Finnish sisu

Sisu---strength of will, determination, perseverance, acting rationally in the face of adversity, sustaining an action against all odds.

My mom has been going to the Language Training Mission every Thursday night for about eight years.  New missionaries who are learning Finnish knock on her door (a classroom door), she answers, invites them in, and they present their lesson.  There are two rules.  One, my mom knew about.  All words spoken there must be in Finnish.  The story I will tell is about the rule she didn't know about.

  

Mom learned Finnish when she was acting as the Finnish Mission secretary in 1948, while my Grandfather was the mission president there.  (He was called as the first mission president because he was an American born Finn, a faithful convert, and an awesome man.)  My dad was serving his mission in the North Central States (without purse or script! c c c cold!)  They were engaged at the time so when dad left on his mission, mom left on a mission.  Finnish is a difficult language (it has 16 cases while English has 3) and she has worked hard to keep up on it.

Mom is proud of her Finnish heritage.  She always makes some Pulla, a Finnish sweetbread, for the departing missionaries so that, in her words, "they can have a taste of Finland" before they leave.  Every 6 weeks for 8 years, 4 loaves of pulla have been lovingly prepared and transported to the MTC.  Many missionaries have left and returned, some to come back to the MTC teaching new missionaries the language. The tradition of Sister Packard's pulla has become sort of a right of passage and is much anticipated by the newbies about to launch into their great adventure.

  

I was with Mom on a recent trip to the MTC and came away with a crystal clear understanding of Finnish sisu!  One this particular night, there weren't lessons being taught but there were some missionaries leaving for Finland so our trip was to bring the traditional pulla bread.  We entered the office and sat down.  The delicious smell of the bread wafted into the room.

From the corner a young man in a suit said, "You know that it is against the rules to bring food to the missionaries."  Mom said "Oh?!"  "Yes" he said.  "Even teachers are fired if they break the rule!"  Holy cow, I thought, this guy is curt.  My mom was quiet and I looked down at my hands.

"You can't give that food to the missionaries" he went on.  I realized at this point that I was sitting exactly between mom and this man.  I couldn't see either of them without turning my head.  Mom continued to be quiet and I continued to look at my hands.

"What is your name?" he asked.  Mom said "Betty Packard".  "How did you learn Finnish?"  She briefly told him why.  Why doesn't she tell him about grandpa being the first mission president and start some 'shock and awe' I wondered.

"Oh yes,  I have heard that name" he cooly said.  Silence.  He is rude, I thought.  Is mom  going to cry? 

Silence.  My fingernails are dirty I noticed.  More silence.  And yet, more silence.  I started to pick at my nails.  I knew that if I were in mom's place, I would be apologizing for myself and begging for forgiveness.

"If you promise not to give any more food to the missionaries, you could give that bread out tonight."  Mom thought about it and asked  "Could I bring some to the small group going out in a couple of weeks?  After that there will be a natural break."

"No."   Long silence.  "But you can give that bread out if you pledge not to bring any more after tonight." Poor mom!  I was starting to tear up.  Should I jump in with some witty repartee, I wondered.  But, I couldn't think of anything to say. 

After some minutes the man said "Maybe we should give that bread to the office staff."  Mom had a cut up loaf in the bag which she spread out with some napkins.  No one moved.  Silence.  He took a halting step toward the bread and took a bite.  Then came the first break in his facade.  "That's good" he said spontaneously.  Oops, I thought.  A realtor told me once that in business negotiations the first man that 'blinked' lost his edge.  Our man had blinked.

People had started coming and going from the office, asking if they could have a piece.  Of course, there many oooos and ahhhhs over the flavor.  There is nothing like homemade pulla.

The man in the suit took another step back and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pop the rest his piece of bread into his mouth and then slip out of the door, , , , backwards.

There were many people in the room by now and an older man came up and greeted mom.  She told him that someone had told her not to bring any more bread and she described the man.  The older gentleman said, "Oh, he is the director of all of the language training at the MTC.  We had talked about your pulla in a planning meeting and we were told it was alright.  I think he was there."  Then he winked at mom and said,"Just give me that pulla and bring the bread to me from now on and I will see that it gets to the missionaries."  

