Deception

Mum grew up with grandfather as the single parent, which for the late 1920’s and 1930’s was an unusual circumstance but one mum and her siblings seemed to revel in.   He provided a strong parental figure for her and siblings, living mostly in Mackay - Queensland with stints in Melbourne as well over the years.

She had little to do with mother during her childhood after she had left grandfather and the children (see the blog:  Amazing Tales of Grandfather Conolly).  Although on occasion she did make an impact on mum’s life as you’ll find out in today's blog.

Mum, Bill Forbes & Aunt Dorothy
 circa 1938

It was September 1939 – Australia, as part of the British Empire was now at war.   These were heady days with tensions and passions running high particularly for the young men.  This latest generation had cut their teeth on the stories of Gallipoli and the Western Front, where their fathers and grandfathers had forged the ANZAC tradition.  It was now their turn and they were eager to prove themselves equal to the task and so volunteered in droves when the recruiting stations opened shortly after the declaration of war.  Strangely, there were also many ex-diggers who after many lean years during the depression lined up once again and enlisted as well.

Grandfather Conolly after serving in WWI and taking his sweet time to return to Australia (see the Amazing Tales of Grandfather Conolly blog) had also visited the recruiting station soon after the outbreak of war only to find that his age (51)…much to his chagrin too old to be taken into the AIF, but strongly “encouraged” to join the local militia.  His youngest of five children was now reaching the age of self-sufficiency so with no restrictions he was dead set on getting back in the service and “doing his bit” for the mother country (well, not that he was in the least patriot per see, but he did have an indelible sense of adventure and loved a good scrap!).   Seems like I come by it honestly :-) 

Grandfathers eldest son (Graham – mum’s brother) had already joined the militia and realizing that this would be the best way to get back in the service rejoined his old battalion (49^th) which was now reforming in Mackay.   Uncle Graham eventually was shipped overseas to New Guinea where he fought in the Northern Beaches (Sanananda) campaign before succumbing to malaria and was repatriated to Australia.  Grandfather was destined to serve out this war on Australian shores, his battalion acting as a stopgap against the imminent threat of invasion in North Queensland.

Now I can hear you thinking – what on earth does this have to do with mum?

Mum working in a munitions factory and
looking like "Rosie the Riveter"
circa 1943

If you’ve been following along at home you’ll remember that in the late 1920’s grandmother left the family after it became glaringly obvious that Grandfather Conolly had been…well lets say less than honest about his time wartime relationships with not one but a number of nurses during his hospital stays in England during WWI.

Anyway, shortly after mum’s 17^th birthday “Nana” shows up on their doorstep unannounced.  Wow, what an unexpected and somewhat unusual surprise, cos’ during mums childhood it was a rather infrequent affair unless she wanted something (mum’s words not mine!).  Nana began ingratiating herself with each of the kids and although for the most part they were all working began wanted to spend time with each of them.   Mum thought perhaps she’s realized what she’d missed out on over their formative years and was trying to make amends, mum being the second youngest went along with it, less so her older siblings!

A month or so later Nana arrived one afternoon with a clutch of papers that needed to be signed for “identity purposes”…no, you don’t need to read them you just need to sign them to ensure you’re “registered”.   Once mum had signed them Nana hurriedly scooped up the papers and quickly departs.  Mum didn't think anything more of it...

Strangely Nana hadn’t returned since she had mum sign the papers that afternoon...pretty normal I suppose given her history with the kids, but two weeks later mum received her induction paperwork and reporting date for the Army!   No, this can’t be right…I didn’t volunteer for the army she thought to herself.

Mum desperately wants to sort this out and put it behind her, so she goes to recruiting barracks on the specified date and finds it incredibly loud and noisy with about 100 other women all talking excitedly amongst themselves.  They must have all volunteered mum thought to herself, they are all quite clearly mad!  Over and over she’s says to herself “not bloody likely”.

