Gifts of the Spirit

by Patricia Eilola

  Susie had been born with a severe overbite, so, as her teeth came in, she wound up with what is called “buck teeth.” This caused her to be teased a lot by the other kids, or at least some of them tried to tease her, but just as she had stepped up when Nonny had needed her, so Nonny stepped up for her. Fists clenched, he dared any one who made fun of her to deal with him.

  We had no idea this was going on other than to worry when Susie came home crying. Finally, between gulps, she told us what Nonny had been doing. On one hand, we didn’t want him to think his fists were the answer to any argument; on the other hand, we were proud of him for standing up for his sister.

  After much discussion, most of it carried on in bed after we were sure the children were asleep, we decided to let things alone. We discussed the situation while setting both of them down at the kitchen table the following morning. “We don’t agree with fighting as a method of solving a problem,” we told Nonny. “In this instance, however, we can’t help but be grateful you love your sister and are willing to protect her against anyone who tries to be cruel to her.”

  To Susie, we said, “We have to agree that, just as you saved Nonny from drowning that day last summer, it is not wrong for him to save you from being hurt in a way almost equally bad. And so, we agree that whenever someone says something to or about Susie, we give you, Nonny, permission to step up to protect her.”

  “But only in this instance,” we warned. “Otherwise, no fighting. Do you understand what we are telling you? No fighting!”

  Nonny nodded. Susie nodded. We hoped we had helped to solve a problem that would recur again and again during her school years. Children could be cruel, we knew. I knew that from my own experience, remembering that first day of my freshman year at the Alango High School. Arvo knew that from his own life’s trials—although he remained by and large very quiet about them other than to repeat what he had told me about his parents’ meanness.

  And it didn’t help, once Elsie started school, that she was the “perfect girl child”—so popular everyone wanted to be her friend; so kind she loved everyone, regardless of circumstance—even the newest young dirty Juntunen girl; so pretty that whatever outfit we put on her looked adorable; and so basically sweet she deserved every compliment we received about her—her deportment, her ability to learn, her willingness to help others, her very being. At basketball games, every other little girl wanted to sit right next to her. At church services—especially at Christmastime—she stood out because of her sweet soprano voice and her memory. She was able to memorize every part of the Bible assigned during Sunday School effortlessly. Her voice led everyone else’s when we sang hymns, which she seemed to learn by osmosis. And, of course, she was chosen to be Mary in the nativity scene in the church’s traditional Christmas play.

  The Alango Unitarian Church had come into its own, just as our own family had, during those early years. The congregation had purchased a one-room school from the St. Louis County Unorganized Territory—one that they had closed—and we moved it to a piece of high ground at the junction of two roads in Alango.

  They—we—had hired an itinerant artist to paint a triptych to hang behind the altar. He did an incredible job: on one side he placed in the background a homestead cabin with the figure of a man plowing, atop a replica of an open-pit mine. On the right side he put the animals which were so much a part of our lives, interweaving them with the woody setting into which they belonged—a buck, a doe, and a fawn; a mink; beaver with their dam; shy foxes and wolves slinking around beneath the trees; and rabbits and otter hiding underneath the leaves, the otter near the creek on which he had drawn the beaver dam. In the center, so appropropriately, stood the figure of a young woman, dressed for school with books under her arm, heading toward a marble building that could be a school or a statehouse, an official building of any kind. The symbolism caught all of our attention and our appreciation, and we wound up paying the artist more generously than we had originally promised. A semi-circular “fence” set the altar apart from the rest of the church. It surrounded the dais behind which the triptych took pride of place, framed in the same kind of wood built with a shelf below it to hold the Bible.

  On the left hand side of the altar-dias stood an upright piano, donated by the Hauala family in memory of their mother, and on the right was a place for a pump organ that would be the church’s next purchase.

  Usually Milma held services there every other Sunday except during the worst of the winter. We tried at least to meet on the fourth Sunday of every month. I remembered almost every word of the Confirmation lessons she had given to the group in the Virginia church, and she soon offered the same classes to the children in the Alango area. We thought Nonny and Susie were probably too young to get much out of the discussion but eventually decided to send them regardless.

  Several years before, on Christmas Eve, we had begun a tradition: early that evening the men of the church cut a tree, which they set with boards holding it in place to the right of the altar. The children made chains of popcorn and cranberries and intertwined small circles of construction paper, which we “borrowed” from the Prairie Star School and the Alango school. They did this at home so once the tree was up, the chains could be draped over it immediately. Everyone contributed a couple of candle-holders and candles, so we were able to light the candles during the evening service. The men had also made candle-holders out of birch branches, drilling holes to hold the candles, and bracing the branch on small slivers of wood. These were placed in every window-sill, for we had windows all around the building, especially on the north side. There had been some discussion about hiring someone to make stained glass windows, but most of us said, “No. Let’s just leave them with regular glass so we can look outside at the trees (white pine stood proudly around the spot) and the squirrels and chipmunks who live there.”

  We chose to open our church to Nature, and it wound up being one of the wisest decisions we were to make as a congregation.

