Some ladies from the Virginia church are coming for afternoon tea. Everything must be just so. They’re the ones, you know, who really pay Reverend Risto’s and Milma’s salaries because they’re the backbone of the Virginia church and have the money, and, oh, dear, I must concentrate on this frosting.”
I made myself a bowl of oatmeal and quadrupled the recipe so there’d be enough for everyone. Obviously this was not to be a pancake breakfast day.
“Before they come,” she suggested, not quite looking at me, but looking a bit past me, as if she were uncomfortable with what she was going to say, “it might be a good idea for you to change into that black dress with the white apron and cap Milma gave you last Monday. The ladies expect to be served, you see.”
I didn’t see, but I decided the Lappalas had so far been so good to me that if it would help them, I’d gladly don any outfit that would be appropriate.
No sooner had I finished my own breakfast and fixed bowls for Milma, Risto, and the children, than we heard a horse and wagon coming up the driveway.
“Oh, they are here already,” Milma said, just a little flustered.
But then she shook herself, put down her napkin, straightened her lovely navy blue dress with its white crocheted collar and broach in the center, and headed for the front door, arriving just after Reverend Risto. I heard them motion the guests out onto the veranda. I hurried to finish my own breakfast so I could go upstairs to change clothes and then head down into the living room to hear the ceremony they were about to perform. The children, familiar with the whole situation, simply sat, finished their oatmeal, tried to sample one of Grandmother’s chocolate cookies, for which each one got a spank on the hand, and headed upstairs.
Saturday, my day off, began with a wedding. Risto—I referred to him as “Reverend Lappala”—performed the ceremony on their veranda with flowers all around. The couple, who must’ve been quite poor, had met Risto at the Virginia church. He introduced them to me, to the children, who had watched with bated breath and wide eyes, to Grandmother (as Mrs. Tikkanen), and, of course, to Milma, whom they already knew.
No sooner had they left, after having a cup of coffee and a piece of Grandmother’s cake in the dining room with Reverend and Mrs. Lappala and Mrs. Tikkanen, than another couple appeared.
Not poor were the second couple, who had arrived in a Model T Ford. Once out of the car, the young man walked around to the other side and handed his wife-to-be down. She wore a pink crepe dress with short sleeves, a matching very smart hat and shoes, and carried a bouquet of soft pink roses intertwined with pink ribbon. Another couple got down from the rumble seat, he in a suit like the bridegroom, his lady-friend in a soft green chiffon dress that floated around her when she moved. She also had matching hat, shoes, and gloves, and carried a bouquet, too, hers intertwined with green ribbon and smaller than the bride’s.
Mrs. Tikkanen had been called from the kitchen the minute the car drove up, and the reverends had arranged the flowers on the veranda to form a kind of altar in front of a trellis for the bride and groom to stand under. I had seen the trellis in the yard, growing among some wild roses, and had loved the smell and the look. Evidently it had been planted to be used for just such an occasion.
The bride hurried to the water closet to freshen her hair while the bridegroom settled with the Lappalas. And then the service began: Mrs. Tikkanen surprised me by playing “Here Comes the Bride” from Lohengren (I was later to learn the source of the music) on the piano. The groom waited by the trellis with his best man on his left while the bridesmaid stepped in time to the music toward the trellis followed by the bride.
Oh, wow, I thought. This was the fanciest wedding I had ever seen, and it wasn’t happening in a church but just in the Lappalas’ yard at Metsola with the river flowing in the background. Mrs. Tikkanen stopped playing just as the couple joined hands at the altar, looking into each other’s eyes.
I thought it the most romantic picture I could have imagined. In the middle of the service, which included the words from Corinthians that I later looked up in the Bible, Mrs. Tikkanen sang a Finnish song—“Kesaliltä”—which must have meant a great deal to the entire party because each of
them dug for a handkerchief as she sang. It was really wonderful. I’d had no idea Mrs. Tikkanen had such a lovely soprano voice. Later I learned that Tellervo sang alto and the Lappalas loved to have “sing-alongs” just with the members of their family.
At that time, though, I was simply overcome by the beauty of the whole picture—of the Lappalas in their long white robes with scarves hanging down to the hem in the front—of the trellis with the rose bush—of the exquisite-looking bride and her equally beautifully dressed bridesmaid—and of the music that Mrs. Tikkanen surprisingly provided.
All in all, it became a very festive affair, Mrs. Tikkanen having brought out some of the “goodies” she had made for the Ladies Tea Party scheduled for later that afternoon, and the bride and groom—now Mr. and Mrs. Gust Koski—with their attendants, Mr. and Mrs. Sulo Koski (the men being related) sitting for what seemed an inordinately long time toasting each other.
I served at that “reception.” The bridegroom had a flask of moonshine, which he added to the lemonade. The Lappalas, of course, covered the tops of their glasses with their hands, indicating that they didn’t want any addition to their lemonade.
When they finally left, I felt as if both Risto and Milma had breathed a sigh of relief. I know I did.
Thank God they had left before the Ladies from Virginia arrived. They would have been appalled that liquor had been served in their parsonage!
Since Milma was an enthusiastic supporter of the Women’s Temperance League, she must have been very upset by the “goings-on” that afternoon. But good manners dictated her every move and every action, and that afternoon she had once again proved herself to be a lady as far as I was concerned.
I had marveled at the beauty of the marriage ceremonies the Lappalas had performed. Unlike the ones I heard done by the Finnish Evangelical Lutheran Church minister at the Hall, who had read the part from the Bible about Eve’s springing from Adam’s rib and about the importance of her “cleaving to husband and obeying him in all things,” Reverend Risto used a passage from the Bible I had never heard before. I made special note not to forget it and found the passage as soon as I had a chance. Unlike the passage that enjoined that the wife “does not rule over her own body; her husband does” and “A wife is bound to her husband as long as he lives,” instead, it went like this:
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