wendy house

I recently checked out a few details with my Dad, about his mother – Vieno Tuulikki (born) Kolehmainen. I met my her only once in 1968, when she visited our family in England for a couple of weeks. I was 4 years old. She was a quiet, affectionate, frail old lady

This is what I’ve found out about Vieno Tuulikki Kolehmainen:

• Studied Medieval English (probably at the University of Helsinki)
• First son, dad,  born when she was 24 in Viipuri – 1933
• Arrived in England 1934 aged 25 when her Lutheran minister husband was posted to Hull
• Daughter born in 1937, died less than a year later in 1938
• Vieno’s home in Hull bombed in 1941
• Russia attacked Finland in 1939
• Finland attacked Russia in 1941. England was an ally to Russia. Russia declared war on Finland and Vieno was included in the exchange of diplomats. Pressumably returning to Helsinki
• Dad evacuated to safety with a family in neutral Sweden – Linkoping
• Helsinki home was bombed one month after the birth of her second son – 1944
• Returned to England 1947 – suffered from clinical depression
• Returned to Finland 1948 – without her children – divorced 1950
• Visited England in 1968 – stayed with dad and met her grandchildren – but never met her second son who refused to visit out of loyalty to his father – Vieno’s ex-husband
• Died from a heart attack following slipping on doorstep ice in 1969

I see so many unanswered questions in this storyine….

In the 1940s mumsie’s family moved into a 3 bedroomed rented red-brick terrace house

Three of the children shared one room, one bed. They slept sideways across the double-bed.  The only married son, a Naval rating, lived with his wife in the 3rd bedroom. The first time my aunt had lived somewhere other than an orphanage, sleeping in a dormatory

The 1890′s house had a luxury modern convenience, a flushing toilet in a brick outbuilding. One of mum’s jobs was to tear the Sunday newspaper into squares, thread the squares onto  string and hang them in the outhouse. Newsprint rubbed off on her hands. The damp air in the outhouse made the paper soggy

Even in this household of 7, there was never a queue to use the one toilet. Every bedroom contained porcelain chamber pots. Mumsie calls a chamber pot a ‘po’. You could do your business in the bedroom, leave the po under the bed then carry it to the toilet to be emptied. Mum and Dad agreed that it was important that no-one saw you carrying the Po to be emptied

Even though toilets were designed to be sat on and peed into, it sounds as if,  that’s not how they were first commonly used. I remember in the 1980′s that my grandparents kept chamber pots, a commode in their bedroom

Last night I succumbed to a hedonistic Roquefort cheese devouring session, accompanied by a cheeky little Fitou ….mmmMMMmmmm…….

This helped produce a lovely dream, a relaxed family outing.

The dream turned lucid when I realised that my parents had driven my car without permission, into several walls, dodgem bumper car style. They blamed the car for poor usability.

Lucidity enabled me to fix the car promptly.

My parents are still the same.

Once the joy of the tinkling bells had worn off I looked towards the end of the isle. Mum and dad weren’t there

It wasn’t fair, they could walk fast or slow. Slow was the only speed I could walk. Slow or running.  They always walked fast, I had to run, whizzing passed so many fascinating things. I’d only taken a moment to listen to the bells while mum and dad wandered off.

I ran to the end of the isle, glancing both ways then looked down every isle. From a safe distance, I even checked the escalators. No mum, dad or brothers. I hadn’t got lost. I know where I am. They are lost.  Welling tears were barely held by remembering mums’ instructions

‘what to do when you are lost’

1. stay in the last place that you saw mum, dad, your brothers or school teacher
2. do not talk to strangers
3. talk to a policeman and they will help you find mum and dad

Standing by the silent bells, soggy red-faced, I wondered if mum and dad were also staying in the last place they saw me, not talking to strangers. People were watching me and talking to each other. A lady bent down and asked if I was alright. I tried so very hard to follow rule 2, not talking to this stranger. It tooks seconds for me to fail. Mucus spluttered

I’ve lost my mummy!

Why did everyone seem so calm? Why weren’t they crying too? My friends and I always cried together. Maybe these strangers were going to take me away to an orphanage and I’d never see mum and dad again. The lady leant forward to grab me.  I scrambled out of her reach towards the bells, crying louder in the hope that someone would join in.

