Sissy's Bed

So as my Sissy was lamenting about her deprived life and space, I was trying to explain to her all the good juju that surrounds her in her very own physical place in the world. It was getting through to her that her room was not only lovingly designed by me and decorated by us together, but also that the things that take up her space are meaningful—full of history and reminiscences and love. All things I want to fill her life with.

Then I got to the story of her big oak bed.

When she was a baby, I managed to get out of the house one Saturday morning and walked through Riga’s Old Town which is just a few blocks from Valdemāra 77. It was kind of raining and I didn’t really have any destination in mind, but I found myself walking through a funny little passage I didn’t usually take, and I found a little antique shop, so I went in to get out of the weather and kill some time. This was a tiny place, but it was packed, and also there was a Latvian man running the shop. This was unusual because for some reason Russians seemed to be the primary proprietors of antique shops. The only reason this matters is because I couldn’t speak very well and in turn negotiate with the Russians (I spoke Latvian). So a very sweet old Latvian man was very happy to see me that drizzly Saturday morning and was anxious to offer coffee and let me squeeze through this shop. Honestly, it was more like a crammed closet than a shop, but I enjoyed talking to him and looking around trying to take it all in. It was full of big old wardrobes and dressers, and nothing was arranged—just piled and stacked. But then I saw something that caught my eye. It was oak with a very tight grain and a gorgeous patina, and it looked like little doors. So I asked my man what the heck this was and he told me a girl’s bed. OH!

For a little European-sized twin (slightly smaller than a standard US twin), it’s massive. The headboard is almost 5’ tall and footboard slightly shorter. They are constructed as in an Arts & Crafts fashion, except that they have delicate floral hand carvings at the top. If I had to date it, I would say this was built around 1920 when the Arts & Crafts movement met Art Nouveau. You can understand why I thought they were little doors. Then I asked my man how they worked and he showed me the two big rails that looked more like beams leaning on another wall. OH!

It was perfect. No damage, no stains, perfect. This bed was clearly made and taken care of with a lot of tenderness and purpose for a very special and very loved little girl. All I could think about was this little girl falling asleep feeling like a princess with her dad’s handiwork and protection cradling her sleep. This felt like a secret treasure and I had to rescue it for my girl. So I asked my man coyly how much. 50 USD he told me. OH!

I felt too guilty to even dicker with him. I ran home to get my car. I don’t even think I called my husband to tell him what I was doing. I had my keys on me, so I just took my car and zoomed back down to Old Town to try to park close to the shop. It used to be that there was no driving through Riga’s Old Town—you had to have a special permit or have diplomatic plates, so I had to park somewhere on the outskirts. I ran back to the shop(as if someone was really going to steal my treasure in the rain from that mess of a shop in the 10 minutes it took me to return), I plunked down my $50 and lugged this bed three blocks to my car. Four pieces took me four trips. It was kind of a ridiculous site really. The rails are at least 60 lbs. each and are about 6’ long, and the headboard I'm sure weighs more than me, but I carried ALL of it in the rain to my big old car.

When I got home, my husband was a little irritated that I went and bought even more furniture for our already filled flat especially since Sissy was still an infant. I think he was cursing under his breath as I enlisted his help in hauling all of this up two flights of stairs, and then we got it in. And he LOOKED at it. Then he looked at me and said, “Yeah, you needed to get this.”

So, Caroline, I believe your special bed was crafted especially for a little Latvian girl who's riches surrounded her. And I believe this bed was waiting in that crowded corner of the little old Latvian man’s antique shop just for me to resurrect it for you. There is lots of love that surrounds you as you sleep tight in your very own room.

Sissy's Room

So our Sissy is now 11. She is on that tender cusp between little girl and snotty teenager and I’m desperately trying to keep the snot out. Sis has always been a mamma’s girl. Without question, she adores her father, but she has an inherent need to be connected to me physically and spiritually, so we foster that. My mother would tell you she is exactly like me from her quick temper, to her endless collections, to her always-game-for-an-adventure attitude, to her eager drive to see things through. With that, I’m going to side track our tale for a bit and share a relevant slice of the present…

Last week, she was eager to “do something” with her room. Her brother just had a cool man-chair added to his room to help encourage high school studying, and she, naturally, was feeling short changed. I told her I’m not discussing anything about her room until it was CLEANED UP, and surprisingly, she didn’t fight me on it. She was really angling… It should be noted that in Sissy’s 12’x12’ish room, she has a desk, chair, narrow chest of drawers, 32” round pedestal table, end table, her bed, and Tuna-the-cat’s bed.

Finally she announced that her room was vacuum ready and with tape measure in hand, she ordered me up to discuss rearrangement options. She was bent on rearranging things herself, was desperate to move her massive bed around, sling her dresser and desk to opposite ends, add a man-chair of her own and bring in a dance floor. She did not like me telling her it’s not gonna work. We pulled the tape, we monkeyed with curtains, we discussed balance, and finally I had to pull out my Professional Interior Designer card and tell her (in the same gentle terms I tell all of my clients things they don’t want to hear), that there is no other way to arrange her room for more floor space and that what she has is the very best way to arrange her room. (It should also be noted, too, that through all of this I’m laughing to myself as I’m rolling my eyes at her—after all, this is my determined little thing—MY most recent sculpture—the same girl who for Christmas two years ago wanted crown molding in her room!) She was crushed, though. Life isn’t fair, Jims gets EVERYTHING, and she never gets anything, lalala…

Once she finished her tirade, we sat down on her bed, and with her silky brown head in my lap, I reminded her that her corner desk was mine growing up where I did all my homework, wrote in my diary, and read my Nancy Drews while I sat in the same old maple almost Windsor-backed chair that used to be Grandpa Evans’ kitchen chair when he was a boy. Then I told her how her side table came from the radio cabinet makers in Aluksne from our first home, and how I fell in love with the chest of drawers from Latvia crafted by a friend who made new furniture from recycled antiques scattered around the Baltics. I asked her if she remembered when she was six and we found her pretty, shiny, black round pedestal table at a funny furniture store in the town where her Grandnan lives. I reminded her about how I stumbled upon her fantastic Tord Boontje die-cut light fixture while in Paris with her Aunt Lisas, and how I had to have it for her because it was called “Misdummer Light” even though it meant I had to hand carry it all the way home. And then I told her the story of her gorgeous bed...a story that will have to be continued tomorrow…

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.