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.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 14, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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!
Monday, September 7, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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.
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.
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