When I first arrived in Aloja after three months of language training in a nearby city, I was hosted for a few days by a well known poet, writer, and translator named Daina Avotiņa at her home in the countryside. Staying with Daina was my first exposure to the real Latvia: we drank milk straight from the cow, ate homemade caraway cheese, and slept under coarse olive green and heather yellow woolen blankets inside her old, wooden cottage. I was almost completely unintelligible at that point. I remember trying my shallow conversational skills with her family at the rustic wooden dining table; my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. As a departing gift, Daina handed me a large hunk of bacon fat from one of her farm’s pigs. I probably looked like a deer caught in headlights when I received it; I didn’t have a clue what do with it. At least I knew the words to thank her for it.

I ended up eating most of that fat throughout the following winter.  Despite – or because of – my broken Latvian and general dumb innocence as a foreigner, my downstairs neighbor Nora took it upon herself to take care of me. Which meant, that she fed me.  If I could capture my whole two years of living in Aloja, in Latvia, of my life in the Peace Corps, it would be this: getting called downstairs for dinner by Nora (“Sariņ, nac est!”) to eat mashed potatoes a la bacon fat along with a glass of fresh milk and then watching, late into the night, re-runs of Beverly Hills 90210 dubbed in Latvian. (Nora claims that she never fell asleep watching 90210 even though she had been up since 4am to milk the cows; she says she was able to watch the shows “ar vienu aci cietu,” with one eye closed.) And as the steps between Nora’s and my door became worn and more familiar, the coarse Latvian woolen blankets became warm and inviting to me and dinner was no longer complete without bacon fat.

Daina’s name came back to me some time in my second year when Nora lent me her mother-in-law’s sewing machine. It was a hand-operated black Singer from the early 1900’s, decorated with gold filigree and still a solid and smooth machine. It had survived the March 1949 deportation to Siberia with Nora’s mother-in-law and her two small boys.  One day while I was rummaging around inside a drawer of the well traveled machine (I had been fixing up my finds from the Scandinavian Humanitarian Aid clothing pop-up store, which Nora mockingly called the “Humani” or “Humpali,”),  I found a folded up, aged yellow newspaper clipping alongside some fabric and thread scraps. On it was was a poem written by Daina called “Tu jau tālāk aizvedīsi,” or “You will continue to carry.” Here is my translation. (If you are a Latvian speaker, corrections are welcome!)

We figured the poem must have been written some time in the mid to late 1980’s when it was relatively safe to publish something nationalistic (referring to this “edge” of the Soviet Union, I would surmise). It had to have been Jacis, Nora’s mother-in-law who had been deported, who put the poem in the sewing machine.  I wish I knew which newspaper it was published in and when exactly it was published; did it not raise any red flags for its nationalist message? Was it a local paper that was able to avoid national attention? Or was the content considered subtle, as it doesn’t mention Latvia specifically?

To me, the poem is so very Latvian – a paean to land, to the soil. Eschewing the German Lutheran God that only tenuously erased the ancient Latvian pagan way of life, she thanks the land for her life.  Why is the land so important? In Latvia, it is what has given most of the Latvian people their surnames: Bērziņŝ, Ozols, Kalniņš, Liepiņš, Avotiņa – birch, oak, hill, linden tree, a spring. It is what has given the natural dyes and the wool to the classical woolen blankets; it has provided the bacon fat that gives flavor to Latvians’ rustic, traditional foods; it has given the reeds that shape Latvians’ straw table coverings and wall hangings; it has provided the flowers that are given at every celebration.  This is a country where I was publicly laughed at – where I almost lost my credibility as a human being! – when I casually referred to a pine tree (“priede”) as a fir tree (“egle”). Trees are things you do not confuse in a country that highly esteems its nature and soil. No, these natural things from the land are a part of life.

This poem and translation are posted in honor of November 18th, Latvia’s Independence Day, celebrating independence from the Russian Empire in 1918. Sveiks lai dzivo!

I got shivers yesterday when I heard President Obama promise that NATO would defend the Baltic States no matter what.  Mostly, because it’s politically hard to justify such a promise, at least to those with isolationist tendencies (e.g., libertarians, CATO Institute).  Each of these three countries has a small population (Estonia at 1.3 million, Latvia at 2 million, and Lithuania at about 3 million; for reference, the population of Chicago is about 2.7 million). The countries have little strategic benefit to the U.S. with no real resources to mention (if you don’t count amber, sprats, and Skype; though Riga is a major transportation hub and port). Yet, the three little countries are independent democracies and NATO allies and were supporters of the coalition forces in Iraq, and as such they have sent and lost troops to Iraq and Afghanistan along side American and other countries’ troops. And, they are at the European doorstep to Russia.

This geographic and political situation of the Baltic countries brings to mind a catchy song by the Latvian rock band Prāta Vētra (Brainstorm), called “Starp Divām Saulēm,” (translated officially as “Among The Suns” but a more literal translation would be “Between Two Suns”). The suns to me being the many foreign powers that have driven Latvia’s fate for the last several centuries: Germans from the 13th century on, Swedes for a period, and Soviets or Russians and Europe and the West in the 20th century.   The band, lead by Renārs Kaupers, is beloved in Latvia.  The song came out while I lived in Latvia 1998-2000 and was incredibly popular. 

