The power is on and in an instant, I’m back in the swing of things. The blackout was a good excuse to clean out the refrigerator – that salad dressing had been in there for a long time anyway. Best to get a fresh start.
Without power I had nothing better to do than to get out of the house more than I usually do. I ran into a previous neighbor while having dinner at Gresso’s one evening. I hadn’t seen him in nearly three years. When I ventured to White Castle for my morning coffee I learned from the young man there that his mother had decided to brew coffee on the grill, using fallen tree limbs as fuel. I learned how to load cash onto a pre-paid card at the laundromat.
Best of all, I received four years of bank statements from my bank in Finland. I’d set up the account there in 1996 when I was having trouble using my ATM card for retrieving cash from my US account. A local account meant no conversion fees. In 1998 while I was working there, the dollar soared in value and I made weekly deposits, realizing that it was likely a temporary situation. In doing so, I was essentially funding future visits.
When I began writing the book Hakaniemi, I thought it would be a good idea to gain some exposure in Finland in preparation for it’s publishing. I searched the Net for weeks looking for some sort of Finnish writing competition. Considering that Finland has one of the highest rates of book buying per capita, I figured that they must have some creative outlet for supplying the market. I found nothing applicable.
During the winter of 2007 I received a call from my friend Maria who lives in Helsinki. She and I had met at a concert given by a dynamic pop-choir known as Semmarit. Knowing my long-standing love for their music, she told me that the group was hosting a writing competition for their fans. In 2500 words or less, one had to describe their most memorable interaction with the choir. This, I determined, was predestined. I’ve been following the choir for more than ten years, have all of their CD’s and had flown over three times to see them live. I can win this one.
I whittled down the story to exactly 2500 words. It didn’t have to be a mark of literary brilliance – it simply had to be something unique. I submitted the story.
When the e-mail address I used made its way to a spam list, I disabled it not realizing that I also cut off my line of communication with the choir. Months later Maria called again, saying that she noticed that I had placed in the top five of the competition. She saw my name listed on their web site. Apparently I had also sent in the access codes to my bank account because when the bank statements arrived this week I saw that I had won €100 from the choir and they had deposited the money earlier in the year.
Its not much, of course, but it does represent a great milestone. It represents how little things that take place in the history of our lives can blossom into something unique and memorable even years later.
In yet another unique twist, it wasn’t but a month or so ago when a friend and I contemplated starting a small company and jokingly said that we should require payment in euros. “Stable currency for stable thoughts” would be how we’d explain it.
The winning submission is below. The full story of this encounter is in one of the chapters of Hakaniemi and is the very reason that I have my long-standing friendship with Maria. Today I added a bit about her on the book’s web site.
Having arrived from the US feeling a bit ill, I rested for a day on the sofa at a friends house in Lapua. She sorted through her music collection, setting aside Kuka on Tuo Mies and Ruohonjuuritasolla. “I think you’ll like these guys” she told me, as she hurried off to work.
After a nap, and having learned how her stereo worked, I put in the CD’s and went back to the sofa. While I didn’t understand the words, the clear voices and up-beat rhythms caught my attention, and soon, I found myself sitting with the lyrics, trying to follow along. Over and over, I listened to the songs, then unpacked my dictionary and began translating them, as best I could. Sheets of paper lined the floor, creating a bit of a mess by the time my friend returned from work.
“These guys are great!”
“They’re from “Jyväskylä”, she told me. “A group of school teachers that started signing together. They’ve become quite popular”.
“Jyväskylä! I’ve been there”.
“You have?”
“The grandparents of my prom date lived there. Let’s see if the guys performing while I’m here and we’ll go see them”.Nothing was scheduled. Before catching the train to Helsinki, I bought the two CD’s. On the flight home I listened and studied the words, finding myself more delighted with their sound.
When I returned to Lapua the next year Sampo Texas had been released.
“I’ve got to see these guys”, I told my friend.As it happened, there was a concert planned in Helsinki, just two days before I’d leave Finland. “I’m going, That’s all there is to it” I thought to myself, and I made the necessary arrangements. I left Lapua, excusing my early departure for the sake of gaining a cultural experience.
At the concert I met a young woman and spent most of the evening chatting with her in English. As the concert began, we moved towards the stage, clapping and moving to the music. Singing along with the songs that I knew, I noticed that Maria was watching me, rather than the choir.
“What the hell are you doing?”, she asked.
“Singing”.
“Do you even know what you’re singing?”
“Not always, but I do know the words”.
She burst out laughing hysterically. From that moment on, we’ve been best of friends.I flew back a few months later to see Semmarit perform in Seinäjoki, and again in late 1997, I attended another Helsinki concert of my favorite choir. Now in Ohio, Semmarit rides along in my car, and I sing along to all of their CD’s, recalling the look on Maria’s face during my first encounter with them.
Urban In-Fill 