Rayne E. Golay's Blog

Psychotherapist, drug and alcohol counselor, author of “Life Is A Foreign Language” and the award winning novel “The Wooden Chair,” Rayne E. Golay tells parents who suspect alcohol is getting the better of them to consider these questions: Have you had the morning after drink? Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble? Does your drinking cause problems at home? Do you tell yourself you can stop any time you want although you keep getting drunk? Have you neglected your duties because of drinking? Has anybody suggested you should stop drinking? If you answer "Yes" to any of these questions, alcohol may be a problem in your life.

During my many years as an addictions counselor, I’ve worked with a large number of alcoholics. They all have one misconception in common; they have the firm belief their drinking doesn’t affect anybody else. Countless times, I heard them say, “I only hurt myself.” There is a great deal of research to prove that this is not true. Alcoholism is said to be a family disease because everybody in the family system is as sick as the alcoholic. The alcoholic’s behavior and mood affect every family member as well as coworkers and friends. As alcoholism is a chronic, progressive and fatal if left untreated, it is not to be taken lightly.

The most vulnerable to the effects of an alcoholic parent are the children. The parent is the child’s first and foremost role model. When this role model dysfunctions, the effects on the child are painful to experience, heartbreaking to witness, and have far-reaching consequences. These effects may last a lifetime. The child ends up having deep-seated psychological and emotional problems. The hazardous consequences of parental alcoholism are very similar to the effects of child abuse and neglect, which are evident in my award winning novel “The Wooden Chair.” In this book, my protagonist, Leini struggles as a victim of her mother Mira’s abuse and neglect while she also suffers from Mira’s alcoholic drinking.

Not all children react to parental alcoholism in the same way. Most of them don’t know what “normal” is. They live in an insecure and unstable environment, and don’t experience a normal family relationship. Because the alcoholic parent’s behavior is unpredictable, terrifying, destabilizing, the child learns to avoid bringing friends home, not knowing if they will be met with a welcoming smile, harsh words or worse.

In my novel “The Wooden Chair,” Leini, typical of the child of an alcoholic, hasn’t learned how to have fun. In the alcoholic home, so many birthdays, holidays and family events have been ruined because the drinking parent got drunk, became argumentative, querulous and outright mean. The child is filled with shame of the parent who passes out at the dinner table, and soon learns it’s safer not to bring friends home. The family’s dysfunction becomes the heavy secret the child carries.

Most likely the child didn’t see expressions of tenderness and affection between the parents, didn’t experience it for him- or herself. Consequently, this child has trouble with intimate relationships as an adult.

Like Leini in “The Wooden Chair,” children growing up with an alcoholic parent have huge trust issues. Parents are the individuals who normally would not lie, break promises, keep secrets, but when they do, the child soon learns to be distrustful. If they cannot trust the most significant persons in their lives, how can they trust anybody going forward?

In the home with an alcoholic parent, a lot of arguing, shouting, fighting is going on in part because the parents are very angry. The child becomes skilled in recognizing an angry person, is afraid of angry people because the anger may turn on the child, resulting in both emotional and physical hurt and suffering. Having experienced disruption, arguments and fights growing up, as an adult, the child gravitates toward partners with similar behavior as the parent. The adult child of an alcoholic stays in this toxic relationship in which more suffering is the daily fare.

From a very young age, the child is guilt-ridden. It’s very obvious that something is wrong with mother or father. Because of mood swings, crying, and staying in bed because the parent isn’t feeling well, the child carries a heavy sense of responsibility that the child should be able to fix what’s wrong, to make the parent well. The child also has the misguided belief that if the parent loved the child, the parent would be healthier and happier.

Because the alcoholic parent is absent most of the time, both physically and emotionally, the child feels ignored and becomes terrified of being abandoned. When Leini was four years old in “The Wooden Chair,” Mira left her alone at a busy marketplace. Leini was lucky in that a police officer came to her rescue, but not all children are this fortunate. Alone and defenseless, the child might be abducted, kidnapped, trampled by the crowd, sexually molested.

Many children who grow up in an alcoholic home believe they are different from their peers, that they are not good enough. As a consequence, they tend to avoid social situations and are inclined to isolate.