Lai no kādām tālēm nācis, Liekas tikko elpot sācis
Starp divām saulēm izvēlēties – Spožāko un neapdedzināties
Virs mums ir divas, divas debesis
Pa vienām ienākt, otrām atdoties,
Vienām tuvoties, no otrām – izvairīties
Virs mums ir divas, divas debesis
Un vēl virs mums ir divas zvaigznes
Zem vienas dzīvot, pēc otras ilgoties
Ja pirmā kritīs, tu priecāsies,
Bet varbūt liktenis atspēlēsies,
Virs mums ir divas zvaigznes
Lai no kādām tālēm nācis, Liekas tikko elpot sācis
Starp divām saulēm izvēlēties – Vēsāko un atveldzēties
Lai no kādām tālēm nācis, Liekas tikko elpot sācis
Starp divām saulēm izvēlēties – Mīļāko un iemīlēties

From whatever distant places you’ve come, it seems you just started breathing
Choose between the two suns – the brightest one, and don’t get burnt
There are two skies above us
Come through one, surrender to the other
Approach one, avoid the other
There are two skies above us
There are also two stars
Live under one, long for the other
If the first one falls, you celebrate
But maybe fate will retaliate
There are two stars above us
From whatever distant places you’ve come, it seems you just started breathing
Choose between the two suns – the coolest one and get refreshed
From whatever distant places you’ve come, it seems you just started breathing
Choose between the two suns – the loveliest, and fall in love

*I looked at a Russian translation of the song (“Между двух солнц”) to check my work, and “lai” was translated as “неважно,” which led me to use “whatever.” Otherwise “lai” could be “be it” or “let” or “in order to” or “so that,” etc.

The first line is haunting: it makes me think of Latvia’s brief taste of independence between the two world wars, after Latvians had gained independence from the Russian Empire on November 18th, 1918.  Democracy and the economy struggled but grew, while land, for centuries owned by the minority Baltic German landowners who were the governing elite, was given to the Latvian peasants to farm. The country lasted like this for barely a couple of decades before being consumed and corrupted by the anxiety preceding World War Two and the world economic crisis.  In August of 1939 the Russian-German Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact relegated the Baltic states to the Soviet sphere. By June 1940, Soviet troops occupied the country; within a month, fraudulent elections declaring new Communist leadership led to the country’s assimilation into the Soviet Union as a republic.  By the end of 1941, the Soviets had deported, mostly to Siberia, 35,000 Latvians (including minority citizens such as Jews, Germans, Russians) who were accused of being Anti-Soviet.  But there was more: By July 1941, Nazi Germans occupied Riga; then, the killing of Jews started – 85,000 in Latvia by the end of the war. The Soviet Union won back the country in the fall of 1944. 

Despite the violence, by the end of the song Kaupers calls for choosing the loveliest, the sweetest sun and falling in love with it (iemīlēties; no subtle dipthongs here, but instead: ee-ye-mee-lay-tee-yes, he croons again and again).  And who knows? Maybe the song doesn’t have to be so literally about politics and being bandied back and forth between two heavyweight neighbors;  maybe it’s about the beauty found in choosing between two divergent paths.  A bit of Frost’s road less traveled by, perhaps, minus the nostalgia and confidence. 

*****

I’m guilty of believing that the Soviet Occupation, as awful as it was – deporting and imprisoning and killing so many, trying to wipe out a people’s language and culture and self-expression and voice, destroying an economy and democracy – is also responsible for helping preserve one of the Baltic States’ greatest treasures: their skilled, creative, expressive, artistic knitting.  Today, people still knit, but there isn’t the absolute necessity.  I really, really don’t want to romanticize this, and I see that I am on the verge of it here; instead, I mean to point out that knitting was a source of national and personal expression by thousands of Balts, which, in turn, I believe helped them hold onto a bit of their national identity during the Soviet Occupation. Knitting mittens and hats and sock in their town’s particular style or colors or designs was a small, somewhat safe way of expressing self and nationality in an oppressive police state.  (I say “somewhat safe” because of a story from one of my former school students in Latvia: her father’s mother had knit two hats in the colors of the Latvian flag for her two sons; it was only a matter of time before the one brother called from the police station, caught for expressing nationalism, to warn his little brother not to wear the other hat.) 

Not only could knitting be an expression of nationalism, but a personal expression too, an expression of beauty and creativity and vanity and self. The communist, authoritarian state did not promote these values. It was hard to find a really beautifully made sweater in the Soviet Union. If you did, after waiting in a long line to purchase it you would probably end up finding it being worn by someone else with better connections. Instead, many people in the Baltic states used skills they had learned over the past centuries from the Baltic German landowners, and they knit for themselves. Keep in mind, these are countries that are obsessed with flowers and beauty: at almost every celebration people give flowers, and during the Soviet Union it was the Baltic republics that supplied Moscow and St. Petersburg with flowers, not the more southern republics with warmer climates.  

