A Sissy

The arrival of my daughter was almost identical to that of my son in that I was sequestered away in Helsinki for at least a month and living back at the Mission House. The difference was that it was summer instead of early spring, my friend Lindsey and her family no longer lived in Helsinki, and I had my three year old guy with me. It was a neat adventure for him so much so that he barely missed his dad who was again working back at home. We spent a lot of time playing the park outside the Mission House, climbing up the big hill to the shops, taking the ferry to the Helsinki Zoo, and there was a lot of fun to be had with the old gate mechanical elevator.


My little boy took it upon his little three year old self to “take care of Mamma.” The truth is that I was nervous about being alone with him with no help so late in my pregnancy, and we rehearsed the what ifs if I went into labor before Daddy could come. He is a patient and compliant soul to begin with, but he was especially easy on me that month as we waited for his sister to be born. Jameson charmed the pants off of everyone as usual with his huge blue eyes and sweet closed-mouth grin, and it was exciting for me to see him not only adapt well to this unusual change of pace, but really rise to the occasion.

A few weeks into our stay in Helsinki, my good friend Lisa (aka Latvia Lisa or Kiki’s Aunt Lisa for those of you who know my friends) came to stay with us for a few days. She was also expecting her second baby in October--we had the same doctor and she had an appointment. This was a HUGE relief to me! Lisa got me out and moving, kept my spirits up, calmed my nerves, provided familiar comfort to my son, and was over all a great distraction. It’s extremely tedious to be pulled away from your home, city and normal routine to sit somewhere to do nothing but wait for your body to push out another body.

By the time Lisa had prolonged her stay as far as possible, we were pretty sure I was going into early labor. We happened to be at Ikea at the time (remember Lis?). She hated leaving us, but had to, and in the end arranged it so that Jims and I would only be alone for about a day before my husband arrived (another panicked phone call, but this time he drove to Tallinn and did not fly). Part of the urgency to time departures and arrivals just right was not only because of the baby, but also because of the mid-summer holiday and festivities going on throughout the Baltics and Finland. Life comes to a complete standstill for the longest day of the year.

Midsummer’s Eve, 1998 did turn out to be the longest day of the year for me especially. At midnight, Jims was fast asleep, my husband who had just arrived a few hours before was about to sleep, and I started rocking furiously in a rocking chair. It was time to go to the hospital. I woke my three year old child and told him that we had to go. He jumped up from his little bed and exclaimed, “Don’t worry Mamma! The nurses and I will take care of you!” And on went his little shoes. My husband had to call three cab companies before he could get one to pick up the phone, and when we did finally pile into a cab which reeked of vodka, the clearly inebriated driver drove like a bat out of hell to get us to the hospital. There wasn’t that big of a rush, but he was clearly nervous.

Seven hours later on Midsummer’s Day, Caroline was born. A nurse came to take Big Brother away to the cafeteria during the exact moments of her birth, and once he was brought back in, he kissed her little brown head and sweetly asked, “Is that my Sissy?” That’s your Sissy. He always knew she was a sister—never any doubt, and as we know, the nickname’s stuck.

Riga

Riga is a very beautiful city. When I was living there, reconstruction and restoration were just taking off and it was almost like a veil of dust and damp was being lifted off of this magnificent place. The history is rich and the buildings are stunning. Even in pre-restoration states, there were still unbelievable pearls in the pits. If you search for Jugendstil and Riga, you will see images of what I mean. And I encourage you to do so!

I spent hours each day pushing my big stroller through the streets and parks to pick up the mail, go to the market, take Jameson to his play group, etc., and even though getting my stroller wheels stuck on broken cobblestones, narrow doorways or un-shoveled sidewalks was frustrating, I was always awed by being lucky enough to live in a city that was reclaiming it’s vibrancy. Admittedly, winter was long, dark, cold and sloppy, but the spring was glorious. There were always pensioners in front of our building (and on most street corners) selling hyacinths, daffodils, tulips and crocuses wrapped in newspaper, and I was always happy to hand over my 15 sentimes (30 cents) for a little bouquet. It helped that people were smiling when the sun came out, too, even if they didn’t have a tooth in their heads.