The big and so far unresolved question is whether alcoholism is a genetically predisposed disease or an acquired way of coping with stress and difficulties because that’s what the parents did. I have encountered adult children of alcoholics who are normal social drinkers. Then there are those who started drinking in their pre-teens, following a pattern of alcoholic drinking established by their grandparents and parents.

It may seem that the outlook is very bleak for the child of an alcoholic, that he or she is doomed to an unhappy, dysfunctional, miserable life. My motto as an addictions counselor is, “I alone have to do it, but I cannot do it alone.” In “The Wooden Chair,” Leini has the option of living with the emotional and psychological scars inflicted by Mira’s neglect and alcoholism. Fortunately for herself, her future husband and children, Leini decided to heal and recover through psychotherapy. There are competent counseling therapists and psychiatrists with loads of experience who can help the adult child of an alcoholic. Self-help groups like Al-Anon for the adults and Alateen for teenagers (www.Al-Anon/Alateen.org) are non profit groups whose support, love and understanding are invaluable tools to the person looking to turn his or her life around.

“The Wooden Chair” is available at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com www.store.untreedreads.com

When writing THE WOODEN CHAIR, I drew on my clinical experience as a psychotherapist. Leini, the protagonist in THE WOODEN CHAIR, suffers emotional abuse from her mother, mainly

coarse and rude attitude,
inattention and harsh criticism,
denigration of Leini’s personalityname-calling,
degradation,
inappropriate and excessive demands,
humiliation

Although I’ve read a lot about different forms of abuse, emotional abuse is the one that continues to mystify me somewhat. Some of my colleagues say that one form of abuse or another always exists when bringing up a child. If you swat your child on the rump once, it can hardly be called abuse. I’ve come to understand that the severity and frequency of a parent’s behavior doesn’t determine whether it’s abuse or not. If a parent slaps a child in the face so hard the child goes deaf, it is definitely abuse. If a parent shakes a baby so violently, brain damage and death follow, it is definitely abuse.

Mira, Leini’s mother, uses emotional blackmail to make Leini agree to a risky eye operation. Mira’s promises that if Leini is beautiful once her squinty eye has been straightened then Mira will love her. The implication is clear; Mira can’t love her own child if she’s imperfect.

When Leini is about nine years old, Mira again calls her by an ugly name. To Leini, this is once too often. For the first time in her life she dares stand up to her mother, telling Mira her name is not twerp, not brat, never to call her by these names again. From this moment for the rest of her mother’s life Leini calls her Mira.

People often ask from where the title THE WOODEN CHAIR comes. While I was planning the book, one of the working titles was The One-Eyed Girl, which is pretty terrible, I think. As I was continued writing, the title THE WOODEN CHAIR jumped off the page at me. Leini tries to cuddle on her mother’s lap, but finds it hard and uncomfortable, like the wooden chair in their kitchen. The title was right there in mother’s lap. Mira’s unwelcoming arms, her lack of response to Leini’s need for affection constitute emotional abuse. When Mira let’s slip a term of endearment “my baby,” Leini is filled with joy, but doesn’t quite believe she heard right. She asks Mira to repeat what she said. Mira says it again, but leaves out “my baby.” This wouldn’t constitute emotional abuse if it happened occasionally, but Mira speaks words of endearment more by accident, in the presence of other people to make a good impression as the caring mother, never alone with Leini. Mira withholds expressions of love and affection, thus emotionally abuses Leini. She uses blackmail to obtain what she wants Leini to do. As a mother of two now adult children, this kind of behavior makes me shudder.

As is often the case with these children, Leini grows up emotionally needy, afraid to trust people. Her courage is remarkable in that she refuses to perpetuate her mother’s behavior on her own children. Leini gives herself the means to recover from the trauma the abuse has left and to put stop the abuse with her generation.

About half of Leini’s story in THE WOODEN CHAIR takes place in Geneva. It's a thrill to take a tour of this city, home to me for most of my adult life. I raised my two children there, had a great career. Now when I go back to visit my children, granddaughter and dear friends, it’s as a tourist.

To rent a car in Geneva, is pointless because parking is very limited, expensive and hard to come by. It makes sense to avail myself of the free pass to public transportation most hotels give to their guests. The public transportation network in Geneva is excellent, trams and trolley buses get me to most places I want or need to go. Taxis are also affordable.

