Songs From Under the Bridge

SONGS FROM UNDER THE BRIDGE

There is something to be said for September days when the air tingles with an expectation of change and a seasonal makeover hovers in the next gust of wind. On a day like this, I meandered along a riverside path, lost in thought. Overhead lay a maze of streets, traffic, and a long train bridge that blocked the sun and darkened the footpath.

A melodic yet soulful wail caught my attention. A young man on a large, low rock under the bridge coaxed the most heart-wrenching tones of emotion from a saxophone, infusing his very essence into the melody. With only the river and me for an audience, he played from his heart to mine. The acoustics under that bridge were as clear as in a concert hall. How remarkable, I thought, that music appears where you least expect it.

As I continued my walk, a rush of feelings carried me into the past. I remembered someone else
who used a bridge as a conduit to music.

Hanna lived in Finland in the 1920’s. Handsome and statuesque, she had thick, dark hair that she liked to wear short. She sang beautifully and composed her own folk songs. Covered bridges that dotted the Finnish countryside became substitutes for dance halls, providing a place for Hanna and her friends to meet. As word of impending revelry spread, men and women gathered at a designated bridge, bringing fiddles and accordions to augment the singing and dancing. Hanna's rich, resonant voice was her instrument. She sang and the others danced.

In the next few years, Hanna's life took many turns. Seeking job opportunity and adventure, she bravely boarded a ship for Canada, traveling alone to a country where she couldn't even speak the language. She arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia, then continued on by train to Timmins, Ontario, where a large migration of Finns laboured in gold mines or harvested timber in lumber camps. They lived mostly in bunkhouses. Hanna found work as a cook in a lumber camp. It was there that she met a Finnish man named Kusti who was to become her husband. Coincidentally they were both from the same town in Finland, but met for the first time in Canada. They married in 1927, and a son was born.

The couple returned to Finland where they bought a house, and another son was born in 1929. The bonds of matrimony and fatherhood proved too binding, and less than a year later, Hanna was left alone to birth their third son, while Kusti went back to Canada.

Now Hanna was a single parent, with three small children to support. Women in this situation were known as "American Widows." Hanna's estranged husband sent money for the house payments, but mostly he drank away his guilt. Despite always being employed and well dressed, he preferred not to own a home or car. He relied on others to look after him and drive him around. This was a man who did not want family, possessions, or responsibilities to tie him down.

Social assistance was unknown, so Hanna searched for employment. Over the years, she laboured in a factory, shipyard, and a sawmill. The factory was a sulfuric acid plant, and Hanna’s job was to carry bricks to the second and third floors. Although mostly men worked at the sawmill, Hanna was one of the few women chosen, as physically and mentally she was strong. Respected for her ability, she was the only woman to receive a pension from the sawmill.

In the shipyard, she did the work of a longshoreman, loading cargo to the ships' holds. Once, she injured herself severely while carrying a pallet of lumber onto a ship. The straps holding the lumber together broke, and the heavy wood fell on her feet, breaking bones and causing severe lacerations that required stitches. She was unable to work for months, so to make ends meet, she rented out rooms in her house. Her family rallied around and picked berries, which they sold, for this was a lucrative source of income.

Hanna was devoted to her family, and passed her love of music on to them. Perhaps the melodies she composed and sang soothed her troubled heart. Even with the hardships of survival, Hanna found time to take her children by train to visit her husband's parents on their farm. Her in-laws treated her like a servant, never believing she was good enough for their son, but little by little she earned their grudging respect.

One Christmas Hanna took her boys to the farm. Times were hard, and she had no money for presents but felt sure the grandparents would have gifts for their grandsons. How wrong she was. The boys would never forget that meager Christmas when they did not receive a single gift.

For her fiftieth birthday, her sons, grown men now, surprised their mother with a bicycle. Hanna was moved to tears, and proudly rode this bicycle to work every day. Bicycles were still a rarity so to own one was a novelty.

Twenty years after Hanna’s husband left, he returned to visit Finland. Once Hanna saw him walk by her house. With tears stinging her eyes, she watched him hesitate at the front gate, then move on without a glance. Although he remained aloof, he bought his grandchildren things their parents could not afford, such as bicycles and good quality winter coats and boots. He had grown so distant from his parents that they left the farm to their second-oldest unmarried son, who had no children, instead of to Kusti, who was the oldest. Whoever said life was fair? Many years later when Kusti died, he willed what he had left to his eight grandchildren, and nothing to his sons.

Hanna kept busy weaving rugs on a loom, singing as she worked. She was a prolific knitter, turning out woolen sweaters, mittens, and socks for her children and grandchildren. She always had a cat, and the cat was always named "Miisu," no matter if it was male or female.

Hanna was my grandmother. My parents shared her house in Finland for seven years, until they immigrated to Canada, settling in northwestern Ontario. Hanna was distraught when they left Finland, and the only time she came to visit was to attend my sister’s wedding.
My father fondly remembers a childhood where music was always present. Sometimes when he whistles a tune and my mother questions the song’s origins, he says, "It's one my mother composed."

Genetics gave me Hanna's distinctive walk and her thick hair, but my sentimental journey led me to discover her passion. Music appears where you least expect it, under a train bridge or a covered bridge, or right next to the bridge in my heart that connects me to my Grandmother Hanna. That saxophone player would be surprised to know what memories surfaced when his musical lament thrust me into the past.

I wish I had the chance to know Hanna better, but most of all, I wish I could have heard her sing.

Maria Harden
(c) 2006

A tribute to my grandmother, Johanna Amalia Luoma Kosola (Hanna)

Photos
- Hanna and Kusti
- Hanna and her three sons
- Hanna and the bicycle, a gift for her 50th birthday
- Relaxing in rocking chair

Story ID:	1137
Written by:	Maria Harden (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Family History
Location:	various Finland
Year:	1927
Person:	Hanna