For me, walking through those streets, seeing very old and very poor people coming out of what was clearly once a home for some very wealthy German baron or something was absolutely fascinating. There had to be a story behind it, and to me, imagining the buildings restored was like restoring the memories of these old folks who had clearly lived hard and oppressed lives. The whole history excited me—not just the history of Riga, the people or the architecture, but the life cycle of these combined. It gave me an energy that I didn’t know what to do with aside from just soaking it in and wondering if it would ever really impact me in a way besides emotional. But anything more than physically taking care of my husband and child was out of reach for many superseding reasons—the biggest being that I was going to have another baby.

V-77 II

Riga and I agreed with each other. It wasn’t nearly the project getting this flat in order. I appreciated the move- in condition of Valdemāra 77 and so did my busy 18 month old! This is a photo of our building taken by my friend Denise a few months ago. Our flat is the first three sets of windows on the left above the sign. The outside obviously isn’t anything remarkable, nor did the inside have any unusual architectural features (unless you can count 12’ ceilings), but like I wrote, it was remodeled for the upright-walking man which made it attractive enough! The top of the very tall walls were screaming DO SOMETHING with me in our living room, so I did borrow a ladder and stretch to cap the tops with a long, three-part stencil in jewel tones. It was very pretty way up there and made the room a bit less cavernous. I made some curtains, and kept rearranging our furniture, but other than that, nothing needed to be done.

With the inside shovel-ready for living, that meant I could get outside. Like I said, Riga and I agreed with each other.

The thing about the washing machine

I should probably explain something about washing machines to my American readers. Europeans don’t do laundry like we Americans. Not even civilized Western Europeans do laundry like we Americans. First of all, Europeans don’t have the clothes we Americans do. Moreover, we learned that there was a lot of waste in laundering. Hot water was inconsistent, space to hang things to dry was limited, and doing laundry was generally a pain in the neck. And while underwear is indeed considered dirty every day, we wore wool socks that were good for at least two days, and jeans often could go weeks without really needing a wash. Sounds gross, but believe me, we really were the sweetest smelling people in town. It helped that we brushed out teeth and didn’t smoke or bathe in vodka.

Part of the reason it took so long for us to get a washing machine was because they were hard to come by. Dryers as Americans know them were non-existent. There was an agitating washing contraption that was easily available, but it made a gigantic mess and didn’t really clean anything. The other option was to send the laundry out for a per-kilo fee. This we did when we had big stuff like blankets and sleeping bags, and after a few rounds of washing sheets, jeans and towels by hand we would send those out for cleaning as well, but this took time (like a week), wasn’t convenient, and had other drawbacks that I’ve mentioned before. I thought it was easier to just fill the bathtub and scrub against a washboard in the orange water.

My college-aged brother in law came to visit for a very long month while I was pregnant and feeling nauseous all the time. (Lucky him.) He came with more stuff for a month than my husband and I had combined. About a week into his trip, I asked him if he had any laundry for me to do. I almost threw up all over him when he handed me four pair of jeans, about 18 socks, gobs of boxer shorts and more t-shirts than I knew one man could own. Really? I said. He just looked at me incredibly as if to say, how dare you think I can possibly wear this pair of jeans two days in a row! He clearly didn’t realize what this endeavor entailed or that washing jeans was one of the biggest pains in the ass on earth. But soldier on I did, and he finally got the message when it took five days for all of his clothes to dry and they weren’t warm and fluffy or smelling like Bounce. In the end, he DID end up having to wear the same pair of jeans two (maybe even three!) days in a row. Šausmigs!

It was a regular site to enter someone’s bathroom and see clothes lines hung above the tub. We had that, too, and once in a while socks or shirts would spill out over the radiators or kitchen chairs, but by the time a third person was living full time with us, even though he was tiny, laundry became the bane of my existence. Fortunately, Pampers could be found all the time, even at the local kiosk with cigarettes, bananas, and beer, but there are only so many spit-up rags one can deal with on a daily basis, and unlike jeans and wool socks, those COULD NOT be stretched another day! So after a little research and digging, we found an Indesit automatic washing machine with a built-in heated centrifuge (the closest thing to a tumble dryer). It was about the size of a dishwasher and held about ¼ of a regular American load of laundry. It took almost an hour and a half to cycle through each load, but it was great. Clothes wouldn’t come out completely dry, but hanging them out for an hour sure beat hanging them out for days.