The hotel where I usually stay is right in the heart of city center, a spitting distance from L’Horloge Fleurie, The Flower Clock, and the lake. People call it Lake Geneva, but in fact it’s real name is Lac Léman. It’s bordered in the north by the Jura mountain range, in the south by the Salève and France. To the north is Lausanne.

My day as a tourist starts with a renversé (coffee with hot milk) and a croissant at one of the many cafés on the main street. The one I prefer is Café Martel on Rue du Marché with a variety of canapés and quiches. If I hang out at Café Martel long enough, sooner or later one or two of my friends will drop by; it’s the “in” place, any time of the day.

One street closer to the lake, on Rue du Rhone, is a panoply of the world’s luxury stores, but that will have to wait for a rainy day. Today is warm, the sun is shining, and Geneva is a city made for strolling. There are numerous lush parks with a variety of old trees. Among my favorites is Parque des Eaux Vives, a walking distance from Café Martel. I like to stroll along the quay, admire the beautiful sail boats bobbing on the waters. My sauntering takes me to the nearby Rose Park with it’s display of innumerable varieties of roses. Every June, one rose is voted the rose of the year. In fact, this tradition inspired the scene in my novel LIFE IS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE, in which Michael, my male protagonist, enters his specimen rose in a contest and goes on to win the highest nomination, Rose of Roses.

If I head back the way I came, I hop on the ferry to head over to the right bank, passage paid by my free pass. Here are some of the most luxurious hotels imaginable. I keep repeating the word “luxury,” but that’s Geneva, home of luxury. On the left bank are the luxury homes of the affluent and celebrities; on the right bank are the luxury hotels; in the city center, you have the luxury shops. On this tour of my home town, however, my next goal is the United Nations (UN), Le Palais des Nations. It’s situated in the beautiful Ariana Park with trees over a hundred years old. The city of Geneva makes the Ariana Park available to the UN for as long as UN exists. Whenever I had guests from out of town, I took them to the UN for a one hour guided tour. I have something of a weak spot for the UN and it’s history.

My stomach is growling so it must be time for lunch. The taxi drops me at Hotel Kempinski. The lift on the façade of the building affords me a splendid panoramic view of the lake, the Jet d’Eau fountain and the Mont Blanc. In the restaurant on the top floor, I ignore the proffered menu. A visit to Geneva wouldn’t be the real deal without Filets de Perches et Pomme Frittes, a local delicacy. And a glass of an open white wine, any local white will do as they usually are reliable to be palatable. No dessert for me, only an espresso.

Replete, on the quay, I wander in the direction of the Mont Blanc bridge. Weather allowing, it’s about a half hour’s brisk walk to Globus, the downtown department store. Everything in Geneva is pricy, but the wonderful perfumes, Guerlin my favorite among them, the shoes, handbags, the jewelry, in fact, everything in the store is eye candy, and that’s free. Underground, accessible by an escalator, is the most irresistible, must tempting, mouthwatering, generous display of cheeses. You can have the cakes and the ice creams and the cookies, I’ll take cheese any time. The cheese master behind the counter, shaves off a sliver of Gruyere, which melts in my mouth. He points at this cheese and that, extols their virtues, maturity, provenance. Unable to resist, I buy a piece of Tomme de Savoie, a cave aged mild but flavorful cheese from across the border in Savoie, France. It will go well with crackers and Caesar’s Bride, a flavored tea I prefer with an afternoon snack.

This is just a quick view of Geneva, as much as I can cram into one day. For the evening, my husband joins me at Café du Centre, close by the hotel. I order moules marinieres, mussels cooked in white wine with chopped shallots, garlic and parsley with baguette to dunk. My husband has raclettes, melted Raclette cheese over boiled potatoes with pickles and pearl onions.

My plan for tomorrow is a day long tour of the lake by boat. When the weather is sunny, the wind not too stiff, it’s a wonderful way of seeing some of the little towns bordering the lake; Nyon, Rolle, Morge, then over to the French side to Evian and Hermance. The thing that strikes me at every stop, is the profusion of flowers; pansies, begonias, azaleas in window and balcony boxes, in planters on the streets and all along the quay. Wherever I turn, I’m met with pristine cleanliness and an explosion of colors.