Wearing her angry face, Mum appeared at the end of the isle to rescue me. When angry, she walks faster. I ran all the way home trying to slow mum by singing  I want to hold your hand.

scribble inspired by Nick’s recent musings on lost children

Enthusiastically immersed in socialist discourses and lengthy walking tours of the Hull Avenues. Our spirits raised by all sorts of street art. Sunshine uncovering unexpected family similarities in manner, attitude and humour

good company

The Socialist Republic of Hull hosted a clan gathering of the “Avenue’s” branch of the House family

This all female branch successfully avoided Royalist pre-procreation ceremonial fervour while plotting the overthrow of several magnificent vegetarian feasts (and swapping gardening tips)

Hull Truck Theatre entertained us with not one, but two Alan Bennetts in an autobiographical play featuring an outstanding yellow Bedford Van and a colourful unconventional lady

Topical

If you were at a Swedish speaking school you would swear in Finnish or German. Often the language at school was different from the language at home. At home you could have a conversation where one sentence would switch between languages, Finnish, Swedish German (Dad)

Dad had a multilingual upbringing in Finland, Sweden and  Hull (England). I had a monolingual upbringing, English was the only language spoken at home.

Dad did make sure we had many connections with his family history through music (Sibelius), decorations such as Dalacarlian horses, personal and published stories. Dad arranged the weekly trip to the Library to swap our story books. A big family event, such fun. Noggin the Nog and Tove Jannsen‘s Moomin’s (Muumi in original Finnish) were fond favourites of my early life. Like Dad, Tove was a Swedish speaking Finn. Little my is an occassional character in the Moomins, based on Tove.

The soundtrack for the TV series sounds almost Cajun….

Watch and listen to a Moomin episode in original musical Finnish

His father

They’ve been together for 4 years. He’s only 21, it doesn‘t feel right. When I was his age I’d wake up in the morning, call my mates and we’d be in Athens by noon. We weren’t rich, we would find ourselves work there, stay all summer, make it up as we went along, We could get by. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife, we’ve been together for 20 years, but I wouldn’t do it again. Wouldn’t get married again.

A bee bumbled between us

At 21 he should be seeing the world, not settling down, there’s plenty of time to settle down later.

Her mother

He‘s got no money, he doesn‘t go out, he just sits in front of the TV and eats junk food. He can‘t cook. He’s doing a computer games degree course. He’s written one game and even she thinks its crap. She’s insecure and he’s a safe bet, she doesn’t love him so he can’t hurt her. His mother visits every week to deliver the folded, bagged, fresh laundry and pick up the stuff that needs washing. He doesn’t even take the laundry out of the bag. His mother does my daughters laundry too. They’ve got no life in them

candlelight flickers across her damp eyes

He’s a couch potato and he’s making her into one.

PS thank you to Ben and Alison. Love you. 223 word post before the PS

My first thought was whether it had been lonely. To live where your death goes unnoticed ’til the neighbours complain about the stench

I hadn’t known you well, but liked you well enough. The mild mannered clever man that helped dad with the Times cryptic crossword and talked knowledgeably, with entertaining passion, about literature and science. You always looked contented, I enjoyed your company, your stories

Your evenings were full of conversations with Chomsky, Darwin, Einstein, Galileo, Heisenberg, Watson, and Wittgenstein. You liked the boys. With such good company there is little room for loneliness, no call for mundane conversations. Those lifetimes of literature can be enough

While wandering around the internets I stumbled upon the fabulous Finnish Immigration services website

As you do

I am eligible for Finnish citizenship because my father is a Finnish citizen and was married to my mother at the time of my birth. It looks like the only formality is for Dad to register my birth with a Finnish registry office, at the moment Finland doesn’t officially know that I exist. Dad explained that he didn’t register any of his children in Finland because that made them eligible for Finnish military service and he didn’t want us to be obliged to go through that, despite his fond memories of being stationed on the Åland Islands during his own National service

