Born Into a "Mixed" Marriage in 1929
Written by Elsie Koski Waterman
It was 1929, the year of the crash, but I preceded the crash in July. My mother was 16 years old, the daughter of a young widow who was farming in order to make ends meet with four children to raise. They were living in Rock, Michigan, (considered a hotbed of Socialism in those days—I didn't realize this until I attended the Finn Fest in Marquette in 1996.) I'm not sure if this was my mother's greatest sin or not but this certainly seemed to contribute to the problems she encountered as she married and became a mother.
A man from a community not too far away came to a dance at the Finn Hall. My mother's family frequented the Finn Hall, their only form of entertainment. My mother evidently danced with this man and they became involved with each other. Well, things progressed, and it became obvious that they would be getting married. So, in spring of 1929, when the roads were at their worst, mother's and dad's wedding took place—in Negaunee.
A big flap took place before the wedding because my mother had not been baptized. This probably was because she came from that town—Rock. Regardless, their wedding dance would be held at the Finn Hall in Rock. A man who stood up at my parents' wedding told me of the horrible time they had going to Negaunee to get married and back from Rock, Michigan. Many times they had to be pulled out of ruts where the cars would careen as the roads were not good—as this was spring breakup. In fact, an uncle of my mother's told me once how he had not been able to attend the dance, because he spent the whole night pulling cars out of ruts, etc.
Following the wedding, my mother and dad moved into a "summer kitchen" as it was called, in my grandmother's (Mummu's) yard. Well, I am not sure what had gone on in the winter, but I have a feeling there was much consternation by my father's parents about this young girl from Rock. First of all, my mother's family were not church people, and my father's family came from very rigid Suomi Synod Lutherans. According to my mother, instead of accepting her and treating her with Christian love, they seemed to feel that she was not worthy of being a part of their family.
My birth caused some problems, too, because my Dad's mother was a well-known midwife and my mother insisted that she had a doctor attend my birth. My mother always felt that her family was more open to becoming Americanized.
White, Pink, and Red
So, this is how my life began, with grandparents from two ends of the spectrum of Finnish culture of the day. However, it should be noted that my mother's family was not from the Communist Hall as it was called in Rock, Michigan. I can remember as a young teenager going to dances at that hall, which even contained the picture of Stalin. I recall talk of some of the real Communistic folks from Rock leaving for Russia in the 1930s. So it was understandable that there was much misconception of how things actually were in this community of Rock, Michigan, where there were actually three factions: the White Finns (church folks); Pink Finns (Finn Hall people); and the Red Finns (those of Communist leaning.) The combining of a White Finn and a Pink Finn was about as unacceptable as marrying a "toiskielinen" or a "Catholic".
Due to the unpleasant circumstances under which I was born, my mother (who probably became very paranoid), left my father and went back to Rock to live with her mother. Imagine a poor widow now being saddled with a grandchild in addition to her other four children. My mother often went to Chicago in winter to do housework in order to help her mother in the raising of her child. Like many children I probably bonded with my grandmother as she was always a very important person in my life. (I wrote about her awhile back calling it "Superwoman of the 1930s.")
My father did not ignore me, he came to visit quite often, I believe, and contributed money toward my care. One of my aunts told me that it was his contributions which helped Aiti (my mother's mother) buy a washing machine and other items. Evidently, negotiations continued to take place between my mother and father because when I was four years old they reconciled. You see, divorce was almost unheard of in those days. My father built a little three-room house not too far from his family farm.
One of my earliest memories of being with my father's family was a little birthday cake with four candles on it which seemed to have been provided by one of my aunts on my father's side. We did not live in Mummu's yard, but the proximity caused continuous problems which would arise almost on a day-to-day basis. My dad would stay there too long when he picked up a quart of milk each day—or whatever.
