Yet another new series is emerging here in Journeys of Life: Ancestor Day. You do know that you can always add your ancestors here in the year files - providing harmless information concerning really nobody but you and your family, yet enriching this site at the same time?

Now you also have an opportunity to write a little story of any of your ancestors. The length of these stories is something you decide yourself, as long as they remain tactful and historically as correct as possible. You need to state the person’s first name, year of birth and other basic information. And then just let your storytelling take over.

So, I will start. This is a story of my grandmother Siiri who was born in November 1904 at a farm in Ilmajoki, Finland. 114 years ago today! Those times the country was still part of Russia. In the family portrait above (taken around 1912), she is the second from left. She had just turned 13 when Finland proclaimed itself independent in December 1917.

In 1937, at the age of 33, she and her husband and their four kids moved south to the capital i.e. Helsinki. They built a house in the outskirts of the city, with a large field to plant potatoes, carrots, beets, etc. And of course apple trees and berries. Once my mother would have her own family, she would often take us there to harvest potatoes. That way we all got to experience some country life which was a nice contrast to our urban living.

[caption id=“attachment_6398” align=“alignright” width=“316”] Helsinki 1941. From left to right: my mother Annikki, grandma Siiri, grandpa Arvo and uncle Jaakko[/caption]

In 1941, during the Second World War, my grandparents  had three of their kids sent abroad to live in safety. The picture to the right is taken days before the kids in it were sent off. My mother ended up living in Denmark in a missionary family, and returned to Helsinki once it was safe to live there again. She would later make a life for herself and her family in Sweden, where the uncle in the picture was sent to live. He too returned to Finland, but not everybody did which caused much grief in many families.

The picture on the left is from summer 1956 during one of the numerous visits we made to my grandparents. Siiri is sitting on the ground with the scarf on. In the mid 1970’s, this house where my grandparents had lived the past 35 years or so, burned down. It wasn’t found what exactly caused the fire, but it nevertheless forced my grandparents to leave their country-style living. They ended up buying a flat in what is now colloquially called East Helsinki - with a reputation. For me it is always Grandma Country.

When my parents decided to move to Stockholm, Sweden - partly due to financial reasons, partly due to the fact that they had always had an urge to emigrate (and Australia didn’t happen), and finally partly having their first grandchild being born there - my grandmother was quick to point out that it was good to move west, further away from “those Russians”. The memories of bombardments of Helsinki never really left her.

One day she was visiting us in Stockholm where most of our family had relocated. That was actually her very first trip abroad even though she was already in her 70’s. So is it any wonder really that when we would go to a grocery store, she fully expected the lady at the counter to understand what she was saying in Finnish. We tried to tell her that here in Sweden people speak Swedish, but she would just brush that off and say: oh don’t worry, they will understand. She really seemed to believe that they would.

My grandmother loved to be on the move and go places. Even just to the local store. One day she was crossing a street near my former high school, and was run over by a car on the pedestrian crossing. She made the news with that. She eventually recovered from her injuries, and kept on leading a fairly active life. She didn’t travel much though. Except in Finland, and even there between Helsinki and her homestead Ilmajoki. She was far busier looking after good sales, knitting socks, baking, and just taking care of her husband and their apartment. To me she was the epitome of a grandmother.

The last time I saw her was when she decided to accompany me to the city on my way to the airport and back to Stockholm. It was the beginning of the 80’s and Helsinki Metro had been partially built by then. It was quite convenient to take the subway to the city center, and she enjoyed those rides as it gave her the opportunity to check the sales in the city. We always hugged as we departed, but this time she grabbed me good and said: Now let’s have a good hug, won’t we! And she embraced me with such force and determination that it left me feeling very, well, beloved. That feeling has never left me.

Years later I happened to purchase an audio book which brought her vividly in my mind once again. Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, originally published in 1915. For those of you who don’t know what it’s about, the book is a tiny literary masterpiece where people of the fictional Spoon River, long since dead, tell their life-stories which are interwoven with the stories of the other residents of that selfsame town.

These stories, as our stories, live on. If we let them. So why don’t you grab a pen - or rather, start typing - and write a story of one of your loved ones. Embellishments are allowed, imagination much appreciated, and sticking to facts always recommended. Tell his or her story, and share it here in Journeys of Life for the rest of us to savor.

For more information, write to kivita@gmail.com