In Alūksne, the washing machine was hooked up in the bathroom, but in Riga, there was a special spot all its own under the counter in the kitchen. Very civilized. Yes, even in the kitchen, very civilized. And in Riga, I no longer had damp clothes hanging from every door and pipe—I bought a drying rack! This may have been the best 8 Lats I ever spent in Riga. I could hang TWO loads of clothes from this thing, and it only took up as much space as an ironing board. Because of the limited capacity of the washing machine, the only way to keep up was to do laundry every day, so my drying rack was a permanent fixture at the end of our spare room in Riga.

That thing has travelled with me all this time and I still get people asking me where I found such a fantastic drying rack…ha ha. As I write, my fabulous Latvian drying rack is holding “delicates” and a bath mat. Old habits die hard.

Valdemara 77

A new job took us from Alūksne to Riga—a move I couldn’t make fast enough! There was really no community for me in Alūksne and lonely didn’t even begin to describe it. Riga had everything, long-time friends, an ex-pat community, restaurants, shops and a buzz. I found us a new flat at Krišjānis Valdemāra iela 77. It was four rooms with a kitchen and bathroom and had been previously been rented and renovated by a foreigner—this meant the fabulous fiberglass wallcovering and real paint had already been applied along with a clean bathroom (meaning fresh tile and fixtures that hadn’t been rusted out by the orange water) and a western kitchen (our love affair with Ikea continues). It even had a designated place for my new washer/dryer unit in the kitchen! All we had to buy was a stove, and as luck would have it, the only electric stove that would fit was a top of the line Electrolux glass top. Darn. I wouldn’t get to light a pilot every time I wanted to boil drinking water and hope we don't all blow up.

Good Riddance

We lived in that flat in Aluksne for almost two more years. I think our last home improvement there was procuring a washing machine which at the time was an enormous luxury. Prior to that, I would usually do laundry by hand in the bathtub, and once in a while we would send our laundry out for some old lady to do, but that wasn’t my preference because it took too long, the clothes would smell funny, and they would be rough and hard.


We left Aluksne for Riga, Latvia’s capital and when we shut the door on that flat for the last time I didn’t look back. Even though I’d thrown myself into making that flat a haven for my family, Aluksne was a very hard place to live, and it was easy to let go of all that effort. This was odd for me. Usually I get much more attached, but good riddance was all I could think of.

I’m sure that old Soviet block apartment is still standing, and not until today have I ever wondered who has lived in and hopefully enjoyed the work and love put into that flat.

Petie and the Pratie

So settling back in to the BEF in Aluksne was underway. I don’t think I mentioned, though, that before I was Mamma to a baby, I was Mamma to a kitty cat. Peteris Pirmais (Latvian for Peter the Great), or more commonly known as "Petie," was an orange striped tabby who thought he was a dog. Somehow I end up with cats that act like dogs. First there was Tonto, also orange striped and as faithful a companion as any Native American, then Petie, and now Tuna who is all gray save a white heart on his throat. All of these felines knew how to work a crowd, work over a rodent, and hold their own with raccoons, possums, and I think Petie might have even had a run-in with a wild boar once…


At any rate, I finished the second bedroom of the flat with a potato. At that point I was tired of scouring the country for decent materials, and I didn’t have the time anyway, so I thought I’d go native. Not that Latvians decorated with potatoes, (however I do believe they have 101 uses for the ubiquitous tuberous crop) but native in that for once I was going to use a completely indigenous resource to help make the flat more of a home. Call it embracing my environment.  So I cut stars out of the praties, dunked them in blue paint, and stamped Jameson’s new room full of blue stars.

As I was doing this, I was using newspapers on the floor to blot the paint, my little guy was snoozing in his bouncy seat nearby, and Petie was standing guard over his new ward. Petie thought he was the bodyguard. At one point, I noticed Petie jumping around trying to catch a very fat but very fast fly, and the cat was very agitated—the fly was getting too close to his baby—then the fly landed on our sleeping boy’s head. Oh the conflict on that cat’s face! He wanted to swat and pounce, but he didn’t dare bother the boy! As soon as the fly flew off, Petie bounded after it only to land in paint and add paw prints to the stars on my blotting papers. No harm done, but kind of a cute story and illustration of how this became a family affair.

Not a Sculptor

It was true, with a little assistance and a whole lot of grace, a beautiful child was indeed sculpted. All mothers are obligated to say and feel this, but in those first hours of Jameson’s life, once we were finally left alone together, I marveled at his 19 ¾” of perfection. I remember this specifically because, to my amazement, when I fingered his tiny curled ear, it blossomed open under my touch. Jameson still has beautiful ears!