While we were leaving I told mom how I would have been groveling and crying if I had been her. I asked her how she could keep her cool.  She said, "I was thinking about those boys."  There was a golden key, a key for the future.  Forget about yourself and think of others.  And of course, apply a liberal dose of Finnish sisu.

My dad has often said that when he gives his opinion on something or other, he can tell when mom agrees if she brings it up later.  When she doesn't, he knows that it wasn't a good idea.  Most of the years of their marriage he assumed that when he said something, mom felt just like him and did what he said.  Since he has retired, he has learned a lot more about Finnish sisu.

Recently, mom found out that her young friend in the suit had been by the office asking if there had been any more pulla bread.  He knew that my mom had never wavered.  She hadn't made that pledge like he had expected her to.  He probably won't ever find any more Finnish sweetbread because it has gone into hiding.

I secretly think that he is hanging around trying to snag just one more piece of Sister Packard's heavenly pulla bread.   

   

      

Bridget's travail

We are accustomed to hearing Bridget whine to be let out.  She whines that special whine that says "I can't hold it any longer", I open the door for her and leave the door ajar for her to come back in.  Last night, the same old routine, whine, she runs out, and runs back in except a horrendous smell came in with her.  She ran into a skunk and it got her right in the face.

First question:  What smells worst than skunk smell wafting into your windows? Answer:  Skunk smell right under your nose!  Bridget ran in and started rolling around, wiping her face and dripping ear on the family room carpet.  Then before I could catch her, she rolled around spreading skunk concentrate on the wool rug at the side door. 

Second question:  Where would you grab a dog that has just been skunked?  I figured that the back end was furthest away from the attacker so I held Bridget's back legs while she walked into the laundry room on her front legs (like the old wheelbarrow game we used to play).  This might have been funny if my eyes hadn't been stinging so much.

I raced to get tomato sauce and a can opener and then proceeded to dump tomato sauce all over the dog's head and ear, massaging it into her heavy coat.  Then I ran to look online to see what else to do.  The first thing everyone said was not to use tomato sauce because it doesn't work.  When will I ever learn to read instructions first?  One person online suggested baking soda and hydrogen peroxide.  Another suggested vinegar and water. 

I grabbed  'tomato head' by the front legs this time and walked her into the shower.  Poor Bridget was dowsed with warm water, water and vinegar, shampooed, and dowsed again.  Somewhere in the process, I found myself in the shower with her, my clothes soaked.  We both came out smelling like vinegar and Panteen.

Bridget spent the night in the laundry room and made a trip to the groomer this morning.  They managed to get the skunk smell out but they couldn't shampoo out the tomato color.  I  can't call her a white poodle for a while.  If anyone asks our dog is a 'red head'.

 

(I was tempted to get out the lime jello and color up the rest of her for Christmas but, since we know that animals will be resurrected .  .  .  . I don't want her to be pointing a paw at me!)

Is that the doorbell?

Some of you out there will not identify with, what I will call 'doorbell panic'.  But because most of you reading this share my DNA, I am guessing that you also share my general panic upon hearing the doorbell ring.  I'm not talking about social anxiety here.  I am talking about that 'Oh no, I'm not ready for company' feeling.

I don't get so nervous when the front doorbell rings because most of the time it is a package delivery, sometimes a magazine salesman, and once-in-a-while the obligatory Jehovah's Witness.  But when the side doorbell rings it sends shivers down my spine.  A visitor stepping through that door walks right into the very heart of our house and directly into whatever mess is currently happening.

Of course, raising kids is a messy proposition any way you look at it.  Everyone has heard the little rhyme "Cleaning the house while kids are growing is like shoveling the walk while it's still snowing."  If we are comparing a messy house with a snow storm we might as well say that in the Olsen house we were usually under blizzard conditions.  Whenever there was a 'doorbell threat' this mama would start yelling "Quick clean!" at the top her lungs.

