We are about 300 kilometers north of Helsinki and I’m sitting on the front porch of my private log cabin at Lomakeskus, a wilderness retreat sequestered far from the hubbub of urban life.
The sun is just now peeking above the forest of firs surrounding the lake.
The crisp, cool morning-air is encoded with the first hints of fall. The lake is dead calm. The ducks are bummed.
They’ve been spoiled and conditioned by more than ninety uninterrupted summer days of attention from children, who, as far as the ducks are concerned, have migrated from far away specifically to pay their respects with offerings of breadcrumbs, sandwich rinds, Jello crusted plastic cups, and discarded bubble gum.
It is now three days after the start of fall semester in Finland and I think the ducks have come to realize that until next summer they will have to actually work for their daily bread. I discovered this when I went for a six a.m., sunrise walk along the lakefront.
As I sauntered past a row of twenty multi-colored skiffs and rowboats dry-docked on the silty shore, a flotilla of ducks hunkered on the beach, spied me and waddled over and queued up in a line, like they were my very own duck family.
Their airborne buddies caught drift of the activity and dropped from the sky and alighted on the beach to say hello and of course panhandle for handouts.
I was quite flattered, thinking that maybe I had a touch of St. Francis of Assisi in me, but then the ducks proceeded to give me unflinching sad looks that clearly conveyed a state semi starvation.
So now, an hour later, the entire duck-gang has adopted me and they’ve taken up residence at the foot of my front porch.
The morning quietude, and the ducks’ quest for sustenance, is momentarily interrupted by the gentle mosquito-like whine of a far off outboard powered skiff. There’s no apparent breeze but the white birch tree leaves rustle softly.
Even though Lomaskeskus is primarily a summer resort, it remains open year-round. The kids are back in school now, and the nearby rustic kiddy theme-park appears forlorn and abandoned.
There’s a waterslide and a giant, concrete “Snoopy” sitting atop a one-story-tall wooden doghouse, but the maintenance crew has already done their winterizing stuff and the rides are now shrouded in thick tarpaulin cocoons, insulated from the ravages of winter snow and sleet.
The early-fall guests on holiday here are mostly retired Finns, Swedes, and Germans, as well as a few owl-eyed Russians.
We head over from our lakeside cottage to dine at the nearby gingerbread-trimmed main lodge. Hotel Punkaharju is located within a national preserve that was first decreed to be such by Alexander I, Czar of Russia, after he visited the region way back in 1803.
The Czar, totally enamored with the region’s stunning beauty, decreed that the territory should be preserved for the enjoyment of future generations. As an aside, Finland was ruled by the Russians until the early 20th Century).
The main lodge, a classic wood-frame ship-lap sided building, is painted a soft, faded pink with white gingerbread trim around the windows, along the gable ends and the roof peaks.
The structure reminds me of a storybook, 19th century, Russian country dacha straight out of a Tolstoy novel. This grand lodge was built in the mid-1840s as a forester’s home with additional rooms for travelers.
Adjacent living and storage quarters, a wine cellar, a lakeside log-sauna by the lake and a pavilion were added in 1896, with an adjacent czarina’s villa completed in 1898.
The main lodge is where a touching encounter with a group of retired Finns took place. They have come here from all parts of the country for a weeklong retreat.
This congregation is an atypical group of retirees. You see, they were all former WW II Finnish resistance fighters.
Of course, we didn’t know this at first. We were minding our own business, dining on the restaurant’s enclosed verandah.
Our locale was a fitting rendezvous site for a rendezvous with these brave souls from a most tormented and tumultuous period in Finland’s history as we are a mere 40 kilometers from the Russian border,.
Our dining area was originally an open-air porch, exposed to the elements.
Former proprietors in the early days of the 20th Century enclosed the verandah, leaving the original multi-pane exterior windows, trim work and siding in place.
This gave us the sense of both literally and figuratively being on the outside, looking in through the windows at this group of former resistance fighters.
They were minding their own business, eating dinner, and chatting with great animation about current political issues.
The physical appearance of the main dining room, short of new tables and chairs appeared unchanged for the past century.
The sixteen foot-tall coffered, wood ceiling was accented with ancient, hand-painted gold filigree and intertwined flowers and vine accents running around the coffered ceiling.
As we ate our dinner and watched the antics of the forty or so Finns in the inner dining room, one of the journalists in our group got to wondering if the legend of Finns passion for dancing the Tango was true or just a myth.
Fellow journalist, Bruce Conord, a writer from New Jersey, started teasing our Finnish host, Kerri, about the stereotype. As Conord gazed in through the windows at the former resistance fighters, he prodded Kerri, “So do you think they like to tango?”
Conord kept up this line of inquiry, using a multiplicity of variations on the theme for the better part of a quarter hour. Ultimately, Kerri decided to turn the table on Conord.
Kerri, pushed his chair back, rose and headed directly into the inner dining room, where he stood at the front and asked for the attention of the silver haired Finns.
Kerri explained that an American journalist sitting on the verandah was interested in talking to the group. Now if Conord had been an introvert, he might have stopped Kerri and politely demurred.
But, no, Conord, being a consummate American extrovert, grinned broadly and jumped up to go interact with this slightly perplexed group.
Bruce stood before the crowd and with the aid of Kerri’s interpreting services, said that he was very proud of this group’s heroic actions during WW II, and as an aside that his father had also fought bravely in the Pacific Theatre.
Then Bruce smiled impishly like a sixth grader and asked if one of the beautiful ladies might volunteer to teach him to Tango
To our surprise, the resistance fighters broke out in a rash of smiles, cheers as one elegant, silver haired beauty rose up from her seat and put her arms around Bruce.
One of her compatriots took her place at the spinet piano tucked off in a corner and the room filled with the dreamy melody and rhythms of a Finnish style tango.
Bruce was busy being whisked about the dance floor by one of the country’s smoothest moving and graceful octogenarian tango dancers. The music, as well as Bruce’s exuberance was infectious.
Everyone started smiling broadly, clapping and cheering, and the dance floor was soon packed with well seasoned folk who suddenly looked and moved with the ease and flourish of a group of teenagers.
As the couples swirled past, I caught fleeting glimpses of their expressions. Little flickering, flashes of light glinting from their moisture-laden eyes. They were no longer crumpled and weathered, they were once again in the prime of their youth, brimming with love and joy.
I think I will always remember that evening, partly because of Bruce’s innocent antics, but most importantly because of the magic of the moment.
The grizzled old woman playing Finnish tangos on the piano, the elderly couples joyously swirling about the dance floor that filled the room with a hypnotic air of joy.
Strangers from across the sea had abruptly thrust themselves upon a very private gathering of people, and yet they readily accepted us and invited us to dance and share a portion of their evening.
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