The following blog entry has been republished here courtesy of Itching for Eestimaa. Part two of this entry can be read here.
Onu Leo gave up the ghost on Halloween. 80 years old. For years he’d been in and out of hospitals. And yet when I met him last year, the only time I actually met him, he was in good spirits. He was born in the year of a great global financial crisis and he died in the year of a great global financial crisis. But it probably didn’t faze him. These old Estonians don’t worry themselves with the world. They are simply content. They are content to eat and drink and read and sleep and wake and live. I envy them.
The funeral took place at a wooded grove in the outskirts of Tartumaa. Tall pines reach up into the heavens there. Small, modest stones mark the graves of the departed. Even in this weather, Leo had an outdoor funeral. He was laid out in a small, half-open stone house. Relatives and friends gathered around and sang songs about candles and angels and heaven. There was a long speech about Leo’s life. He was a good worker. An industrious man. I didn’t know how to feel there. Another person I know is dead. Leo’s granddaughter cried though. She sobbed. She really loved the guy.
I envied her expression of emotion. When my grandfather dropped dead almost 14 years ago, I didn’t shed a tear. Not one drop. I was numb during the whole thing and felt like a real %*#@! because of it. I wish I could have been like Leo’s granddaughter, open about my feelings. But for some reason, I feel uncomfortable at funerals. Maybe it’s the lousy music.
Still, as I watched Onu Leo’s relatives cry, my eyes moistened, and my mood turned somber. I thought about how Leo was someone’s son, brother, father, and grandfather. I thought about how, 80 years from now, towards the end of this century, people will be gathering around to say goodbye to the babies of today. I decided that there was still a bit of humanity left in me after all.
The pallbearers bore Leo’s coffin to his final place of rest, below a giant pine. After he was lowered in, and a few more songs were sung, the vicar invited able-bodied men to grab a shovel and finish the job. I was surprised, but accepted the offer. Six or so shovels lay beside mounds of dirt. I grabbed one, and we began to fill in the hole. When dirt hits a coffin, it makes an uncomfortable “thwumpf” sound. After the coffin was covered though, we began to fill the gaping hole in the earth at a rapid pace. I was thinking of Siberia while I was doing it, how men like Leo’s father, Aleksander, who spent 10 years in that rotten Russian hellhole, must have felt as they worked with others to move soil. And I liked the feeling. It felt right. I felt as if, even though I had only known Leo for one day, I was doing him a favor. It was up to us to tuck him into eternal rest.
The reception was held at a nearby hotel. We sat at a long table, and shot glasses were filled with vodka. Then Leo’s oldest son stood and thanked everyone and lifted his glass in memory of his father, for whom a seat was left empty at the table. The funny thing about Leo is that his father was Russian and his wife was an Ingrian Finn. So these people are actually only one-quarter Estonian, and yet their language, their customs, everything about them follows the description of classical Estonian literature. Whenever I hear the term “ethnic Estonian,” I chuckle and think of families like these.
Estonian parties are dreadfully predictable. At first, nobody talks. No one. After some alcohol is consumed, there will be some light chatter. That’s it. And then comes the dreadfully predictable food. What will it be this time? I asked myself. Pork and potatoes or potatoes and pork? But those schnitzels were delicious. And the sauerkraut? It hit the spot. Of course, afterward, when my belt was about to burst, they brought out the kringel, covered with chocolate and laden with raisins. I ate some of that, too. By this time, conversations approached what I considered to be a normal volume. Yeah, you can really get fat in Estonia. All the more reason to have a gym membership.
After dessert, Leo’s son approached me and gripped my hand.
“Do they do it different in America?” he asked.
“How did you know I’m from America?”
“I know,” Leo’s son grinned but didn’t let go of my hand.
“I’ve never done any digging before,” I mustered. “And, of course, the songs are different.”
“We should get together some other time, in happier circumstances,” Leo’s son tightened his grip. “We can have a drink and go to sauna.”
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