The Sergeant Major addresses them in a strong British accent and forms them up into rows, where upon he begins calling names alphabetically and sending them for their fitness examinations.  When her name is called she stepped forward, but instead of marching to where he told her to go she begins explaining to the now stunned and incredulous sergeant major that there must have been some type of mistake as she actually hadn’t volunteered and wants to know how she can get out of it and go home.   Apparently his language was rather colorful to say the least…even mum blushed – which would have taken some doing I assure you!

Mum and Aunty Nora at the beach
circa 1940

As it transpired, Nana had unbeknown to mum decided that she should do the right thing and serve her country.  She had then gone to the recruiting office and secured the correct papers, filled them in on mum behalf and then had the temerity to get mum to sign up.   In those days you had to be 21 to join the military unless your parents co-signed for you, even then you had to be 19 at a minimum, but Nana had thought of that and had increased her age appropriately!  

Can you actually imagine actively volunteering your child for military service during wartime?  

Whether she liked it or not she now found herself in the army.   If you knew my mum you would laugh uncontrollably at the prospect of this - you see mum had a full blown case of the Foxley- Conolly temperament (stubborn, hot tempered and at times rather belligerent), and so it was going to be a bit of coin toss as to who got the worst time of it mum or the Australian army.  At first she tried everything in her power to be kicked out, insubordination being her first choice, which as you can imagine only acerbated the situation – additional duties, no leave...well you get the picture.   She now seemed stuck for the duration.

After some weeks of bucking the system she resigned herself (at least on the surface) to do what she needed to do to survive. 

Some weeks later she was finally granted weekend leave, but mum had been scheming since this all went down and so quickly went home; changed out of her uniform packed a bag and caught the first train to Melbourne.  She wanted no part of the army, mostly on principle rather than outright dislike for the army, but to be honest the constant discipline and “yes sir, no sir” was a bit much for her sensibilities.

Less than a week later the military police showed up at grandfathers door – enquiring as the whereabouts of one “Penelope Christine Foxley-Conolly” as she was now AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave) a punishable offence during wartime; of at the very minimum a court martial and jail time; potentially worse if you were a guy.

By this time mum was in Melbourne some 2000 miles, staying with friends where she eventually finding work in a munitions factory using a shortened version of her name for cover (Peg Conolly), record keeping wasn’t what it is today so there was no issue.  

I guess over the years I heard this story 10 or so times, and each time even as she told the story all those years later (1960 - 1970’s) she’d still get completely worked up over it!  Mum was never one to hold back her feelings or anger, but this story always touched a deep and unhealed nerve within her psyche… to her dying day she still held a grudge against her mother for this unforgivable act!

Last days

As I mentioned in prior blogs I was very fortunate to have had time with dad in the last six months of his life.  It was an emotional rollercoaster both for him, my siblings and me…  

After his initial surgery and diagnosis we were all given the stark reality of what lay ahead – Dr. Brown (head of Oncology at the Ballarat Base Hospital) had a family conference where he outlined in bleak detail what would happen.  He said that only 1% of patients with Dad’s type of advanced Brain cancer - the official name - Glioblastoma multiforme (GBM) - Stage IV survived more than a year. 

James, dad and me - at Glenda & Max's apartment
Cuthbert St, Ballarat - Australia 1971

One option was to do nothing (initial diagnosis) and let it takes its own course but that would have meant days and weeks...   So to be honest I was surprised that given the severity and the aggressiveness of the cancer Dr. Brown asked if dad was willing to undergo aggressive radiation and chemotherapy regime to see how long he could extend his life while keeping as much quality as possible.

I remember dad looking up at us all as we stood around him and after a short pause he agreed to the treatments.   This conversation was the confirmation of dad’s death sentence and we all knew it…most of all dad.  How can you not get emotional at a time like that?  Tears seemed to be the order of the day, but I tried as hard as I could to stay in the moment, more for dad than anything else.  I’d save my tears for later - in private.   I felt I needed to be strong for him.

His treatments began the following Monday and because I was working my job remotely and therefore not expected to be in an office or with clients directly each day I was in the fortunate position of becoming dad’s taxi service to and from his daily treatments.   