The places I still want to visit is one of the outdoor fresh markets with great produce arranged to please the eye; the flea market where, if I’m lucky, I can get a pleasing painting, Bavaria crystal objects, all at bargain prices.

There’ so much to see and experience in this city. This is but a glimpse of Geneva the beautiful.

THE WOODEN CHAIR is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble,
Untreed Reads Publishing, and more.

Chapter 1

Helsinki, May 1943

The policewoman stood on the corner of the crowded marketplace, staring at a little girl with long legs and curly toffee-blond hair. The child sang a popular German refrain with high-pitched
fervor. “Wie einst, Lili Marlene, wie einst, Lili Marlene.” (My Lili of the lamplight, my own Lili
Marlene.)

Suppressing a smile, the policewoman observed the little girl standing with feet slightly apart, hand outstretched to receive what coins the shoppers could afford. An orange cardigan
accentuated her long neck and the high cheekbones of her pale face. She kept adjusting blackrimmed glasses that slipped down her nose.

This was a mere child, at the most five years old. Is there no adult accompanying her? The
policewoman studied the crowd. The officer approached the little singer. “Are you here alone?”

A shy smile came and went on the child’s face. Her eyes, dark like bitter chocolate, were wary behind thick glasses that detracted from her prettiness. She nodded, causing her glasses to slide again.

“Where’s your mother?”

She waved in the general direction of the street. “My mamma’s there.”

The policewoman creased her brow. “Why aren’t you with your mother?”

“Mamma doesn’t want me with her.”

That’s odd.

“How old are you?”

She held up four fingers. “I’m…this old”

“You’re four years old?”

“Uh-huh. Almost five.”

“Why are you singing in the street? Does your mamma know you’re begging?”

The girl shook her head vigorously, her shoulder-length curls dancing. “I don’t beg.” She
stamped her foot. “My mamma says it’s bad to beg. I’m not bad. I sing so I get money to take the yellow tram home.”

She speaks Finnish with a slight accent, the vowels not so open. Her mother tongue is probably Swedish. She gazed into the girl’s palm. It contained two one-penny copper coins. Poor kid, she’s not going far on so little money.

“Where do you live, little girl?”

“There.” Again she waved a tiny hand toward the city center. “At the end of the yellow tram line.”

“Can you show me where you live if I take you?”

The child raised her shoulders and made a movement with her head, which might have been “yes” or “no.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mamma says not to tell strangers.”

“Your mamma is right.”

She tugged at the lapel of her uniform jacket. “I’m a policewoman,
so you can tell me.”

“I’m Leini.”

“Leini? That’s a pretty name.” The policewoman studied the small group of people drawn close by the interaction. "What’s your family name? Your second name?” she added, in case Leini didn’t understand “family name.”

The girl looked at her from under her brow, mistrust in those dark eyes. She shook her head while she played with a strand of hair, twirling it between forefinger and middle finger.

The policewoman smiled. “My name is Tuula Heinonen.”Perhaps this will help. “Now you know mine.” She cocked her head to the side. “Please tell me yours.”

A fleeting smile crossed the child’s lips, and she held out her hand to shake. “I’m Leini Ruth Bauman.”

Tuula took the slim hand and held it in her own. She searched the crowd, hoping to spot the mother.

“I have an idea,” Tuula said and pointed at a phone booth across the market square. “Let’s have a look in the phone book to see if I can find your address, so I can take you home.”

Leini gazed at her with eyes too serious for a small child. Making up her mind, she stuck her hand in Tuula’s. “Let’s.”

Adjusting her pace to Leini’s, Tuula pushed through the throng of people. Her ears caught snippets of conversations from the cacophony of Swedish, Finnish and the occasional word in Russian, mingled in with an organ grinder’s tune. She glanced at the crowd, mainly women and children, here and there an elderly man or a very young boy among them. Every able-bodied man was now defending Finland against the Russian army.

Holding the door for Leini, Tuula followed her inside the booth.

“Here’s the phonebook.”

She glanced at the girl’s upturned face.

“Now, let’s see. Bal, Bar, Bas. Ah, here.” She kept talking to reassure Leini. “Hmm. There are several Baumans.” Tuula caressed Leini’s head, the hair silky under her hand. “What’s your father’s name?”

Papi.”

