Song of Sampo Lake

by William Durbin

  “What’s wrong?” Matti asked.

  Mother tried to speak, but her voice caught. Finally she opened her palm and said, “Look.”

  It was Grandmother’s brooch.

  “What in the devil?” Father whispered.

  Mother stood and gave Matti a big hug. “She insisted that I take it because of you, Matti. She said you’d been such a big help to her and to Billy”—Mother stopped and swallowed— “that she wanted to show her appreciation.”

  With her blue dress and ruby brooch Mother nearly outshone the bride on Timo’s wedding day. The one hard part of the wedding for Matti was returning to the Lutheran church in Soudan. He thought back to the bitterly cold night they arrived at the train depot. He tasted the dust of the rockfall on the day of Wilho’s accident. He saw the broken brim of Wilho’s helmet, Aunt Hilda’s black veil, and the nickel casket plate that read “At Rest” all over again.

  Through the reciting of the vows and the exchange of the rings, Matti could hear the cable hoist and the crusher up at the mine. He kept thinking about the hundreds of miners who were still working underground. They toiled in the cold and the dark, knowing that it was only a matter of time before a ledge of rock released without warning. Even as the minister gave his final blessing and the bell rang out the marriage of Timo and his bride, Matti knew that on another day the bell above their heads would be tolling the same dark message that had shattered Aunt Hilda’s heart.

  Black Jack was the star of the wedding dance at the Finn Hall in Soudan. Though Ida’s relatives had wanted an accordion player to furnish the music, once they heard Black Jack’s fiddling they were impressed.

  “I thought I’d seen everything,” Ida’s father, Arne, said, “but a one-legged man who can play the fiddle and dance at the same time is one for the record books. I would have driven all the way from Ishpeming to see that man.”

  Mother also invited a new family, the Lamppas, who had just moved in south of the depot. Two surprise guests were Billy and Clara Winston, who came by wagon from the store.

  By good fortune the weather stayed clear and warm, and Mother and Mrs. Saari were able to set the food and drinks on tables outside. Father and Matti also built a small bonfire where people could visit.

  Arne Koski discovered that Black Jack had lived in Oulu, the town where Arne had grown up. The moment Arne saw the scars on Black Jack’s hands, he grinned and said, “You knew the tar makers?”

  Matti complimented the Saari boys on being so sociable. They spent a good part of the evening practicing their English with one of Ida’s nieces. When Black Jack played a foot-tapping tune that he called the “Rovaniemi Chicken Dance,” Tapio even took a short turn on the dance floor with both Anna and Kari. Matti got a dancing lesson of his own from Mrs. Winston. She glided across the rough floor of the hall as if she were waltzing in a marble ballroom. When they were done, she curtsied and said, “Thank you for the dance, sir.”

  Matti bowed proudly as Clara Winston continued, “I’ll be forever grateful for that letter you wrote. I’d just gotten back from a dull afternoon tea when the mail arrived. Your words about Billy and the moonlight on Vermilion made me realize how pale and dreary the city is compared to the north. The winters may be cold, but the warmth of these people”—she cast her eye toward Billy, who winked from across the room—“more than makes up for it.”

  * * *

  After the last guests left, the Saaris stayed to help clear the tables. They didn’t finish until after midnight. By that time Anna and Kari had fallen asleep in the back of the wagon.

  Though Ida’s parents had offered to put the family up for the night, Father had declined. Pointing to the full moon and the clear, star-flecked sky, he said, “Our road will be well lit for traveling.”

  But by the time they’d loaded the dishes in the wagon, Father was yawning. He turned to Matti and asked, “Can you handle the driving?”

  When Matti nodded, Father patted him on the back and said, “Good man.” Only minutes later Father was stretched out in the wagon bed between a box of dishes and the twins, snoring loudly.

  Mr. Saari chuckled and said, “Since you’ve got a full wagon, Black Jack can ride with us.” Mother waved goodbye and thanked everyone one last time for coming.

  Matti grinned at being called a good man. He picked up the reins and started the mules down the road. Suddenly Maude planted her feet and refused to move. Though Katie was normally the “bad” mule, Maude was holding back this time. Matti flicked the reins and said, “Let’s go, Maude. Pull like your sister Katie.” Katie’s ears perked up, but Maude refused to budge. Matti felt Mr. Saari and Black Jack staring at him from the other wagon. What could he do now?

  Uncle Wilho had always told him that if a man wasn’t smarter than a mule, he deserved to walk. Matti suddenly thought of a trick. “Rest if you want, Miss Maudie,” he said, letting the reins go slack, “but Black Jack will beat us home.”