The doctor had warned us about the side effects of the radiation and chemotherapy in that dad would lose his hair, definitely lose weight and be quite ill from the chemo drugs.  This was not going to be an easy time for any of us…   Surprisingly none of these came to pass and in actuality dad put on weight and was surprisingly healthy for much of his remaining time with no side effects.   The doctors were astonished to say the least.

Anyway, each weekday I’d drive out to Clunes and pick him up for the 30-minute car ride back into the Ballarat Austin Radiation OncologyCentre (BAROC) in Drummond Street for his treatments.  I remember going out to pick him up early one morning and there he was with the chainsaw pruning one of his fruit trees (we had a large one acre block with a wide variety of fruit trees).  You name the fruit and dad had it growing somewhere in the backyard - plums, apricots, apples, walnuts, nectarines, peaches, quinces…  

Dad at home in Clunes - circa 1984 
he was 52 at the time

I watched him as I walked up from the garage, he was working like normal (a man possessed would best describe it) and it was moments like these that I had to stop myself from thinking that he was completely healthy and that perhaps this was just a bad dream, after all he did look his usual self other than the large scar on the side of his head and his robust nature (same ornery self) sure made it feel weird that he only had weeks and perhaps months to live.   Somehow it just didn’t compute.

Another morning I went out to pick him up and although I had called him from the back door there was no sign of him anywhere, that’s strange, I thought?   So I slowly circled the house calling his name finally eliciting a response and finding him perched on top of the peaked roof our the house.  As you could imagine I asked “what the hell was he doing up on the roof?”   He said that he needed to fix the hot water service at which I said he was mad and that he could fall and hurt himself…   

Even as the words came tumbling out of my mouth I knew that it was an idiotic thing to say given the gravity of his somewhat immediate situation.   His response was classic dad – “so what, I could just as easily die in a hospital or I could fall off the roof and break my neck.   What’s the difference?”   I had to agree he did have a point – no use molly coddling him it would never work with him.

Yet another day I arrived to find him sitting in the kitchen near the stove with a loaded .22 rifle lying across his lap.   As I slowly entered the kitchen I asked him what he was doing with the gun?  Was it loaded?   Of course it was loaded he responded incredulously, what’s the point of a gun if its not loaded.   He said that he had been shooting crows…   At which point I thought he had completely lost the plot and gone stark raving mad.   “What crows dad?”  I asked innocently trying not to upset him too much as I edged closer.   He said that the crows had been scaring away his pet magpies and eating their food that he’d put out for them each morning.  

Dad and me - Nov 2010 - he had started
his treatments but he was still reasonably healthy

I slowly approached him but with no real plan except to get the gun out of his hands.   As I stood beside him he pointed through the window and sure enough he had opened the louver windows and poked a hole through the fly wire mesh and had been taking pot shots at the crows as they landed in the backyard.   He was a pretty good shot and I noted the carcasses of at least two recently shot crows lying near the rhubarb patch up the hill from the kitchen.

All well and good I thought except that where he lived in Clunes was on the edge of town and there were a couple of newer houses recently constructed up the hill from him.   Any of the shots that didn’t find their target with the “said crows” would be directly at those houses.   I freaked out!   Dad, you can’t shoot in the town you might hit something I said crossly.  

His response – “what are they going to do arrest me – I’m already dying”.   He had a point, but I was able to convince him that he might actually hit someone rather than something so he relented and somewhat reluctantly handed over the rifle.   I guess he felt as though he had little time left and zero control over the events unfolding around him and so wanted to influence just a little corner of his life - and man did he hate crows with a passion.. :) 

Another morning after his treatments, I noticed that it was only 10:30 am and without additional blood tests or appointments he was done for the day.  I suggested that we go for a coffee at a café I knew down in Sturt Street (main thoroughfare).   He begrudgingly agreed and I could see he was a little freaked out by the throng in the café as we entered, just another morning in a busy and popular place like this I thought.   He ordered a cappuccino and without any prompting asked if there was any cake – sure the waitress said, “today we have carrot cake”.  “Lovely you’d better bring me a slice then” dad said with a cheeky grin!