So when I was told with a wink and a smile that I was “a sculptor,” I was too embarrassed and grungy-feeling to really believe that I had done anything remotely amazing or artistic—Jameson’s beauty was clearly God’s handiwork and I just did the eating and the pushing. It didn’t take long, though, for this rejected compliment to reach deeper depths for me. Scarier depths.

A few entries ago, I wrote about leaving the flat in Aluksne only to return several weeks later to an essentially new life. Physically having baby and making that adjustment is about as life changing as one can get, but never one to take things half way, the birth of this child was redefining my approach in ways it would take me years to even understand.

So in those first days, as I put Baby Jameson to bed in the big vegetable basket he slept in, all I could thing about was this huge responsibility, and opportunity, to sculpt his life. That would take REAL artistry, and that scared the hell out of me.

A Sculptor

Days after newborn Baby Jameson and I were discharged from the Naistenklinikka (where I may or may not have swiped one or two of their standard hospital-issue yet incredibly comfy nightgowns), we were trying to get to know each other back at the comfortable-but-not-home surroundings of the Mission House.

I was exhausted, felt awful, and had that brand new mother haze about me. So when a visiting friend turned to look at me holding my newborn, I naturally thought he was gawking at the black circles under my eyes, my dirty hair, and my newly soggy shirt. When I shot him an equally filthy look to get him to quit staring at me, he said with his signature twinkling eye, "Maren, you're a sculptor." Embarrassed, I rolled my own bloodshot eyes at him.

Helsinki III

After a few weeks of going about my business and reading too many heavy books like Sophie’s Choice (for me at the time, a terrible choice), I actually did make a friend. Lindsey was introduced to me through the International Church folks, my hosts. Lindsey’s husband worked for the American Embassy and they had lived in Helsinki for a couple of years by then. In fact, their daughter, two year old Emily, had been born at the same hospital where I would be admitted, so Lindsey knew all the ropes I had to maneuver.

Lindsey was truly heaven sent, and she operated like a big rainstorm (or like my Grandmother Winifred), fearless, fast moving, and washing all the dust away. Even in other types of foul weather, she was determined to get me out and distracted from my big wait. Likewise, she was determined to get her little brood out in the double-wide Emmaljunga stroller. Emily had a four year old brother Christopher—together they were an adorable team and always compliant and happy. Lindsey and her kids were an excellent example of what I'd soon be handling myself! We went on some wonderful little excursions, us four, and Lindsey took excellent care of my spirit. She took this photo of me a week before my son was born.

When I finally thought I might possibly be in the early labor stages, Lindsey insisted that my husband get on the next plane. I was always hesitant to bother him with my own little insecurities and anxieties, and I wasn’t sure if this was labor or just going bananas, but Lindsey boldly responded to my flakiness and said, “It doesn’t matter, Maren! You need him and he needs to get here!” So together we picked him up from the airport in Helsinki and my husband didn’t exactly know what hit him--He’d just been shuffled onto a plane and then fetched by his slightly stir-crazy wife and some lady with lots of thick dark hair and two little matching kids strapped into the back seat of a Fiat!

In the end, my son was born 24 hours and a plate of deep fried jalapenos later on April 7th. Lindsey was right and knew exactly what I needed. Save my husband, she and little Emily were also my only visitors in the long (but customary) five day hospital stay. She had a fantastic chicken dinner waiting at my door on the day we were discharged back to the mission house, and soon after that, she and her husband Paul had us three over for another wonderful meal as a farewell to Helsinki.

Lindsey gave me so much more than distraction and good food, though. The love, kindness and instant friendship she showered me with has become something I have committed to passing forward. I knew I’d never be able to repay her, but it will always be my pleasure to return the favor in her honor to anyone crossing my path like I crossed hers.

Lindsey, Paul, Christopher and Emily came to visit us in Aluksne a few months later, and unfortunately, seas much wider than the Baltic have usually divided us since then, but we remain in contact. We both vividly and so fondly remember our very short time together. I was so grateful to her and the beautiful example of womanhood and motherhood she was--and still is!

Likely you are thinking that my little trip backwards has taken a wrong turn from the original direction of How I Became a Designer to Indulgent TMI, but I assure you, even though there are no building materials or architectural details involved in these few entries, our story has not gone astray! Thank you for sticking with me!