Old Country vs. American
Almost to amusement, these two families differed—one had a smoke sauna and the other had a chimney sauna. One family held church services in their home, the other did not attend church. However, the Church Finns made kahlia (an alcoholic beverage) in their home, the other did not—confusion prevailed. Even their coffee was different. My father made weak coffee with salt in it, while my mother's family made more traditional strong Finnish coffee. In my father's home, they continued some of the Finnish traditions: my Uncle Charlie was always Father Christmas. The food also seemed to follow more "old country" traditions such as laatikko, kropsu, beet-herring salad, and one which I particularly disliked—lutefisk. It seemed my dad liked it year 'round when it was available. I can remember sitting on the porch steps crying because there was nothing to eat—only lutefisk. My mother always said they were not Americanizing as quickly as her family was. I often wondered if it was she who arbitrarily changed my name on the birth certificate from "Elsi Maria" to Elsie Marie.
My mother's family was much poorer so their food consisted mainly of things that were canned from the garden or meat which was canned during butchering time. I can remember how my Aiti could put a meal on the table for unexpected company by going to the cellar and bringing up a wonderful canned meat (including both pork and beef). Along with it came canned vegetables, blueberries made into pie, etc. I'm sure that my father's family did some of these same things, however.
Freedom from Religion
Back to the political and religious differences: as I grew and became more aware of them, I inquired from my Aiti why they did not go to church. My grandfather had died before I was born, but Aiti's explanation was that when he was in Finland where babies were required to be baptized, when the "pappi" came, the family would have to pay him or give him a calf or something in payment. Therefore, my grandfather felt that by coming to America he would gain freedom from religion. My mother's father had been a strong leader in the building of the Finn Hall, the Co-op Store, and the Farmer's Mutual Insurance Company, having been on the charter board of all of those organizations.
I did attend a community Sunday school from my home, but my parents did not attend. My dad would attend church services at his mother's home occasionally, and I would go with him. Naturally, this did not please my mom too much. However, the services were always in Finnish, and though I did learn Finnish first, I began to forget some of it and I particularly was not familiar with the religious terms. My dad would often discuss religion with me, as I suppose he felt that I would be influenced by my mother's side of the family where I spent a lot of time in summers and vacations. The issues of religion always seemed to cause much of the storminess which took place in our household. When it came time for my confirmation, I attended a Suomi Synod confirmation class held in Rock, Michigan, when I was about 14 years old. That pleased Mummu and, of course, my father.
I lived in Rock with my Aiti my last two years of high school and it seemed such a relief not to have to listen to all the quarreling which was always a part of family life with my parents.
Never Ending Quarrel
When I lived at home—family events, such as a wedding or a funeral, were forever a point of contention. My mother never let my father forget how she had been treated by his family. I'm not sure if some of this caused some of her mental health problems as she grew older, or if this was something that might have existed regardless of how her life had been lived.
My father died when he was 58, and I feel that his many illnesses could have been caused by the trauma that always existed between my parents. My father would often leave for work after a tongue-lashing from my mother, recounting all the injustices that had been done to her. My mother, too, died young—at the age of 52, and I sometimes feel that the diabetes and heart ailment might have been exacerbated by the unhappiness in her life. We are told, today, that 95% of our illnesses are caused by the stress in our lives.
As a child, many times, my mother would wake me up in the night, get me dressed and tell me we were leaving. However, that usually did not happen. They stayed together until my father died.
In faithfulness to her I did not do much with my father's family until after my mother died. I never felt anything wrong had been done to me, and I have spent a lot of enjoyable time with the family in recent years. I really felt I had been loved and cared for well by both families. After my father died, I told my mother that I did appreciate the fact that she and my dad had lived together so that I knew him as a good father instead of a visiting parent.
Seeking Reconciliation
One of the greatest satisfactions of my life came when my mother was finally baptized and joined the church of my denomination after my father died. How I had prayed for that to happen. I had contacted the pastor of that church when my father was ill, and he visited with my mother. As a result, she began attending that church and eventually joined. How different her life might have been if this could have all happened earlier in her life. She finally felt accepted.
As I mentioned in the beginning, it was only a few years ago that I began to realize why my family had lived in such turmoil. When FinnFest was held in Marquette, Michigan, the Marquette County museum did an exhibit on the situation in Rock in the 1930s. I believe it was then that I really came to the realization that it was not just me and my personal childhood experience. The sensitivity of these problems seems to still exist wherever Finns gather. The director of the museum said she had received complaints about the exhibit, to the effect that both sides of the issue had not been properly explained.
I wonder how many generations will it take to bring us Finns together and realize that this is—history.
Published in New World Finn, October 1999
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