TWO RATHER
ELDERLY LADIES

I met Kerttu Raty Barnett, an elderly Finnish widow, after a move from California to upstate New York. Keen to continue dreamwork, I joined a group at the Center for Symbolic Studies at Stone Mountain Farm in New Paltz, New York where she was a treasured member. Kerttu and I developed a friendship over a period of 11 years. A friendship unlike any I have ever experienced. 

       In addition to Kerttu’s interest in the dreamworld, she was an elegant storyteller, something that seems innate to the Finns. During the long northern winters, when snow reached the roofs of their houses and darkness was a constant embrace, imaginations soared as family and friends gathered for epic spells of storytelling. 

       Kerttu had daughters; however, she chose to live in a retirement center to discover what she might learn by living with a variety of seniors. I was struck by her bold thinking. I also admired her bravery. I couldn’t imagine making the same choice. 

       Members of the dream group provided transportation for Kerttu, and I joined the cadre. The drive took about 45 minutes, mostly along winding country roads. I got lost when I was by myself. When Kerttu was in the passenger seat, she gently steered me in the right direction.

       “How do you know these roads so well?” I asked.

       “I worked for Ulster County Office for the Aging for many years and drove all the county roads.”  Surprised, I quickly learned to trust her spot-on directions.

       Over time I also learned that her family had fled a Russian invasion when she was a small child. Time collapsed as the refugees hurriedly left their home, carrying what possessions they could. Kerttu chose a story book that was a foundational part of her small collection of possessions. When she shared it with me, I sensed the trauma of the moment and the deep meaning her book carried. 

       Kerttu’s loss was deepened when her brother died during the war, convincing her to become a lifelong pacifist and eventually a Quaker. She migrated to the United States where she earned a degree in social work and became an American citizen. Her deep love of Finnish culture inspired her to maintain Finnish citizenship until she died at the age of 96 in 2018. At that time, I was 80 years old.

       On a special occasion at the center, Kerttu and others shared the fantastic Finnish national epic told in the Kalevala, a compilation of poems that was sung by a peasant duo, usually accompanied by a harp player. The main thread of the story is thus: Blacksmith Ilmarinen forged a Sampo, a magical mill, to produce flour, salt, money, puddings, love or anything one wished for. The wicked witch, Louhi, stole the Sampo, and Ilmarinen and shaman Väinämöinen pursued her to reclaim the magic mill. Unfortunately, the Sampo was destroyed in the battle, though some say sparks of it remain in the world and engender prosperity.

       When Kerttu’s health declined, she spent her last years at The Baptist Home, and our visits were more limited. I was not entirely surprised when Kerttu suggested we write a story together. She would send a beginning to me, and I would add a section before returning the work-in-progress to her. When I probed her for how long it would take to complete the story or what its theme and length would be, she would mysteriously say, “Let’s try, see what happens.” 

       So we began. Her first paragraph catapulted me out of any idea that this project would be boring. Her beginning verse:

​

              Two rather elderly ladies sit on a large rock

              on the mountain side, their faces smeared

              with melting butter and covered with crumbs

              fallen from their lunch Bengali bagels.
 

       Kerttu’s Bengali bagels became my Bengali tigers. 

              Lo! A Bengali tiger comes to claim

              her buttered crumbs, licks their faces clean.
              She says she will be back for dinner
              and bring her friend. Oh, my!

Our writing activity continued in fits and starts, despite the fact that Kerttu was suffering from Parkinson’s Disease. Just as we never talked about our writing intentions, we never discussed what we had written. I don’t know what the content of Kerttu’s heart and mind was when she wrote. I do know that my intention was to respond to whatever she wrote without thought for what we were creating. 

       Did we write an allegory about death?  Is there significance in our magical tiger escapes  or our magician who wanted to coerce the women into marrying him? And, what of the symbolism of the mysterious weeding tools hidden in the women’s apron pockets? 

       Eventually, the storytelling stopped when it was her turn to write the next section. When I visited, I would remind her she was due for another segment of the story. She dropped into a world of silence. She seemed not to remember the writing project. 

       Depressed, I ended my visits. I felt helpless and rejected.  Now in my eighties, I understand the inward turning which isn’t necessarily an outward rejection of life. 

       Months later, I ran into a mutual friend who mentioned Kerttu in a past tense. Jolted, I caught my breath, said, “Did Kerttu pass?” 

       “Yes, she did.”

       I was slammed with guilt at my cowardice for abandoning Kerttu. I was also hurt that I had not been informed of her death or invited to her funeral. I shared how difficult my last visits had been and asked how my friend had spent time with Kerttu before she died.

       “I pushed her wheelchair outdoors, held her hand. We sat in silence.”

       My heart tore at the idea that I never thought of taking her outside when she loved and respected the natural world. She didn’t like to be touched, so holding her hand was never in my ken. 

       Some scholars say that the Sampo is the world tree or axis mundi around which the heavens revolve, the source of good. Kerttu was a human Sampo, gifting love wherever she wandered. She spoke little about her life, and I only learned from her obituary that she was an “activist for peace, social justice, and environmental stewardship.” 

       I knew little about her larger efforts; however, I saw how she lived her principles in small ways. When she was gifted with cut flowers, she graciously gave thanks and then slipped in that she preferred plants. The kitchen served a spread other than butter, an unimaginable thing for a Finn, so she bought her own. Kerttu spoke up to express her needs, was equally willing to listen to, and even encouraged them to say what was necessary.

       Our friendship had an amorphous quality to it, yet was bound by kindred souls who were aging, beginning to think about death. When I asked Kerttu what she thought would happen at the end of her life, she said, “I want to spend each day being here.” I, the uber-planner, let that idea sink into my consciousness. 

       Another time, she said, “I like drawing pictures in the dust on my furniture.” A smile flitted across her face before she added, “It upsets the housekeeper.”  I was mystified by her tale and my bifurcated mind. I understood Kerttu’s playfulness, her immediate joy. I also understood the housekeeper’s consternation. Kerttu’s words helped me confront my need to please others more than myself. 

       I don’t know where our story would have led, had we kept on writing. I do know that our friendship—and our writing—suspended us from the mundane and immersed us in the world of the imagination. We were nourished in our being, released from doing. 

       Like the Sampo, our storytelling brought magic into our lives. And, as in our story— and all life—there is no end, only the next adventure.  

       Kerttu and I met perchance one fine day long ago. Our poem follows.

​