The eternal summers of childhood

You know how as a child the summers were endlessly long and the sun always shone?

In Mummola, in the heartland of Savo, the virgin green of early summer and Midsummer gave way to a meadow scented with the scent of July, to larks and haymaking. We took turns tossing hay to the stake to dry, and then tossing the finished bales of hay to the tractor's platform and from there to the hay barn. There was a bit of competition for driving shifts. The work was painful for the members and the skin tingled sweetly in the evening sauna. Once a week, ice-cream and sweets were fetched from the lorry as a friend of the Donald Ducks.

The best sleeps were in the attic of Aitan, in a cot with my cousins. We'd go through old treasures, things we didn't always know the purpose of. A separator, a rye, a dandelion. In the garden shed, a bunkhouse you could climb into to hide. Further away, our secret city, the stone ruins in whose cavities we had our dwellings and shops. Sometimes we ventured further afield: to the fountain, to the abandoned blacksmith's forge, to the grave of the Jap dog, to the horse enclosure. To the big birch. The giant tree, dozens of feet tall, was a beloved landmark on arrival at Grandma's, and could be seen all the way to town. The sadness was deep when I heard that lightning had killed it. For a long time it had been allowed to grow on the hill.

In the barn, everyone had a name tag. Swallows screeched and swooped around the yard.

Midsummer spells were made in good faith and pancakes were fried on a masonry pan. Later on I learned to do stable and barn work, and I was even allowed to try my hand at milking.

I also spent a Christmas at my grandmother's house without my parents. At 16, on a bright, crisp frosty night, I was drawn to the moonlight and the glowing snow. I had to go out. The black starry sky was something I had never seen in the city. Or a moonlight that lit up everything so bright you could have seen walking in the woods. The shadows were sharp-edged, the snow crunching on the dirt road beneath my feet. There was no other sound. Breath steamed, silence dulled my ears. The smoke from the huts rose straight up. I was alone in the universe. The cold and darkness delighted and frightened me a little. Something made me delay my return to the warmth of the cottage.

In addition to visiting grandma, we toured summer Finland with the family in a caravan for many summers. The best mobile beaver game in the world! Our new home was always on a watchful beach plot, and I had my own regular camping duties. My love of pine fabrics was probably also born in a caravan site set in a pine grove. The soothing, undulating hum of the wind in the pines canopy was etched in my auditory memory and absorbed into me. A brighter exultation rang out as the birches and aspen trees were played by Ilmattare in their full foliage. My eyes closed, I was completely happy. Oh summer!