Dad telling me a story - Daylesford Australia
November 2010

Our coffees and cake arrived to which he quickly demolished (yeah, “Watchdog” could really eat!), and as we were leaving the café he tugged at my arm and said that he’d never just gone for a coffee like that in his whole life – I’m so grateful that I was there to share it with him, but at the same time so very sad that he’d gone a lifetime before experiencing something so simple.

In his final weeks he got weaker with each passing day, I could see his energy and the fight start to wane.  So I took him for one last coffee and the conversation that I had been rehearsing but dreading for quite sometime.

After the coffees arrived I told him that I needed to tell him something very important.  I started off by telling him how significant he’d been in my life and that even though we hadn’t much of a relationship over the years that he was my role model and that I always, if faced with a tough decision would ask myself “what would dad do in this situation?”   He was clearly embarrassed even though there was no one around us, saying that our family didn’t talk about these types of things as he looked around furtively not wanting to make eye contact.   I told him that he didn’t need to say a word, but just listen and that I was going to tell him exactly how I felt whether he liked it or not.

Now you might say that was pretty harsh, but I was blessed to have had the gift of one-on-one time with him over those final months, learn about him and his life, share stories, laugh uncontrollably with him but most importantly to let him to know how much he meant to me.  

I had the chance to say goodbye…and for that I am so very fortunate!

My first set of wheels

I’d finished my final year of University and gone straight into farm work as a contractor with my old boss on that years harvest.   In the early part of the season we spent most of our time slashing, winnowing and baling hay into the small rectangular bales you used to see once upon a time.   Now-days the large circular bales that now dot the countryside have replaced these smaller more manageable ones.  We worked hard with twelve-hour days, seven days a week until we had completed the 2000 acres of his 5000 acres of grass cut and baled.   Which to the layman is just over 3 square miles – yeah, that’s a lot of bales!  I got to the point where I would actually dream of bales coming up the elevator at me…just couldn’t escape the never-ending monotony of the job or the nightmare of the “sea of bales” awaiting me the next morning.

Thousands of hay bales - after a while you'd see
them in your sleep 

After completing the early part of the harvest (hay), we then switched to taking off the grain crop with his brand new Claas combine harvester.   It was a beauty and as you can imagine for those following along at home and have read my earlier blogs initially he wasn’t going to let me come within 40 yards of it based on my prior experience with farm equipment, but my charming personality (oh, and the lack of reliable farm hands) made him finally relent and let me be his 12 hour on 12 hour off cohort.   So many stories from the farm I think could write a book about them.

Anyway, this is all well and good, but the story so far doesn’t explain my first car….   

At the end of the harvest I had saved almost $1000, which would have to see me until I found a job.   In those days there were no teaching jobs readily available so I had to work out what I was going to do with myself.   Never one to sit on my bum and complain about the situation I figured that I would just get myself to Melbourne I’d find a job of some sort.  I felt like the world was at my feet but wasn’t exactly sure what was in my immediate future, but definitely felt positive about the situation in general, but Melbourne was about 100 miles away and so transportation would be imperative for my job hunt.

Mum's 1971 Torana - produced by General Motors Australia

Up until this point I had borrowed mum’s car (1971 Torana) to go to and from work each day on the farm, but she was done with lending her car, so with the harvest now complete I was “strongly encouraged” to find my own transportation.   Hence it was with this as a backdrop that I was casually skimming the used car pages of the local paper (Ballarat Courier) when I came across what I thought was an absolute “find” given that I wanted to only pay $500 for a car.

I can still see the advertisement now – “1963 Wolseley sedan, one local owner, low mileage with road worthy certificate.  $500 ono”.   Price was the only factor that bothered me much as I wasn’t a car aficionado nor particularly interested except for the utilitarian value of getting me from point A to point B.