As a pre-school child one of my absolute favourite games was Wednesday’s washing the bathroom floor. Mumsie would fill up a beach-bucket with warm foamy water, give me a smallhand-size brush and leave me in the bathroom. I was allowed to slop the hot foamy water all over the floor. What FUN! When I’d finished I told mum and she’d come in and finish off the details with her own BIG bucket of soapy water and a towel. I’d help with the towel

During my first week at school, when I got home on Wednesday I asked for my bucket to help wash the bathroom floor, but mum had already done it. I cried

Psychologists call this ‘Classical‘, as oppose to ‘Operant’ conditioning, where a person (originally tested with dogs) learns to associate the co-occurence of an event (bell ringing) with a rewarding experience (enjoyment of food) such that when the event contiunes without the reward the dog behaives as-if the reward is coming.

For me this was associating ‘fun’ with washing the floor, the association still exists to this day. As soon as the hot soapy water hits the bathroom floor, I’m thinking ‘YAY Bubbles, SWISH!

Thanks to mumzie for having the insight to let this happy association happen

As Christmas approaches the House family excitement is ramping up. Tonight we are working on developing an integrated, complimentary, achievable set of new years resolutions. I’m always impressed by my young niece’s exhuberant ambitions and I do try to encourage her as much as I can:

Apparantly she ‘takes after’ me.  A singular vision and healthy disrespect for social conformity mixed with a deep affection for people, and creative spelling.  She is such a sweetie. Hoorah!

During the BBC Proms the family House made a trip to see the Ulster Symphony Orchestra perform the Karelia suite in prom 68. It was very touching to see mum and dad, a Karelian, look so happy. Dad once again reminded me that he has a signed photograph of Colonel Mannerheim that was given to his mum.

Sibelius wrote Finlandia

Talking Heads sang Electric Guitar

Come and look at my garage,  look at my workbench and tools

My brother proudly shows me his work bench, chisel sets and other thoughtfully organised tools.  He’s recently cleared a space in the garage so he can make things. He’s always liked making things.  This hobby was temporarily interrupted by having a job selling electronic stuff in Asian countries to make big money.  Now he’s changed jobs, downgraded his income in favour of having time to do stuff he loves. On a budget.

This is my first guitar, it’s English Oak, its not common to use Oak to make Guitars, it is a bit heavy

I’m now in full audience mode. Something my father and brother have taught me to do well.  I’m mainly here to make appreciative noises and ask questions that help them tell their stories. I like the role, its fun to watch people talk about the things they love, dad and his Pylons, Bros and his making things.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

This is the first Guitar he’s made from scratch.  He looked less happy when he realised he wouldn’t be able to make a living by making guitars because it was so time consuming. I remember the first (Bass) guitar he renovated in his teens and sold for a profit over the purchase price and materials. Not profit on the labour.

His home has always been full of guitars he’s bought, renovated or upgraded.  His garden shed is a production studio for local bands, often full of people playing his instruments. 

The environmental health are investigating him,

the shed,  

for noise pollution….  …my Brother may get an ASBO….

 OMD sang Electricity

OMD quickly earned a favoured position in my teenage heart when I first heard Electricity. This song reminds me of home, of warmth and comfort. Most of all reminds me of Dad getting excited about Pylons, happily ethusing.  His excitement is contagious.

Dad started work for an electricity supply company in the early 1950′s.  Exciting times for an Engineer specialising in supplying electricity to the UK.  Building infrastructure, planning routes to lay cables and overhead lines. Dad is still passionate about the details of the tools of his trade.  He has photograph albums dedicated to Pylons.

He’s recently returned from a trip to China. He treated us to the holiday photo’s on the family TV. Amongst the photographs of temples, rivers, mountains, village streets were numerous photographs of pylons. 

Whenever I see a Pylon, transformer, dam, or insulator I think fondly of Dad.  How his face lights up and he starts talking about what’s interesting about this particular thing, its age, its construction process, its location or ability to withstand high winds.

Not only is his excitment contagious,

I now find myself taking photographs of Pylons whenever I go on holiday.

Every visit to my parents’ home brings new suprises

Each suprise like a crumb on a trail leading into a the blackest forest.  

My parents are gently walking into thier story of old age, fumbling into darkness and deafness.  Holding each others hands, quibbling like children, I watch them waddle away. 