  The moment Maude heard Black Jack’s name, she turned her head and looked at the wagon beside them. “Mutti’s right,” Black Jack called to Maude, “and I just might steal all your hay.”

  At the word hay, Maude finally started forward. Though she sighed loudly at having to pull a heavy load long past her bedtime, she and Katie made good time on their way back to the homestead.

  Soon everyone was tucked in bed. But Matti still felt restless.

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?” Mother asked.

  “I want to walk down to the lake for a minute,” he said.

  The weathered planks of the dock creaked as Matti stepped toward the end. The black water was still and dappled with starlight. The wings of a nighthawk whistled overhead.

  Matti thought of Uncle Wilho. If only Wilho could have seen this day. He loved a good bonfire and a dance. But he loved the company of fine people most of all. He would have liked everyone at the wedding.

  For the first time since Matti had arrived in America, he felt that he was part of a family that extended beyond the borders of their farm. He looked back at the homestead, the homestead that would be his someday. Moonlight reflected off the window of the main cabin and washed the rocks and trees with a soft, silver white. The hillside that had been a maze of stumps and brush only a year ago was now a neatly tilled field. Down the bay Matti could picture the home that Timo and Ida would soon be building.

  When a fish splashed out in the deep, Matti turned. A perfect moon hung above the pine ridge where Matti had watched his pet crow disappear last fall. A loon called from the far shore, and he caught the faint scent of water lilies. Then it was quiet.

  Across the lake Matti could see a yellow point of light glowing in Black Jack’s window. As Matti turned to head back to the cabin, he heard music. He stopped and listened harder.

  There it was again—a violin. Though Black Jack had played lively folk tunes all through the wedding dance, this music was totally different. Yet it sounded familiar. Matti suddenly smiled: The melody was the same one that Black Jack so often whistled. This was Black Jack’s very own song.

  The notes rose and fell with a slow, sliding rhythm. Sounding deep and still, they reminded him of an ice-locked lake or a lone pine growing out of cold, black rock. Then just when the tones couldn’t get more mournful, the pace picked up. The sounds were suddenly sharp and quick, skipping over the lake like a leaf caught in a cataract. Black Jack played faster and faster. Matti imagined that this was how the tar makers of Oulu felt hurtling down their spring flood rapids. Matti saw the dark men, fists raised and cheering, as they flew under the bridges of their town. All at once the music was a storm, striking white fire across the sky. Then it stopped.

  Matti waited for the violin to start up again, but it was quiet. What he heard next wasn’t pretty, yet it made him smile. For drifting across the still waters of Sampo Lake was the sound of Black Jack laughing loud and long.

  AFTERWORD

  The story of Matti’s family is typical of the quarter of a million Finnish immigrants who
arrived in America during the first two decades of the twentieth century. Some of these immigrants left their homeland to avoid being drafted into the Russian army. Others sought freedom from the far-reaching powers of Finland’s National Lutheran Church. But most Finns were motivated by simple economics—they were poor. Wealthy families owned large tracts of land in Finland, forcing most men to work as tenant farmers or itinerant laborers. Those who did own small farms often had to earn a living from only ten or fifteen acres. When America’s Homestead Act offered 160 acres to anyone willing to start a farm, the Finns saw this as a grand opportunity.

  However, the reality of American life seldom matched its promise. Though Finland had a 98 percent rate of literacy—the highest of any European country—Finnish immigrants had so much difficulty learning English that they often ended up at the bottom of the economic ladder, working as lumberjacks, miners, farmhands, and domestic servants. Many Finns homesteaded by choice, but others were pushed into farming when they were blacklisted by the mining companies during the strikes of 1907 and 1916. Since Finns were outspoken advocates for social justice, they were often targeted by company spies who reported their activities to the bosses. Miners were often fired for discussing unions, attending Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) meetings, or even reading socialist newspapers.

  The Finns who left the mines and started homesteads slowly began to realize their dreams. Small farming communities sprang up across the iron ranges of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, as Finns worked hard to grow crops on rocky, cutover timberland that no one else wanted. Despite a harsh climate that offered only a three-month growing season, their sisu allowed them to found member-owned cooperative stores, creameries, and seed plants; they built town halls, churches, and schools.

  In the end, a lifetime of hard labor often left a Finnish family with nothing more than the clear title to a small tract of rock-strewn land. Yet in the process these homesteaders had achieved something they valued much more than money—an independent lifestyle and the freedom to speak their minds.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to my agent, Barbara Markowitz, and to my many Finnish American friends in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, who have been so willing to share stories of their heritage.