By this time mum and dad had finally gotten a telephone at home, although dad did make us record the number called and the length of the call in a paper exercise book so he could match it against the telephone company bill each month…don’t ask!  (Dad did this till the day he died – seriously he always thought Telstra were trying to rip him off).   My nickname for dad was “Watchdog Bill”…you get the picture!

TW with his pride & joy - 1963 Wolseley 24/80 Mk I sedan
at Craig & Al's house in St Arnard circa 1981

So I called to enquire about the car, “yes it was still available, and yes I could drop round and see it tomorrow morning”.   It was only a mile or so from my sister’s house in Ballarat so the next morning I caught the bus into town and walked over to see it.

To be honest I’d never heard of this brand of car before, but both mum and dad assured me that it was a bit of a luxury car “in its day”, which piqued my interest but still had no idea what it looked like or what to expect and with no internet to look up the image I was completely in the dark.  

In actuality I didn’t have the foggiest idea about what to ask the owner in terms of its reliability or general use having never owned a car before.   The older gentleman who owned it hadn’t driven it too much of late, and it have been parked in his garage for sometime so the actual car was in pretty good condition given its age.  It had a walnut (yes, real wood) dashboard, leather seats, three speed manual gearbox (on the tree) and not a bad ride except for the thin and rather uncomfortable tires, but beggars can’t be choosers and so after a short test drive around the block I determined that it was okay to buy.  Not sure on what basis I made my decision but it seemed just fine at the time, plus it had a current roadworthy certificate – how bad could it be?   After shelling out half my summer’s earnings on a car I felt like a million bucks driving home to show it off.

James – my younger brother is a true car-ophile (okay I might have just made that word up?) and how he laughed when he saw my purchase…he was in absolute hysterics that I had paid $500 for he what he determined an rather “inferior piece of crap” – my words not his (got to keep it clean).

I had the Wolseley for about 18 months and it was truly a great first car, completely reliable although to be honest it did have a couple of quirks… firstly it would shudder and shake violently if I got above 50 miles per hour – even after I put new tires on it!  As well, I had to amuse myself when I drove anywhere as there was no radio and the heat was perpetually stuck in the “on” position so I had to drive pretty much everywhere, all year round with all of the windows rolled down to try and escape the suffocating heat…especially in the hot Australian summers…other than that she was beaut!

TW the environmentalist - some might say a Prius equivalent -
my 1981 Daihastu Charade at home in Clunes circa 1982

My next car was a Daihatsu Charade – a three-cylinder juggernaut, to be fair I like to think of myself as ahead of my time…just call me Terence the environmentalist!   This was the Prius of its day – we’re talking early 80’s.   Again it would struggle to get over 50 miles per hour and forget about passing anyone on the open road, but the petrol consumption was brilliant at 50 mpg.   However I think the thing that cracked everyone up was the color – bright apple green!

Anyway the long and short of it is that I have a reputation in my family for buying rather odd makes and models of cars and yes my manhood has been called into question on more than one occasion – let me see after James, both Craig and Al have had more than there fair share of hysterics over my vehicle choices.   In fact I think Al almost cried laughing when he saw the Daihatsu…so glad I could entertain them so heartily.   Some might say it was as close as you could get to a glorified rollerskate without being an actual rollerskate...

I’m such a team player!

Subsistence & Generosity!

As I mentioned on prior blogs my year back packing around the world was an amazing experience not only for the opportunity to expand my horizons and frame of reference of the world around me but also for the wonderful opportunities to experience the array of people and cultures. 

At first traveling by myself was a little scary, particularly after my experience in Thailand at the very start of my adventure, but once I settled down into a rhythm of “the road” I found my groove and really started to enjoy my alone time as well as the opportunities that presented themselves to me over the course of the year.  

A young TW traveling in Scandinavia
circa 1985

I guess in total I spent close to three months exploring Scandinavia using Copenhagen as my home base and primarily traveling by train and ferry all over the region.  Not only are the people friendly (see my prior blog about my experience in Oslo) but also the countryside, cities and terrain exceptionally beautiful and diverse!