  The sermons and hymns were all in Finnish at the beginning, although English had begun to make some inroads as the children grew. Still, all of them understood Finnish, having been raised near their grandparents who, like Mother, had almost unanimously refused to learn English.

  On Christmas Eve, one of the members of the congregation read the story of Jesus’ birth aloud in Finnish and sometimes in English, too, depending on who was there. Then the children staged a nativity scene. From year to year the costumes were handed down so the youngest always had something to wear to be a part of it. There were three wise men in elegant robes (mostly donated by Mr. Hauala), and gold crowns made out of construction paper. One of the boys, often Nonny, served as Joseph, leading a donkey (provided by one of the church members) into the church with Mary (often either Susie or Elsie) riding with a pillow under her clothes, a tie-back from someone’s living room curtains holding up her long gown, and a shawl over her head, tied around her forehead with a piece of yarn. Sometimes the donkey refused to perform his part of the service, and the rest of us understood that animals can be contrary, and simply watched Joseph lead Mary toward the front of the altar, where the men had built a kind of stable with a crèche. The animals that had been made for the Prairie Star School had been commandeered for the performance, and so we had plenty of sheep and shepherds. A man stood behind the altar to tell Joseph, “There is no room in the inn, but you might use the stable.”

  One of the children always held a star, made of construction paper but with glitter glued on, high above the stable. Once the babe was born (one of the newest babies usually was brought to Mary at this point), the story was read, the angels (in white sheets with haloes also borrowed from the school) appeared, as did the shepherds, who knelt down, and the wise men, who said they had followed the star.

  At the end, they all stayed there in place for a few minutes in a beautiful tableau—sometimes interrupted by the braying of the donkey—who becam
e recalcitrant once he had done his part.

  Then everyone sang a hymn and finally the children left their positions, rejoining their families, everyone filled with excitement. The benches were pushed aside, and tables that had been leaning against the south wall were set on four “horses” and covered with tablecloths and with Christmas treats.

  At this point one of the men, dressed as Santa Claus (or Joulu Pukku) entered in his red drawers and white cotton hair and beard with gifts for each of the children. We mothers always gathered together to prepare their presents: an orange or an apple went into every bag along with some penny candy, usually ordered in bulk from one of the catalogs and sent to one of the families who had strict instructions not to open the package until Christmas.

  By then everyone was tired, the smaller children asleep in their mothers’ or fathers’ arms, and we headed home, cheerfully calling “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year” to every vehicle as it left. Many of the farmers had purchased cars by this time. Even second-hand ones were prized because the Wards catalog had replacement parts for every engine available in their catalog.

  We were aware that we needed to add a “social room” to our small church, but so far none of the one-room schools that had closed had been a good fit. Arvo was deeply involved in the search, however, and we knew that one day we would not have to hold the parties in the church itself but would have an addition where they could be held.

  26: A Problem Unsolved

  I, who had always loved poetry so much, tried my best to pass my love on to the children. Reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses to Nonny and Susie had led to a contest between them to see which of them could memorize more of the poems in—say—a week. Sunday nights took on a whole new meaning at our house in Korvan Kylla. It was always reading night—and it came to be “poetry memorization” night, too.

  Of course, Nonny was expected to memorize verses from the Bible because of Sunday school, and Susie, although she was two years younger, matched him verse for verse. I should have called a halt to their competition, but I didn’t have the heart to because that competition led them eventually to my Hundred and One Famous Poems. Even tiny Elsie got in on the recitation, saying “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” by herself one Sunday evening.

  Nonny had a good start on Susie because, even before he had started school at age six, he had taught himself to read. But she, never one to take second place, had almost caught the hang of it, too. Between them, they took off memorizing.

  I loved to hear them reciting to themselves as the week days went by—“Oh how I love to go up in a swing,” and the nursery rhymes they had grown up hearing—“Little Jack Horner sat in a corner…” Elsie was able to remember many of those nursery rhymes not only because I read them to her but because she heard her brother and sister saying them over and over again.

  One Sunday night, Nonny outdid himself. Knowing it was my favorite, he surprised me by learning and reciting all of “Abou Ben Adhem.” Not to be outdone, Susie had memorized—and sang—all of Robert Burns’s “Sweet Afton.” She had won the prize that night for learning the most lines, but Nonny had gotten a special kiss and hug from me in appreciation for his choice.

  Little Elsie recited two nursery rhymes—“Old Mother Hubbard” and “I Saw Three Ships a’Sailing,” the second one quite difficult. She learned it, as Susie had, by singing it. But what a difference in their voices! Susie could barely carry a tune, but Elsie’s sweet soprano stayed right on key. Susie got extra points for trying, but Elsie wound up on her dad’s knee, where she loved to perch, singing like a small meadowlark.

  I had kept on with my reading aloud, of course. I tried to pick the more difficult books, the ones that the children wouldn’t choose to read by themselves, but which they loved to hear once I read them doing voices.

  Man Without a Country proved to be a favorite with everyone. They loved the famous epitaph: “In Memory of Philip Nolan Lieutenant in the Army of the United States—‘He loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands.’”