  For help with my research I would like to thank James M. Kurtti, editor of The Finnish American Reporter; Outi Vuorikari, director of the Kuopio Church Registry, Kuopio, Finland; Ritva Rönkkö of the Kuopio Museum; Heikki Viitala, secretary for international affairs of Kuopio, Finland; Annikki and Matti Ojala of Lehtimaki, Finland; Dr. Michael Karni, director of Sampo Publishing; Harry Lamppa and Betty Birnstihl of the Virginia Historical Society; Richard Fields of Minnesota’s Tower-Soudan State Park; John Korpi, Andy Larson, Marcella Nelson, and Pete and Nancy Yapel of Tower; Dolly Nevala of Embarrass, Minnesota; Ed Nelson and Deb Fena of the Iron World Research Library; Joel Wurl, Halyna Myroniuk, and Daniel Necas of the Immigration History Research Center at the University of Minnesota; and the staffs of the University of Minnesota’s Duluth, Hibbing, and Virginia libraries.

  Finally, I would like to extend my gratitude to my family, Barbara, Jessica, and Reid, for all their support.

  GLOSSARY OF FINNISH WORDS

  The Finnish language is unique in that it has no close associations within the European family of languages. This makes Finnish extremely difficult for nonnative speakers to master, and it also explains why Finnish immigrants to America had so much difficulty in learning English.

  Finnish uses the same Roman alphabet as English, but it has only nineteen letters (no l, c, i, q, x, w, or z, except in foreign words)

  ANTEESKI Excuse me.

  HAUKI the northern pike.

  HYVÄÄ HUOMENTA Good morning.

  JOULUPUKKI Santa Claus.

  JUHANUS DAY Midsummer’s Eve. A celebration of the longest day of the year and the feast of St. John, held on the Saturday closest to June 24.

  KAKSI two.

  KALAKEITTO a fish and potato soup.

  KALAKUKKO a rye-crust pie filled with pork and fish.

  KALEVALA the Finnish national epic poem, a series of ancient songs preserved by rune singers from remote villages and collected and published in 1835 by Elias Lönnrot.

  KAPTEENI captain.

  KIUAS a sauna stove.

  KOLME three.

  KUPPARIMUMMU a cupping woman, one who bled the sick by making a small incision with a razor and using suction cups made from the tips of cow horns.

  LAESTADIANS followers of the preacher Lars Laestadius, who was opposed to drinking, gambling, and exhibitions of personal vanity.

  LOUHI an evil witch in the Kalevala.

  LUUKU a small gable door used to let the smoke out of a savu sauna.

  NISSU NASSU gingerbread cookies in the shape of little pigs.

  PIIRAKKAA a rye-crust pie filled with meat, potatoes, and carrots.

  PTRUI a command, meaning “Halt.”

  PULLA a cardamom-flavored sweet bread.

  PUUKKO a knife.

  PUUKKOJUNKKARIT knife wielders.

  RUUSUNUKKE a rose doll. A disparaging term applied to a girl who is pretty but doesn’t work hard.

  SAMPO the magical mill in the Kalevala that could generate equal amounts of gold, grain, and salt.

  SAUNA pronounced SOW-na. A Finnish steambath.

  SAVU SAUNA a traditional-style smoke sauna with an open fireplace.

  SISU strength, courage, tenacity, and integrity all wrapped into one. The will to succeed no matter how impossible the task.

  TÄYDELLINEN perfect.

  VÄINÄMÖINEN OR VÄINÖ the hero of the Kalevala, who sought the magic sampo.

  VAPPU May Day celebration.

  VIHTAS a sauna whisk, generally a bundle of birch branches and leaves, used to lightly beat the skin to increase circulation.

  VIILI yogurt.

  YKSI one.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  William Durbin was born in Minneapolis and lives on Lake Vermilion at the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northeastern Minnesota. He is on leave from teaching English at a small rural high school and composition at a community college and has supervised writing research projects for the National Council of Teachers of English, the Bing-ham Trust for Charity, and Middlebury College. His wife, Barbara, is also a teacher, and they have two grown children.

  William Durbin has published biographies of Tiger Woods and Arnold Palmer and books in the My Name Is America series. His first novel, The Broken Blade, won the Great Lakes Book Award for Children’s Books and the Minnesota Book Award for Young Adult Fiction.

  You can visit William Durbin at his Web site: www.williamdurbin.com.

  Published by

  Dell Yearling

  an imprint of

  Random House Children’s Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  Copyright © 2002 by William Durbin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Wendy Lamb Books.

  The trademarks Yearling and Dell are registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56618-8

  February 2004

  v3.0

 

 

 
0%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share