I had arrived shortly after lunch into Stockholm on a coldish and late November day.  Not only was there a definite chill in the air but also a flurry or two thrown in for good measure.   I thought I had plenty of time to find suitable “digs” for the night, but my search proved to be fruitless.  

I tramped around all of the youth hostels and many of the two star hotels only to find out there was a Youth Symposium starting the next day in town so beds were extremely limited to say the least…   What to do?  I guess I could splurge and stay at three star hotel – still no luck?   Hhhmmm, now things were starting to look a tad desperate as the sun began to settle on the horizon (yes, it was almost 4:00 pm).

I had a brain wave…I would go down to the port and catch the overnight ferry to Finland, Turku to be precise before making my way to Helsinki, spend a week or two there then on my way back explore Stockholm.  No worries I thought as I headed for the port – I would just sleep on the ship and the next morning I would be in Finland and my problem would be solved!

The car ferry got underway right on time, so I decided to head for the bar to see who was about, just in case I ran into anyone I’d met before (surely not to have a drink??).   Surprisingly this is a very common occurrence (running into people, not me drinking!)  :-)

As I sat at the bar the woman next to me struck up a conversation, Helena explained that she was an interpreter at the Finnish embassy in Stockholm and was going home to for a week to see her parents.   Normally her fiancé would be with her, but as he was Russian he wasn’t particularly popular in her parents household.   It turned out that her father had been a prisoner of war in Russia during WWII and had been through a particularly grueling captivity so he was not a in the least bit keen on her beau.

Helena, Aili (mother) and Eino (father)
on the day of my departure

As we talked (she wanted to practice her English – well that’s what she told me anyway) she enquired about Australia, my family and where I’d traveled so far on my adventure.  The conversation flowed pretty easily and after a few drinks she asked what my travel plans were in Finland.   I came clean and told her that I really didn’t have any plans and that I was visiting Finland for the first time with little real knowledge of what to do or see while there.  

She then suggested that I should come home with her and spend a week with her family and experience the real Finland, she then said with a rye smile – all above board no “hanky panky”.   I smiled and said why not!

That night I slept fitfully wrapped in my sleeping bag on the floor of the ship as it wove its way gracefully between the myriad of islands that dot the Baltic Sea between Sweden and Finland.  

Next morning there was Helena ready and willing to go, I was now starting to regret accepting her kind offer explaining to her that her parents might be a bit worried about dragging a stranger home to stay for a week.  She quickly dispelled that notion and said that they’d prefer anyone rather her fiancé…yikes I though hoping not to get caught in a family civil war!

After exiting the ship at the port of Turku we quickly found our way to the rail station for the twelve-hour train journey north.   Yes, we were headed way north and in my reckoning relatively close to the Arctic Circle.   After an exhausting day of travel we arrived into the village of Kontiomaki late in the day.   Her parents were there to meet us at the train station, and let’s say they were a little surprised to see that she had a backpacker in tow.

Fortunately Helena had a gift for languages and she became my interpreter for the remainder of my visit.   Her parents had never really been outside there local district (well, except her father as a soldier during the war) and had never met anyone from the “west”.   I suppose in 1985 (prior to the Berlin Wall coming down) I really was pretty exotic in this part of the world…

However it didn’t take long for Helena to begin peppering me with questions from her parents as we walked to their car.   I answered and she translated for the entire 30 min drive. 

Map of Finland - 1985
Note the proximity to the USSR

Helena explained that her family lived on a subsistence farm that meant that they had no electricity or running water or modern amenities.   Have you ever had that feeling where you think – oh shit what have I gotten myself into?   Yep this was one of those moments!

Their house was a log type structure, rugged yet sturdy with a big stone fire place.  Definitely warm and inviting after the long journey. 

The next day Helena asked if I wanted to go into the forest hunting reindeer with her father, sure why not…”when in Rome” became a common phrase I said to myself when faced with these unique situations where I had to go with my gut!    We stealthily wandered the forest for what seemed like hours, but no luck with the reindeer today.  We communicated via sign language and seemed to figure it out as we went.  A pretty amazing experience to be honest – here I was hunting in the wilds of northern Finland with a local…who would have thought it in a million years?