Meanwhile, during this same period in the 1950’s-1990’s in Capitalist Western European countries, knitting became a hobby, a fringe of society in consumerist economies that easily provided affordable, beautiful sweaters.  I don’t want to disparage knitting as a hobby either. I am a hobby knitter myself and I love how knitting has become more popular in the last decade or so.  The patterns I see in Interweave and Vogue Knitting and Ravelry are inspiring and energizing. Knitting for yourself and your family is not a necessity though, and don’t they say that necessity is the mother of invention? When I lived in Latvia about ten years after it regained independence, I was overwhelmed by the expression and abundance of hand-knitted things among my friends and even my youngest students. I can still see one of my 4th graders, Kristina, swiftly knitting up elaborate pieces in between lessons. Granted, I also remember hearing friends squawk when they’d rather be doing something else. Here, I’m thinking of my wonderful friend and neighbor Nora who supposedly begrudgingly knitted and darned socks for her husband Morris.  And in some cases, I had to agree: I’d rather be outside picking plums or black currants with Nora on a beautiful Latvian summer day and drinking sour birch juice, or watching re-runs of our favorite episodes of Beverly Hills 90210, or drinking strong coffee and Finnish chocolate together.  Of course, we did plenty of that too.  Enough to gear us up for more knitting, I suppose. 

That’s “Good day!” in Finnish. Growing up in my small hometown in northern Minnesota, Finnish influence was a quiet but certain presence in our lives: our neighbors took saunas, in school we celebrated St. Urho for driving the grasshoppers out of Finland, we told Finnish jokes, and our Finnish-heritage teachers made us learn how to spell their sharp, rolling long last names (can you spell Koskiniemi?). Even though it was a small town in the woods – population 2,976 when I graduated high school, and a two-hour drive from the closest city, Fargo-Moorehead – it fortunately happened to be home to a sweet little Finnish imports store, “Irene’s Favorite Things,” which was and still is housed in the back of Harvala’s Appliances (“The Wild Finlander!”, Irene’s husband).

My mother often admired and sometimes collected the store’s Iittala glass and ceramics, all clean lines and radiance and modernity from the famous Finnish company. Iittala made modern, glass tableware, bold and unusual creations from the 1970’s and earlier. Their designs were a far cry from the folksy, romantic floral Scandinavian design that my mom grew up with on the farm. They were also a refreshing contrast with American country designs.  When I went into Irene’s Favorite Things this summer, though, I saw a new look to the Ittala designs that seemed to bring all of those different styles together. Naturally, they used knitting to do it!  This is not the edgy, modern Iittala glassware that I remember from the 80’s and 90’s. This is still elegant but it is more folksy, and a nod to the traditional and the hand-made.

Looking at their whole line of designs you can see their inspiration in folklore and nature. This knit-themed series, called Sarjaton, according to the Iittala website, is “Shaped by tradition, tailored for today.” The red clay cup is called “Letti,” or braid, and the other cup is “Tikki,” or stitch.  The other design in this series is called “Metsä,” or woods. I like what one of the design teams said about these choices: “We collected rustic material and for half a year we examined textiles and abstracts.” (All of you knitting & textile enthusiasts, wouldn’t you love to do that for your job?) “Metsä” is particularly interesting to me: at first I thought it looked like stitches, but when I saw the translation of the name, I could see the pine trees instead (click on the Sarjaton link and you can see this design). The knit stitches mimic the pine trees.

The Iittala designers write further:  “Embossed patterns based on traditional basket braids, embroidery motifs and the forest that covers half of Finland, deliver a handcrafted feeling that invites you to touch. While modern life has made us crave for an authentic feeling, the Sarjaton collection takes us back to the way things were made before. The real way.” (My emphasis.) Is this not a craving we have when we knit? To know and feel how something real is made by your own two hands. Not only that, though, this series accepts and honors the home-made effect. Even the images on the “Tikki” cup, pictured in red clay, above, show the slight imperfections in hand-knitting, the rows being slightly uneven and inconsistent.

Well, it wasn’t only in my hometown’s lovely Finnish imports store where I saw knitting in porcelain. On my way  through Minneapolis, I found these cups in the American Swedish Institute gift store:

These cups are made by Menu, a Danish company that sells on Amazon, Walmart, etc.. They’ve latched on to the knitting trend too, though not in such a rustic way. The Menu company writes: “Nordic Wool is a thermo cup inspired by the highly fashionable patterns known from Nordic knits. The knit sweaters were hot in the 70s but are again must-haves from several fashion houses this season, and now for the first time the knit patterns make their entrance on cool thermo cups.”

Either way, whether you choose home-made authenticity or fashion spin-offs, to knit by the fire with a knitted cup beside you (especially one with lovely stitch definition) would be the ultimate in getting into the knitting mood.  A knitted cozy for the cup would certainly be appropriate; possibly a knitted coaster as well? Inspiration certainly abounds.