Our children have grown up, left home, and now have their own storm systems raging around them in their own homes.  (I won't comment on the poetic justice of life but just know that I have a little smile on my face as I write this.)

So now, here David and I are, just the two of us, with nary an excuse for messes of any kind.   At least that's the way it should be.  But . . . things are always drifting out of control.

  

David and I just returned from Hawaii which means piles of laundry, piles of mail.  We were greeted by Julia and Steve's family who had arrived from Boise for a short visit.  We were so happy to see them as Max says "in real life not just icat."  After they left there were remnants of the Smith flurries. . . legos here, dress-ups there, bits of Play Doh and sticky waffles on the kitchen counter.  The stuff of happy Grandmama's life but more mess to clean up, none the less.

Yesterday I left the house at 9:50 and returned at 4:40.  I walked in, took one look at the whole mess and promptly turned on the TV.  "I'm too tired" I thought but instead of settling in to the program I drifted around picking up this and that.  I got out a frozen Marie Callenders lasagna, the culinary effort of the day and stuck it in the oven.  I swept and wiped and went back to the TV.

  

    Sometime later the doorbell rang!

That old surge of adrenaline rushed over me.  There was a tall man in a white shirt standing at the back door.  Apparently, David had made arrangements for a bishop to meet him at our house.  (Why didn't I know this and where was David?)  I was so startled that as I let him in, I heard the words "Have you had anything to eat?" pop out of my mouth.  (If there is a technical name for this type of self-destructive behavior I need to know it.  Anyone?)

   

He followed me in to the kitchen and sat down on the chair that, just minutes before, had been spread with waffles and syrup.  He leaned on the counter in the very spot where dribbles of spaghetti sauce had just been wiped away.

  

We could smell the baking lasagna, I mean really smell the lasagna because I had forgotten about it.  I opened the oven and saw that the lasagna dish had melted out of shape. (You may think that I am exaggerating but I am not.)   With one fluid motion, I slipped the lasagna out of the oven and out of sight.  I peeled back the blackened cellophane covering, cut a piece right out of the middle, turned around, and served it with a smile.  He ate it like a man even though it was a little crusty.  By now, of course, David had run in, grabbed his suit coat and they both hurriedly departed for their appointment.

  

I was left standing there, shellshocked.  What would have happened if I had settled into that cushy chair and just watched the TV program?  It could have been my worst doorbell nightmare come true.  But, happily, I was delivered from the catastrophe. (Believe me I said a really sincere thanking prayer.)

And to put the frosting on the cake I finally have something to write a blog about! 

Epilog

The machine was found, plugged in, and turned on.  It stitched and stitched until 6 bridesmaid dresses were complete and the flower girl sashes were done.  Then my dear machine started to turn itself off and on, off and on.  I sat in horror as it went through prolonged spasms.  Then it went dark and still.  

Poor little girl!  Tomorrow we will take a trip to the sewing machine hospital and see if they can patch her up.  I hope she isn't terminal!       

It's gone missing!

Anyone who knows me knows that I am very attached to my sewing machine. Really, I am chummy with any sewing machine that I am in close proximity to.

  

My mom's Singer was my first love.  I sewed my school dresses beginning in my 5th grade year.  One of my first projects was a plain V-neck shift.  I must have sewn those seams over and over because one day when I jumped down from a swing , the side of the dress caught and I found myself hanging sideways high above the ground.  That dress didn't rip, and I had to beg someone to get me down.  Most of my friends thought it was pretty funny and just let me hang there.

Every summer of my childhood, when we would go on our customary 2-week vacation to the cabin in the mountains, mom brought the Singer and I would sew my school dresses for the coming year.  Good times, good times.

I sewed dresses for dates, school dances.  I remember finishing a hem when the my date was sitting in the front room waiting for me.  (He didn't have to wait very long, really he didn't.)  I even sewed my wedding dress on that machine.  I remember finishing it about 3 hours before we had to leave for the temple.  (For heavens sake, have I always been like that?  Mom?)

