“The moon was risen, the sun was out /

the daylight had reached the sky.” Runo 49, Kalevala

 

 JUHANNUS

© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved

Helsinki, Finland–Summer Solstice

It is June 20, the quiet of Juhannus,

summer solstice, day of St. John.

Outside, no cars pass by,

apartment parking lots empty.

No one signed up

for the washing machines.

Then the stores fill up,

and this midsummer day carries

a subdued Finnish feeling

of holiday release.

Women with plastic bags

on their hands

gather new potatoes—

varhaisperhuna ulko—

to cook with dill, parsley, butter.

They crowd the fish counter, push

for their smoked salmon,

salmon, Baltic herring,

the traditional meal, with beer.

The men line up at the Alko store.

Vodka, too.

Stores close at 2.

In the streets of Helsinki

crowds thin.

The lines of cars heading out

of town to their family cottages

with saunas by the thousands

of lakes, jam,

in a chorus of brake lights.

In town, the sun shines

on upturned faces

sipping coffee at Café Strindberg

on the Esplanade.

At 7 p.m. Bus 24 picks up

passengers at all stops.

Crowds head to Seurasaari,

cross the Victorian

gingerbread bridge.

A kokko —bonfire —burns on a raft

near shore.

The smell reminds of sauna.

Mothers in city shoes,

fathers with suits on,

people in national costumes,

blond children,

babies in antenna hats

wheeled in sturdy prams,

walk wide paths through woods,

pause to watch the craftsman

turn birch on a lathe

for bowls, cups, and goblets;

watch the woman

weave birch baskets.

Birch branches festoon

the boats and paths,

wave like flags

on the fourth of July.

Flags decorate trams and buses.

Young girls with grecian

wreaths on their heads

play tug of war, boys against girls—

stilts, burlap bag races,

oak tree swinging.

Food kiosks like at county fairs

sell makaraa—sausage—

fried potatoes, pancakes, popcorn.

Stalls sell the summer beer— sahti.

People with cellular phones

stand intent, off in the woods—

in the country of Nokia

everyone is wired—

staring at the ground.

In the inner grove

a large plank dance floor

in a natural amphitheater holds

guitar, accordion, string bass players

in peasant costumes with sashes.

We mill about until

a loudspeaker announces

the bridal couple.

Crowds move to the beach.

Thousands of people

tramp through blueberry woods.

Layered twenty deep

they face the water.

Fire is the symbol

of this longest night near

water, woods, shore, nature,

the ritual marriage

of darkness and light,

beliefs concerning fertility,

cleansing, the banishing of evil spirits,

with two kokko on the beach,

five in oil pots stuck in the water,

fire to keep the ghosts at bay.

On the far shore

a man walks out with a torch,

lights a kokko on a rock peninsula.

People in pleasure boats and kayaks

watch from the harbor.

A singer sings a folk song.

The 9:40 sun shines brightly.

Loud announcements in Finnish,

Swedish, French, English,

international babel.

The man walks out again,

lights a cross of cedar branches.

With bright briefness

it flares and dies.

We stand on a slanted gray rock

beneath pine trees on a bluff.

People sit on rocks

and spread blankets.

Many couples nuzzle, kiss,

sing along to the folk songs

on the loudspeakers.

The man walks out,

lights ten small fires

around the peninsula.

He entwines arms

between two women.

He holds the torch

as they walk back.

A longboat with 18 oars appears,

people in native costume

with a helmsman,

while everyone sings.

The bride and groom

step off the bow,

she in a white gown,

he in a tuxedo.

They have an annual drawing

to choose who can get married

here, at Juhannus.

The song gets louder,

as all the people join.

The groom goes up

to the largest pyre,

cedar and upended longboats

in the shape of an evergreen.

He lights it on the sea side.

The crowd applauds.

Fire raises to the skies.

The giant bonfire burns.

The boat rows out to sea.

Quiet, the people watch the kokko

burn down, then

head back to the dancing arena.

The “Wedding Waltz” plays.

People sing as they walk.

Parents tell their children

what it means.

As the band tunes,

small blond toddlers

dance  on the vast stage.

A man in a black hat

with a red striped vest

begins the adult dancing.

We meet a woman

in our national costume —

“Pohjanma” —

the land of the west north—

Ostrobothnia —Vasa,

wide and flat

home of Louhi,

the wise woman of the Kalevala.

We snap her bright blonde smile,

striped blue, yellow, and black skirt,

white apron and blouse, a headband.

Hundreds of people

wend to the stage—

polka, shottische, waltz, tango—

Finns love their dancing.

They whirl and stamp.

Crowded buses take us back.

We have a drink

in the hotel bar,

watching the

solitary drunks stagger

past the windows,

men who didn’t get

to the marriage.

The next morning,

quiet as the day before,

the nation

has a hangover.