Helsinki II

I haven’t explained why I was shipped off to Helsinki. Most of you remember: I was there to have a baby. Medical care in Latvia at the time wasn’t um reliably safe. So long story short, I’d been receiving prenatal care from a doctor in Helsinki and was instructed to arrive at least one month before my due date so that any emergencies could be handled appropriately at the big Woman's Hospital. It wasn’t very feasible for my husband to sit there with me for a month or more since he had a job, so our friend Arden had arranged for me to stay at the mission house of the International Church. This was a beautiful old apartment building in the city center that had been converted to offices for the attached International Church and a few floors of dorms for missionaries who needed a place to stay while in Helsinki. I was able to stay in these dorms.

The whole set up was really ideal for me. The building was converted cleverly without losing some of the old details like the mechanical iron-grate elevator with the manual door. It was very safe and extremely convenient, too (not just the elevator, the whole building!). I was told I could have my pick of rooms on a certain floor since the dorms were otherwise empty and I was given keys, codes and even a mailbox. I chose a nice-sized room adjacent to a private bathroom and across the hall from the kitchen. Down the hall were two common living areas with satellite TV. Other than an African choir that was there for a few days (they were a lot of fun!) my floor was empty the whole time. My room overlooked a lovely little park that was always busy even in March and the harbor beyond it. It was really like a palace--sparkly bathrooms, fresh paint, clean furniture, a clothes washing machine(!), and a bottomless supply of hot water that could even be drunk right from the tap. Heavenly Helsinki!

After I got settled in and my husband left to go back to work, I was really on my own. Aside from scheduled doctor’s appointments, I generally filled my days by walking. There was a little American library set up by a government agency and it was at the opposite end of the city center from my place, so I usually made the library my destination and then would slowly work my way back from there. Along with an obnoxious amount of reading, I spent a lot of time window shopping, food shopping, a little bit of baby shopping (although the Latvians had made me pretty superstitious), and testing my sense of direction by exploring the winding streets and looking at the buildings. There is such a contrast between pre and post war construction. Helsinki was really opening my eyes to what the landscape of the Baltics could look like in 75 years.

The Baltics obviously weren’t the only concern or wonder I had about the future. This was really the first time I’d truly been alone—and aside from my unborn baby, I was REALLY alone. Believe it or not, it was still not only extremely expensive, but also technologically difficult to make phone calls to Latvia, so I think my husband and I spoke only a couple of times per week. Moreover, I only had access to a payphone in the dorm. Email wasn’t something that worked yet either, so even in 1995 it was kind of like the Dark Ages. All that quiet usually has a way of speaking certain truths if one’s ready to hear it. I think for me, some truths started peeping then, but the more immediate concerns were a bit bigger and scarier to deal with at the time--I had to deliver a baby by myself, potentially without even my husband with me, and in a foreign country. I was kind of in survival mode.

Helsinki I

As many of you know, Helsinki is an interesting city. It’s this funny hybrid of Scandinavian folksiness and Soviet utilitarianism. It is also happens to be the cleanest capitol city I’ve ever visited. Sterile even. Like you could lick the tram tracks and they might taste minty. Anyway, you see this as you walk the streets, but living there and experiencing it as a whole culture was something that really resonated with me during my two extended stays. Everything has a purpose and that thing—a window latch, a toilet paper holder, an elevator—is crafted beautifully. There are no frills, no gimmicks, no ornaments, no fluff, but everything is quality, clean and honest. That’s the way I encountered people, too. They did their jobs quietly and diligently with no song and dance, but with positive energy that was attractive.

The contrasts to me were astounding. Here I was an American—Excess is our middle name. We are used to more, bigger, better, faster, sweeter, brighter, etc. But I had just spent the last year thrown into a post-Soviet hangover where everything was run down, falling apart, gray, and unkempt, and uncared for. The attitudes of course, are similar respectively. (By the way, I’m not knocking Lativa or its people! In 1995 the country was till traumatized.) Socialism is just a different animal, I guess, and from my tiny perspective, it was working in Finland.

I appreciated the pride the Finnish people took in themselves, their work, and their community, and I appreciated the functional beauty they created out of very simple things. For me it was all very comfortable. At the time, I didn’t realize how important this would become for me in my approach to design, but truly, for my approach to living.