My high school graduation gift was a sewing machine.  I used that thing until it just wore right out.  I sewed most of the things my kids wore on it.  School outfits, t-shirts and jeans.  Lion and clown, flower and butterfly costumes for Halloween.  Pajamas and nightgowns for Christmas.

  

Greg remembers the muti-colored underwear that I sewed him from scraps I bought for $2.00 per pound.  He was in the second grade and was embarrassed because all of the other kids had white underwear.  He didn't know that he was really stylin', just 5 years earlier than everyone else.

Easter dresses, blessing dresses, quilts and more quilts, curtains for every window and everyone else's windows.  Cushions, pillows, purses, prom dresses, you name it, I have tried to sew it.

The last time I saw my machine was on our trip to Utah this summer.  I am sure it was in the car when I came back, I think.  The car was heaped to the ceiling with jars of candy for Diana's reception, 85 organza chair sashes, a wedding dress, clothes, and 300 lbes of frozen beef.

  

Today, there was an emergency call on my message machine.  "Our seamstress is sick.  If you have time. . ."  So with a wedding dress to alter and several bridesmaid dresses to sash and make modest,  I will just have to muster up my courage and launch into the frightening space that is my sewing room and look for my dear friend to help me.

If you don't hear from me for another three weeks, send in a rescue party.

Aftermath

The Fat Lady Sings

Do, ra, me, fa, so, la, ti, do! ! !

The open house to celebrate Diana and Dan's wedding was last night. What a wonderful time it was! Our friends Vern and Barbara Jo Taylor let us use their beautiful backyard. Colleen and Calli Chamberlain made a bridal bouquet, centerpieces, and various other arrangements from about 22 doz roses from Costco. . . gorgeous! Kaye Allen, Camille Ramey, Heidi VanWorkam, Dia Wunderli, and Kris Wilkes ran errands and cut fruit galore. What dear friends they are to run to my aid. Thank you all.

Dan's parents Jeff and Nancy Lowder came to our house about 4:30 and jumped into the frey of rose petals, melon rinds, and jars and jars of candy.

So many people that have known Diana throughout the years came to celebrate the couples happiness. After most went home, a few sat around with us while Dan and Diana recounted their discovery of each other, the romance, and a honeymoon (which involved a lot of creatures of the sea off of the Oregan coast.)

All of the company left this morning for Utah after a yummy omlette breakfast cooked by Dan and Diana. I quickly ironed some shirts for David and packed my bag and 30 minutes after everyone else had left, I climbed into Camille's car and we drove to Utah. I cat napped, she snoozed. (Not at the same time, mind you.) We ate Sugar Babies and Cornuts and had a delightful trip except for being stopped by a Nevada Highway patrolman who just wanted to say howdy.

Mom had made reservations for a trip to Hawaii for the girls (my sisters Laura, Karen, Louann, and Wendy) a year ago before I knew that we were expecting two grandbabies and would have a wedding. Laura's family didn't know that they would be having a wedding in August. Karen didn't know that she would have a new granddaughter. Louann was hoping for a new grandbaby and she got one too. (And Wendy, let me say that your day is coming faster than you think!) I hope to be posting a picture of all five of these new little cousins soon. Regardless of all of that, we will climb on that airplane and fly 'somewhere over the rainbow'.

Anyway, here I sit once more at the window that I have described previously, recounting the wonderful events of this amazingly busy summer. I forgot to mention that two families had their missionaries return within a couple of weeks of each other. I tell you, those windows of heaven have shed buckets of blessings onto all of our heads.

My very favorite moment was when I looked around the sealing room and could see all five of our children, four spouses (Lane we missed seeing you), all of my brothers and sisters and spouses and my own mom and dad to see Diana and Dan be sealed. That's as close to heaven on earth that I will ever experience!

I will now drag myself and the extra pounds I gained eating every marred, misshapen peanut M&M I could find (I was the only person doing any kind of quality check and of course I was taught never to throw away good [yummy] food) and sing myself a lullabye (the fat lady singing) and dream wonderful dreams. Wait a minute, all of my dreams have come true! ! !