Tuula laughed low in her throat. Have to try something else. “Well, there’s no ‘Papi’ listed. Does he have another name?”

“No, just Papi.”

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Mamma Mira.”

“Good girl.” She ran her finger down the column of Baumans…. Herman, Markus, Oskar,
Pertti. “There! I found it—Robert and Mira.” She gazed at Leini. “Does it sound right?”

“Uh-huh, Papi Robert and Mamma Mira.”

Tuula wrote the address on a scrap of paper and pushed open the door. “It’s not far.”

Taking Leini by the hand, she crossed the short distance to the nearby tram stop. While they waited for their transportation, Tuula gazed at the market. In between frequent bombardments by Russian planes, people gathered at the marketplace to meet friends, gossip, to break the isolation the war imposed. The abundance of fruits and berries, all the produce the short Finnish summer
afforded, was a mere memory. Shortage was part of the reality of war Tuula had grown accustomed to.

It used to be so different before the war. Vendors’ stalls then crowded the marketplace,
leaving narrow paths for shoppers. Now with the war raging, only a few stalls stood close together, which left most of the cobble-stoned space unoccupied. Instead of more than a hundred
flower and vegetable booths there were now a scant fifteen. Beggars held out their tin cups in which a penny or two rattled along with a few peas and radishes. Tuula sighed. It was all so sad.

She found the display of carrots, potatoes, turnips and red beets formed into pyramids a pleasure for the eye, but she also knew they were so arranged to create the illusion of plenitude, when in fact the merchandise was limited. The fish stands held a few Baltic herring, that was all. Again Tuula sighed. After four years of penury, she was used to doing without, like the other
inhabitants of Helsinki. Eggs, sugar and dairy products, even bread, were luxuries she preferred not to think about. Most of what the land grew, along with meat, went to the frontlines to those brave men who fought to keep their twenty-six-year-old nation free and safe.

Everybody in the marketplace was there for a reason. The same one for everyone—to learn
the latest about the Finno-Russian front and to exchange news about the war in Europe. Faces were somber, the Waffen SS’s attack on the Warsaw ghetto in April still fresh on their minds. Frequently, eyes searched the blue sky, their ears strained for the sound of the dreaded alarm that signaled yet another Russian air strike was imminent.

Tuula sat on the hard bench next to Leini as the tram wound its way along the shore, sunrays dancing on the waters of the Baltic Sea. They passed a deep crater and a heap of rubble, all that remained after Russian bombs took down a five-story building during one of their night raids.
Her thoughts wandered to the Winter War, which broke out when the Soviet Union attacked Finland in late November 1939, three months after the start of World War II. To Tuula, as to most Finns, it was a source of comfort that this attack was judged completely illegal, and the
USSR was expelled from the League of Nations. Finland fought with valor. She held out until March 1940, when she signed a peace treaty with the Soviet Union. But peace wasn’t lasting; in
June 1941 the Russians attacked again, starting the Continuation War they were now fighting.

The tram slowed. They disembarked, and Tuula found the street.
“There’s my home,” Leini said, pointing at a door boarded in wood paneling, the glass inlay shattered from the shockwave of bombs. Once inside the vast entry hall, Tuula glanced at an unmanned desk, bearing witness of times when the apartment building had a doorman. She
pushed the button to the lift.

Leini tugged at her skirt. “It’s broken. We walk.”

Tuula sighed. “You’re right, we walk.” She took Leini’s hand, and they climbed the stairs to
the fifth floor.

To the right of the stairs, Leini pointed at the door with a brass plate, “Bauman.” Tuula rang
the bell.

When the door opened, Tuula’s first impression was of a woman in her late twenties, shorter than average; the multicolored housecoat cinched at her waist couldn’t hide her flat breasts and flaring hips. Her jet-black hair, pulled off her face, revealed a high forehead with a widow’s peak, a strong jaw, and large, very dark eyes much like Leini’s. The woman’s lips, painted bright red, created a sharp contrast to her pale silken skin.

* * *

As the doorbell rang, Mira’s brow furrowed in several horizontal creases, irritation vibrant inside at being disturbed. She glanced at the meat-and-vegetable soup simmering on the stove.
After she turned off the gas and wiped her hands on a towel, she took a deep puff of her cigarette before she dropped it to smolder in an ashtray and crossed the small sitting room to the entry hall.
Mira sucked air into her lungs at the sight of the child and fought the urge to slam the door.

