One set of my father’s grandparents immigrated to Michigan from Finland. Hendry was born in 1868 and arrived in the U.S. in 1888. Olga was born in 1878 and arrived in the U.S. in 1897. Family lore always maintained that they met on the ship on their way to the U.S. Like so many family stories this one was obviously incorrect. In any case they both immigrated and ended up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Michigan’s U.P. was the destination for many immigrants, especially the Finns. They came to work in the copper mines that were very active during that time. In appearance and climate the U.P. was probably much like the homeland they left behind.
Eventually the copper mines began closing and families moved on in hopes of finding work elsewhere. Hendry and Olga moved their family to Detroit and Hendry found work in one of the many booming automobile factories. They settled into a Finnish neighborhood in Northeast Detroit in about 1920. Like so many other ethnic neighborhoods this one had Finnish stores, Finnish churches, Finnish social clubs and, of course, a Finnish-language newspaper. Once again they probably felt very much at home. I’m told that Hendry was quite a tyrant and would not allow English to be spoken at home. So while he learned English to get along at work, and the children learned English at school, Olga never did. My father was the oldest grandchild and learned a few Finnish phrases from his grandfather and uncles. Most of the phrases were not acceptable in polite company but my father delighted in passing them along to my sister and me. My grandmother and mother were horrified. I still remember them.
In 1940 Hendry was killed by a hit-and-run driver while walking home one night. My father always maintained that Hendry was coming home late from the bar. My grandmother bristled at this idea and said Hendry was coming home from work. But the fact remaina that he died and Olga was left at home with her youngest son.
Fast forward to the 1950′s. My family lived in a suburb about a half-hour’s drive from Olga. We would occasionally go to visit her at her home. By then the strong Finnish immigrant influence in the neighborhood had begun to wane but it was still a nice area full of the small, well-maintained homes of hard working, blue collar families. I remember sitting on the front porch and seeing the horse-drawn milk wagon come down the street … even in the 1950′s! When we visited Great-Grandma my father would disappear into the kitchen with whichever male relatives were available. They played cards and drank and argued about anything and everything. The Finns were stubborn and opinionated and a good argument was always welcome. Family grudges were carried on from one generation to the next.
That left my mother, my sister and me to visit with Great-Grandma. My mother was a transplanted Southern Belle, totally unfamiliar with the ethnic atmosphere that surrounded this branch of the family. Her ancestors had immigrated many generations in the past and any ties to “the old country” were not even a distant memory. But Mother was a real lady and did her best to make our visits pleasant for all. Great-Grandma was truly “old country”. I remember her wearing print house dresses, thick support hose and sturdy, low-heeled shoes. Her hair was tightly pulled back into an old fashioned bun and her face was devoid of any type of makeup. She had a small television in her tiny living room and we would sit and watch whatever was on, while smiling and nodding at each other. I can remember her patting my hand as I sat next to her on the couch and at the end of our visit she would kiss us, smile, and say “Come again”. Of course now I wish I had asked questions, shown some interest in her life, tried harder. But I was just a child and to me, I’m sorry to admit, she was just an old-fashioned old woman. She died when I was 14. In recent years I’ve done quite a bit of family research and learned much about the family that I’m certain my father never knew. That will be a subject for another time.
A couple of years ago my sister, daughter and I decided to see if we could find Great-Grandma’s old house. I knew the address and approximately where the street was located. The years have not been kind to the old Detroit neighborhoods and I was well aware of this. But for whatever reason we threw caution to the wind and decided to give it a go. What a mistake! I had Googled a satellite map of the area and knew that the streets in that neighborhood were pretty much a vast wasteland … almost an urban prairie. But to see it up close and personal was another story. We turned down the street and were horrified to see that at least 90% of the houses were gone and those that were still standing were in extremely bad shape. Urban decay at it’s worst! And dangerous … we were fools to drive through there, even in broad daylight. My husband was furious when I told him about our adventure, and rightly so. A friend who is a retired Detroit Police officer told me he wouldn’t go into that area even armed. So chalk that up to another stupid thing I’ve done during my lifetime.
It makes me sad to think of all the families who lived and worked in those neighborhoods and how vibrant they once were. It was a working-man’s neighborhood that is now, to be honest, shot to hell. I wonder what my great-grandparents would think if they were suddenly to reappear there today. Still the visits to Great-Grandma, and the old neighborhood, remain in my mind. The times are gone but not forgotten. I guess that’s at least something.
