Now and Then: A journey to mark 'Old Ones'

I just got back from a car trip to the West Coast. My cousin Kaija Kivimaki from Finland, my sister Denise, and my cousin Patsey Koivisto VanderVeer from Floodwood went with me on a mission to bring a headstone for my great-grandfather's grave in Washtucna, Washington.

The headstone came from a granite boulder I found in a wooded part of my Automba property. I had it cut in half and an inscription put on each section. One half of the stone was marked "Emil Riitijoki Reed, Ita Aure, Finland, 1884-1918."

Emil came to the U.S. in about 1906 and ended up working on the Iron Range and later Crosby during the development of the Cuyuna iron ore mines. I learned Emil was married to Laina and had at least two children. He died in the flu epidemic in the fall of 1918. Laina remarried, but no stone had marked Emil's grave until I placed one there some 10 years ago.

The other half of the stone was marked "Jon Vapola Jarvenpaa, Left from Lohtaja, Finland 1885, 1870-1908." That stone sat on my front house deck for almost 10 years until it made the trip to Jon's grave site this month. Using such a stone seemed fitting because he was known as a skilled stone mason.

Jon Jarvenpaa was father to my grandma Edna Reed, who was one of six children to reach adulthood. Jon had married Kaisa Sophia Jokimaki in 1890 and within a short time had an 80-acre homestead in Automba Township.

He worked all over the Great Lakes region - in upper Michigan, Hibbing, the log drives along the West Branch and Dead Moose rivers in the Automba area, and was an operating engineer. Family lore said he was the foreman for the explosives and diamond drillers during the construction of the Thomson Dam.

His lifestyle led to a troubled home life. Grandma Edna said she could remember the home of her childhood was filled with drinking, card playing and accordion music. She could not, I might add, tolerate those things the rest of her life. I remember we tried to not offend her with that type of behavior.

A break

In 1908, Grandma's mother had enough, and took baby Erick and left, eventually settling on the Iron Range. Jon decided to go West for a fresh start. He took the oldest boy, Arthur, and got as far as the Lantz post office area southeast of Ritzville, Washington, bought 80 acres on Cow Creek, and died there in the fall of 1908 after drinking wood alcohol.

Jon's problems followed him. Art came home and said that his drinking buddies fed him the wood alcohol, claimed all his possessions, and said he committed suicide. The suicide verdict was questioned on his death certificate. Jon was buried in a pauper's grave in what was then called the Odd Fellows Cemetery in Washtucna.

Art was put on a train for Minnesota with no funds and said he almost starved to death on the way back. He got back to the farm in Automba and said no one needed to go anywhere in fear of Jon returning. The old man was dead. My grandma, then 11 years old, said she would run the household and sent the two oldest boys out to work in the logging camps.

Grandma Edna's mother never came back to take care of her children. That decision left a wall of coldness between Grandma and her mother for the rest of Kaisa's life. A set of elderly grandparents lived a half-mile away and provided some safety for the children.

The years went by and in the 1950s my grandparents tried to find Jon's grave. They were unsuccessful. Finally, with the help of the internet, I found his burial site in the Pioneer Cemetery, on a hill overlooking Washtucna, a small town of 200 people and few remaining businesses. The surrounding area was covered with farmland fields of winter wheat, canola, and crops grown using irrigation when water is available. The farmers are successful and support a combination grade school/high school of around 100 children.

I tried to organize a trip there for several years. Now the deed was done - the first time a family member had been at Jon's grave site in 115 years.

Our group of four spent two days in Ritzville, which happens to be the site of the courthouse. Through contacts there and at the helpful public library, I found the neighborhood and the site where Jon died. I will make another trip there to explore and use what I have since learned.

Placement

How do you place a grave marker at a place you have never been? The sexton put us in touch with the man who does burials and gets the grass cut. Jon was buried in the paupers' section surrounded by a carpet of grass and no other stones. The cemetery register listed other burials that were the result of suicide or unknown causes.

The caretaker agreed to mix and pour the concrete, locate the grave, and install the stone. The 300-pound-plus stone needed to be lifted out of the car. At 74, I was of little help. With assistance, my grandson Carl had put the stone in the car.

In this land of many grain elevators, I found a foreman and his helper who happened to be in Washtucna. On their lunch break, they drove up to the cemetery and lifted the rock close to the grave site. The foreman said he had been in Washtucna hundreds of times and didn't know there was a cemetery on the bluff. They thanked me for asking to be part of this adventure and would not take payment despite how hard I insisted.

Kaija and I drove back to Ritzville to get seven sacks of Sakrete and showed up just five minutes before the caretaker and his son arrived. It was so hot I thought we were in a sauna taking steam.

The 'Old Ones'

I kept my thoughts to myself. I could sense the Old Ones were there with us, with Grandma Edna finally there with her father Jon. It made me smile. I could feel them smiling.

From an original play I wrote entitled, "When we come to cut the grass," I thought of the lines the old grandma says to her grandson Tatu as they are cleaning the family grave site:

Grandma: You know I feel them here. The Old Ones, some standing, some sitting on the headstones. My Mother watches over me ....

Tatu: Should I be afraid?

Grandma: Afraid - I don't think so. This is just a stop. This is not the end. They do not lay down here to stay. I think we go to that big popple forest in the sky where the thunder rolls and the aurora dances. What we can touch is brought here to bury and mark. From here the real person travels on.

Tatu: What is the real person?

Grandma: It is that flicker in the eyes while we circle the campfire.

Dan Reed is a freelance writer and local historian who lives in Automba Township, where both sides of his family settled 130 years ago. He's seen a lot and heard lots of stories.