After returning her father proudly showed me his barn that had a number of animals and a rather large ancillary shed where he preserved and bottled his root vegetables during the summer then stored them during the winter.   He also had a big collection of reindeer hides and a stack of antlers from his prior and more successful hunts.   Helena explained that he sold the pelts in town and that that was the only real income her parents had.

Over the course of the week I took the time to observe and immerse myself into the rhythm of the household and idiosyncrasies that went along with it.  Her parents was extremely generous and over the course of the week truly embraced me into their household, evidenced by making a host of traditional dishes for me each meal time and inviting the neighbors over to “show me off” – yes, someone from the west no less!

The most memorable story I have from that week was when the four of us ventured into the forest one afternoon to have a sauna.   Her father had constructed a two-room hut on the edge of a small lake about half a kilometer from the main house and which was set deep into the forest.  Dividing each room was the wood-burning sauna/stove.  Helena explained that the women would have a sauna first, while “you and father had vodka”, then when we were in the sauna they would cook dinner in the other room using the other side of the sauna/stove.   Yes, reindeer sausages, and they were delicious!

Homemade Vodka - we consumed the
version of the one on the right

Lovely I thought a glass of vodka to warm the heart would be brilliant right about now!   So while Helena and her mum disappeared into the other room for their sauna her father reached under the table and brought out a bottle, that looked like a regular vodka bottle but the contents were distinctly “cloudy” to say the least.

The liquid was thick and not as runny as normal alcohol – it was home made potato vodka…yep moonshine by any other name!   He looked me as he filled the shot glasses, raised his glass and said “Kippis” (cheers in Finnish) downing his shot in one gulp.   It would be rude if I didn’t do the same, so here goes nothing - “cheers” and I tossed it back.

Wow, that was strong!   My throat burned raw as the fiery liquid hurtled down into my stomach.  No sooner than my glass was back on the table than he was refilling it…   I was saved after my ninth shot (in about 10 minutes) when Helena and mother emerged from the sauna towels wrapped around their hair and remember thinking how decidedly pink they both looked – a healthy and vital pink if you know what I mean.   She directed us toward the other room as I wobbled unsurely toward the door.  

Helena standing on the deck outside
the sauna.  Note the jetty and her
father lighting the sauna

No sooner than I had entered the sauna than her father had peeled off all his clothes and was standing buck-naked in the center of the room…  I quickly took off my clothing (must have been the vodka) and took a seat in the baking hot room. 

The sweat really began to pour out of me as her father began flagellating his skin with a small birch branch, while at the same time stoking the fire until it was literally white hot.   The heat was now becoming completely unbearable as he poured water onto the grill just to add additional steam…as if it wasn’t hot enough I thought.

The next minute I know her father has flung open the door to the sauna and was racing headlong down the jetty before disappearing into a huge spray of water in the lake.   Now you have to remember that this water is ice cold, I mean ice was beginning to form on the lake surface – ah huh it was that cold. 

I remember pulling the door closed and thinking how crazy he was…the next thing I know its me whose now sprinting down the jetty (yes, buck-naked as well) at full speed before crashing headlong into the ice-cold lake.   For the first couple of seconds it was so invigorating, well until the cold registered then I screamed like a baby!   Sooooooo cold.....get me the hell out of this lake.

How can you repay someone for this type of experience – its simple you just can’t!   However, before I left her family I gave them the only thing I had from Australia that was worth anything – in those days we had $2.00 bills so I gave them one as a memento of my visit.   Her father quickly made a frame for it and mounted it proudly in their kitchen.  

Australian $2.00 bill which was discontinued in 1985, 
replaced with a $2.00 coin

They made me feel like I had given them an enormous gift, and I guess in retrospect we’d both given each other something unique and unexpected and I’d like to think that my $2.00 bill is still on that kitchen wall somewhere deep in the forest of northern Finland even today.  

I still smile when I think about my serendipitous week in Finland - now that was an adventure!