Hailstones on the hearth.   Straight down my parents chimney the hailstones  bounce across the floor where the cats catch them before they melt.   But nothing interrupts the family Dr. Who Festival.   Dr. Who is on the Edge of Destruction.   Breaths are bated.

cousin: are you planning to settle down, get married and have kids?

cousin: you all look the same. Except, well, perhaps, wendy.   Wendy was always the quiet one.
wendy: I’m not quiet now
cousin: I can see

I was wearing  a pair of  beautifully embroidered 2-tone cowboy boots, black leather jeans, and my favourite fluffball of an artificial skunk-skin jacket.  I like to think of it  as pret-a-road-kill.

Aunty (87yrs) shouts:   I wanted you to wear those lovely red leather trousers
wendy shouts back: Oh Aunty!   I wanted to wear my favurite red leather trousers too, but I thought they might be just a bit too loud for some of the youngsters here.

Every cake should tell a story

This cake tells of  the busy 90 years of my uncle Albert (pronounced  Awe-burr).   Busy ballroom dancing, cruising, fiddling on the computer  and his favourite motorcycle.  A great grandchild reads the pictures.  The cake is edged by the tools he used to build things and was delivered in a Mason’s hall.  

What does your cake say?

My parents, brothers and nieces all turned up at  the Theatre Royal Bath production of sleeping beauty.   3 generations laughing together at topical bad jokes involving duck houses, MP’s expenses and discrimination against ginger people.  

I was a little confused by the principle boy being an actual boy.   No girls dressing-up as boys in this production.   The songs were excellent and included perky famous dittys like  ’Could it be magic’.   Lots of children dancing around, some slapstick and shouting and chanting.   Much fun for everyone.  

Family pantomime outings are THE BESTEST!

Bros 1957: Wendy, do you remember what we were doing at this time on September 11th 1979?

Wendy: Errr…..um…   …not really,   what were we doing Bros 1957?

Bros 1957:   Oh!   You don’t remember!

Bros can produce an ‘Oh’ packed with emotional messages.   It’s a family trait.   He was genuinely very suprised that I didn’t remember what we were doing at a specific time on a specific day nearly 10 years earlier

Wendy: Nope.   I can guess but it would be based on probablities that things I remeber happened at that time.   What were we doing then?

Bros 1957:  We were having a family sauna  at a ski resort in Inari, Finland  

Wendy:   I remember the Sauna.   How do you remember the exact date and time?

Bros 1957: because it  was exactly 10,000* days ago (huge smile)

Bros 1957 has a fantastic ability to remember time and events together,  he’s published an eponymous  moon-based calendar.

* dates have been changed because I can’t remember them

Mumzie drives to another town to pick-up the only Rye crisp-bread that Dad considers to be like real Finnish Rye bread.

The myriad of  quirky little things my parents do for each other shows they are still in love, 52 years after getting married.

My nieces look like they’ve escaped from Bananarama.   Having mislaid their dictionary during the breakout they are now tackling the ravages of teenage boredum.   Dedum.  

Grunting and liberal misuse of the original anglo-saxonisms helps alieviate the condition.   I’m thinking of trying it,   small doses.   But, as yet, I can’t bring myself to part with my 1982 Collins concise.

Banarama sang ‘Robert DeNiro’s waiting’

My parents took the family on a day trip to London, to the Tate gallery.   At 7 yrs I was not well equipped to appreciate the treasures on display.   Mum and Dad seemed to spend ages looking at dull boring pictures of clouds (Turner).   I asked permission to explore the galleries at my own pace and was allowed to wander off.   I walked briskly,   errr ran,  around the building capturing impressions browsing for literally seconds at vaguely interesting paintings that I’ve long since forgotten.  

Then.   I turned the corner of a gallery to be confronted by the death of Chatterton.  

His vibrant orange hair glowing,   his purple velvet breaches full of warm lively texture in the daylight.   The torn paper on the floor.   His face white as marble.   Clearly dead.   I was captivated,   I stood studying the painting for what seemed, to a 7 year old, like eons.   I fell intrigued.   Who was this beautiful man?   Why was anyone that beautiful, dead before being old and wrinkly?  

