Fish farming, raccoon dogs & Christmas

Cats, dogs, hens, pigs and squirrels. And fish. This is what my relatives talk about. We discuss procedures in the fish farm. My cousin works there, occasionally. When she was younger, she was a truckdriver. Even though she keeps a low profile, she is respected by everybody. She confesses that the floundering fish fighting for its life makes her uneasy. At that, my father chuckles heartily. That's the sentimentality of the womenfolk, he mutters in his head. We take a deep look into the oily content of our coffee mugs. Mine is decorated with a happy pink pig. They used electric shocks to kill the fish. They don't use them anymore. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was too expensive. Who work in the fish farm? Stiff fingers. The smell. The stigma of working there. My relatives start to reflect on why no "ortsbo" works there full-time. Unsurprisingly, They don't get far. The subject is dropped. Let's discuss brake systems instead. Some people are not considered to be "ortsbo", a real villager, even though they've lived here a really long time. That son of a bitch troll of a man, whatever he is called, driving that moped, fishing our waters.... Troll of a man... His good-for-nothing son, what will become of him? Awwright, it's under his influence that the others... The same people who are considered to be outsiders because they have the wrong job or the wrong background are suddenly embraced by the community when the subject of village eccentrics is brought up. They are welcomed as candidates, as a continuation of village craziness and stubborn oddballity. There is a new generation, my aunt observes with an easy-going, pleased smile, her arms relaxedly stretched behind her neck. Be calm! There will be things to talk about in the future, too. There is a future!

We gather in my aunt's house. Upon seeing uncle B, my father declares: "This might be the only winter we get." He tries to appear manly, cheerful. They talk about the sloping economy in the same tone. The sobriety with which comings and goings, ups and downs, turns and twists, the good and the bad, is acknowledged. As always on these occasions, my father wears his purple-brown party pullover. The crowd is held back by a slightly anxious atmosphere, an atmosphere of suspense. We wait for aunt A to bring the coffee. Coffee & cake have a pacifying effect on us all.

At some point, L the dog makes his dignified appearance. L goes to sleep by the feet of his mistress. L is brown and black, white neck. A bit podgy, but that only adds to his dignity and joviality. L owns the room. "Who let him in?" my aunt angrily inquires, as she offers us another round of delicious coffee. When I was a kid, I hung out at my cousin's place, reigned by Rex the dog. My aunt never liked the dog. Ghost!, she hollered at him while he slinked away towards the door. I didn't like him either. I was scared of him.

Uncle Bs mother, E., is 82 years old. In good shape. When she sees us, she exclaims that this is the only time she ever gets to meet us. She smiles cordially and her ladylike necklace glows around her neck. We nod. That's the only exchange we have during the occasion, and the same thing will happen next year. The year after that. E's husband passed away a few years ago. He was a man following his own paths. He shot crows for sport. I don't know what he did for a living.
Maybe he was a sailor.

I stare into the ligths of the christmas tree and the 80's wallpaper, a massive sunset artificially romanticizing the room. I suddenly remember the bomb shelter under the house in which my cousin and I used to play. To climb down to there you had to open a secret hatch that was hidden in a closet, almost like in an Enid Blython mystery story. It was dark and clammy in there. It was hard to breathe. As a kid, I loved that place.

My father and the other men slouching on the sofa - there has always been a gender dyad, cutting through the room - engage in a long conversation about raccoon dogs. There are plenty of them out here. Uncle B wonders at the acting skills of the raccoon dogs. Whenever they feel threatened, they play dead. His younger brother lends him a piece of advice. Poke the goddamn raccoon dog in the eye. Check whether it blinks.

I go for small walks. I stand by the ocean, on the bridge. The bridge rubs against the . I listen to the creaks and the wash of water upon rocks. The waves are big. A family of swans pass by. The waves lap the shore, I could listen to it all day. A tiny layer of snow covers the ground. Sun beams gleam through a thick cloud and the crispness of the air numbs my cheeks.

My high school town doesn't make me seasick anymore. There was a time I could hardly walk the streets without feeling seriously woozy. I go to see some of my old friends. One of them is pregnant. I tried to be polite (I repressed the question: why future generations?). My other friend got herself a guinea pig. She talked about the wheel that enchants the guinea pig, then she goes on to bemoan her own.

At night, teenybop spectres make my head their home while bulldozers ravage in my stomach. I travel the time tunnel, accompanied by my grandmother's moraclock which has not left the house, even though she has. The clock tolls 2, 3, 4 and 5. I think about her. She used to smoke cigarettes hunched over the stove while I got ready for school. She made eggs and porridge. She listned to the news in Finnish. She turned to look at me with a humorous, sly expression on her face. I told her when I'd be home. She asked me to buy a few things from the store. We had a language of our own. Other people did not always understand her. There were times I had a hard time, too. I remember Gunnar Björling:

You go the/ words/ and where/ were you, it was/ I know not and/ that to your ear/ wants/ and with the eye/ just with finger