  Looking back, it was remarkable how many books I had read aloud although the truth of the matter was that often after I had read a chapter, the children and Arvo would beg for “one more, please,” and I had always been happy to grant their wishes.

  It had hurt me that Mother was left out of these evenings although I came to believe that she understood more English than she spoke because she always sat in on the readings even when she caught just a few words. By my expression and my changes in voice, she got the gist of what was going on, and more and more I thought that she was listening to the whole.

  We all came to love Sunday nights and to look forward to the time for recitation and the time for reading.

  I was re-reading Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Evangeline and remembering the tears shed in our living room as I came to the end. I’m not sure why I chose to reread it myself—possibly because I was in the mood for tears.

  Arvo had left, seeking work in the mines. “We aren’t making a go of it on the farm,” he had told me, holding me on his shoulder about a week before, after we had made love—very quietly—so as not to wake the children. “And I know they’re hiring fellows to work in the mine in Hibbing. The ‘Hull Rust pit’ it’s called. I know you don’t want me to go. I don’t want to go. But I absolutely have to earn some money—real money—not the bartering kind we’ve been making do with during these last six years.”

  Ronny had left about a month before, having decided to head for North Dakota, where they needed laborers to work the fields. Arvo had considered joining him, but the pay there, although adequate for a single man, would not help our coffers in a major way. And our coffers needed help desperately. The old Model T Arvo had kept running all of these years had finally died on Highway 25 on the way back from the Alango School after a basketball game the previous Saturday. After working with it for a week, he had declared it hopeless. He just couldn’t get that old motor to run anymore.

  So much for Henry Ford’s promise that cars that he built would “last a lifetime.”

  But a new car and a good furnace were both becoming necessities. The wood stove in the living room still helped to keep the downstairs warm during the winter, but upstairs was freezing cold. I worried about the children—especially little Elsie, although she was tucked into bed alongside Susie. It was simply too cold upstairs for them to sleep safely. We needed a gas or oil furnace for the living room. But, according to the new Wards’ catalog, a good one, and we wanted a good one, cost seventy dollars or so and demanded that it be installed in a basement, which we didn’t have.

  We knew we would again have to settle for a wood heater. Sears had had an Acme Cottage Heater, which we had considered ordering after using the old one from the summer kitchen for one winter. At $6.60, we had thought it a bargain. But we had also looked at the Acme Magic Todd Heater for $7.85. Finally, after much discussion, we had decided on the more expensive one, hoping it would do a better job. It did—downstairs—but the upstairs remained stubbornly cold.

  We had no access to coal so a coal-fired furnace was out as was the gas one that we could have ordered had we lived in town. But we didn’t. The only fuel we had was wood, the wood that up to that year Ronny and Arvo had cut down, hauled, sliced, and split, using up many many man-hours of work. And with Ronny gone, all of that work fell on Arvo’s capable shoulders. We had a wood pile that was the source of envy from everyone in the area. Arvo didn’t waste any time when he set to making wood. He did it with a vengeance, cutting, splitting, and piling enough to last us for at least three years. He had even built a woodshed so it would be covered when it rained or snowed, and he had piled it so each piece received maximum amount of air to dry quickly. Having adequate fuel wasn’t the problem. The problem was having a large enough furnace to fill it with so that the whole house would be warm.
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  For that, Arvo had insisted we go to Chisholm, Hibbing, and Virginia, in search of such a furnace. He finally found one in Virginia, but the cost was as high as the gas stove in the catalog. To have it hauled and installed in our living room would cost a good hundred dollars—a hundred dollars we didn’t have.

  Thus, Arvo’s decision to head for the mines. I absolutely hated having him gone. He was not only my lover and husband, but my soul-mate, my support, the shoulder I leaned on, the hand I reached for in the night when worry overtook me—usually about the children.

  And, horror of horrors, two years after Elsie was born, I had become pregnant again. It was not that we didn’t love our children. We adored them—every one of them—aware of their faults and their strengths and loving them with all of our hearts. But another mouth to feed… another pregnancy so close again… and another baby. I had saved Elsie’s diapers, thinking I could use them as rags. Now they would be reused in their original identity. And I had saved the baby clothes we had made with such love for Nonny and for Susie and for Elsie, although she wound up with mostly hand-me-downs of Susie’s, a situation that didn’t bother her a whit but which caused qualms in me. It wasn’t fair, I thought, that she can’t have her own clothes. Mother had acclimated herself to the day-bed in the living room, but it didn’t seem fair that she—who really owned the house she was sharing with us—didn’t have her own bedroom. The room that had been Ronny’s and Eino’s now held two beds—one for Eino and Nonny and one for the girls.

  Eino had graduated from high school the previous spring, and we’d had a big celebration, inviting all the neighbors to a graduation party. Mother had outdone herself making cakes—three in all! And I had contributed my special gelatin aspic, cookies, and a hot dish for which we had discovered a recipe in the Virginia newspaper, now called the Mesaba Daily. It called for ground beef (I substituted venison), pasta we purchased from the neighborhood grocery store, and a tomato sauce, for which I used the tomatoes we had canned the year before. It was a big hit, and many of the women asked for the recipe.