He became my first love.   He was a local Bristol boy,   I was a local Bristol girl.   Later I read Peter Ackroyd’s book ‘Chatterton’ and wondered whether his death was an accident or deliberate. I visit St. Mary’s Redcliffe  occassionally,   the place where Chatterton reportedly discovered the manuscripts on which he forged his texts.   He has remained young, beautful, and with my thoughts.  

From AElla

O! Synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

My plan for choosing ‘A’ level’s was to pick topics where I got the best results.   Unfortunately my selection strategy didn’t work.   My results were the same in all topics.   Straight B grades.   I needed another strategy for deciding what to study for ‘A’ levels.   Mum and dad had clear guidance

Parents:   ‘you can’t go wrong with maths and physics,   you can become an engineer,   you can learn how to solve practical problems and look after yourself and your home properly’

Wendy: but I really enjoy Art, English Literature and History

Parents:  You can study Art, English literature and History  in your spare time,   you’ll be motivated to do it.   You probably wont study maths and physics in your spare time

This made sense to me.  

I talked to my English teacher.   He was furious,   I had a talent  that I should nurture,  he would never speak to me again if I chose Math’s over English.   I chose Maths, Physics and History.   He never spoke to me again.   Complying with emotional blackmail is not a personal strength.     History covered literature (Nietzsche) and art (Futurism, Cubism).    

Since that fateful decision I’ve played with writing, painting, sketching, and plagued you with my laxadaisical spelling and grammar.

Wendy email text:  July 3rd, Niel Sedaka at the Colston Hall – can you come if I get tickets?

Mumxie email text:   Cannot come sailing on the Danube   Sorry

This is mumsie’s second email to me.   If I flatter myself,   as I am wont to do,  possibly her second email  to anyone.   I can’t help but be  impressed by both content and style.  

Naturally I followed this revelation with a phone-call to discover Bucharest, Saltzburg, Vienna and butler-service were involved (and a new kitchen but that’s another story),     thus clearly justifying turning down free Neil Sedaka tickets and an evening out with their adorale only daughter.  

Mum saw Niel Sedaka on his last UK tour.  

Darn, foiled again…

Dad:   you can make elecronics stop working just by walking into a room
Wendy:   I thought I was being paranoid
Dad: No.   Not Paranoid. You have a talent for disrupting electronics
Wendy: thanks dad,  its good to know I’m not paranoid
Neverland:.

There is a branding, marketing, styling opportunity in the tea-cosey market which is woefully or wonderfully underdeveloped depending on your perspective.   This collection didn’t prompt me to part with £5.37  

My main tea-cosey was hand-made by my talented sister-in-law.    My name is sewn on the inside incase a moment of scattiness leads to my  losing  it (the tea cosey).   It fits on my head as snug as a custom-made hat.   That kind of personal tailoring does take some beating and these shop displayed tea coseys just aren’t up to par.

Years before I read Peter Pan when I was less than 4ft tall I had an imaginary friend.    Without wings, he could fly into my bedroom at night while my unsuspecting family carried-on their downstairs life-after-my-bedtime.   Unlike Peter pan, John wore ordinary clothes:  flared corduroy jeans, t-shirt, jumper and daps.    You could easily miss noticing John in a crowd of shorter children.   John had an ordinary quiet, thoughful, way  about him.   His silences matched mine.   He was good company.

John could fly right through the force-field  that protected me from the monsters beyond the wardrobe.    The force-field that looked like bedroom walls but was infact protection that moved with me as I travelled through planet Wendy.   John knew how to co-pilot the big red double-decker bus,   the bus that was cunningly disguised as  my single bed.     Unlike my real friends John didn’t scream or  throw the extra pillow at the slimey poison-tongued Lizards that chased the bus.   John could use his powers of flight to lift the bus out of the swamp.   John was magic,   he could corale the heard of wild unicorns into the wardrobe without saying a single word.     He was my secret, special friend.  

John stopped joining my  evenings when, in my teens, evening adventures moved into the world beyond my parents home.  I wonder if  John’s still out there,   whether he grew up or maybe became someone real.

Sometimes I miss him  

Sometimes