She glared at the woman who clutched the child’s hand. Leaning over Leini, Mira grabbed her
arm.

Leini winced and tried to pull away.

“You hopeless number,” Mira hissed. “Where have you been?”

Leini twisted her arm back and forth. “Mamma, you’re hurting me.”

Letting go of Leini, she turned to the policewoman and made a supreme effort to paste a pleasant smile on her face. “I’m Mira Bauman. Thank you for finding my daughter. She wanders away. Does it often.”

Tuula introduced herself. “Yes, she was alone, singing at the marketplace. I took it upon myself to bring her home. Your daughter is lovely.”

“You don’t know the half of it. She’s a little monster. In the company of people she’s all right. At home with me she’s quite a handful.”

The look in Tuula’s eyes told Mira that she’d said too much. Using a more pleasant tone, Mira apologized for Leini’s behavior.

“No trouble. We enjoyed her singing, but she’s much too young to be in the streets on her
own.” Smiling at Leini, Tuula bent to touch the child’s cheek with the back of her hand. “There could be a bombardment any minute. Then what would she do? She doesn’t seem to know where she lives. I looked in the phone book for your address.”

“She’d manage. She always does,” Mira said, a slight quaver in her voice. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking at the thought that, yet again, here was Leini, looking dumb as
usual with her mouth half open, those horrid glasses magnifying eyes. Her beseeching gaze and stooping shoulders only infuriated Mira more.

Struggling to keep her voice calm, tamping down a lid on her anger for now, Mira thanked Tuula for her help and dismissed the woman. She pulled the door closed with one hand while she held it back with the other not to slam it in Tuula’s face.

Mira glared at the child, this accident from the early days of her marriage to Robert. She’d planned on having children, someday—but certainly not so soon. It was too much for her to handle—the loneliness, the responsibility of Leini, food so scarce, fear of bomb attacks a constant presence. During three years of marriage, she and Robert lived together only one year.

His country claimed him, and she was saddled with this girl born on the dawn of the Winter War.

* * *
Before Leini could slink into the bedroom they shared, Mamma grabbed the back of her cardigan, yanking her into the living room. Fearing Mamma would pull her hair or pinch her ear as she sometimes did, Leini fought the urge to hide her head in her hand. She stood facing her mother, arms dangling by her sides as Mamma muttered, “You should have stayed lost.”

“But Mamma, I love you.” Leini’s throat burned from sobs she tried to hold in. “I love you, I
love you.”

Grandma Britta and Grandpa often said “I love you” to Leini. Mamma didn’t, but maybe if Leini kept saying it very often, Mamma would say the words one day.

“Well, too bad, because I don’t love you. I never wanted you.” Mamma’s hands trembled.

Now Mamma’s very angry at me.

Mamma lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke in Leini’s face, making her cough.

“Why don’t you want me, Mamma?”

“Your papi wanted you, not me.” A spray from Mamma’s mouth hit Leini in the face.

“Please, Mamma, please don’t be angry with me. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you want.”

Silent tears rolled from her eyes, leaving trickles of wetness on her cheeks. Sobbing would only make Mamma angrier, she knew. Her hand twined a strand of hair.

Mamma pulled Leini by the ear so hard she moaned. Leini whimpered as the lighted cigarette in Mamma’s hand grazed her cheek. Mamma grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard.

“Stop that whining this minute.”

Marching Leini across the living room down the short hall, Mamma opened the door to the walk-in closet. She shoved Leini inside with such force that she stumbled on the threshold and fell to her knees, cutting them on the rough cement floor inside.

“Mamma! Mamma, please don’t leave me alone here in the dark. Please turn on the light.”

Leini heard the lock click. Total darkness. For a long time she sat immobile on knees burning from the scrapes.

Slowly, very carefully, she crawled forward until her head touched the back wall. Turning,
she sat and leaned against the wall, cold and afraid. With knees pulled to her chest, arms hugging them for warmth and comfort, she rocked back and forth. She was thirsty. She was tired. She needed to pee.

After I signed the contract for the publication of THE WOODEN CHAIR with Untreed Reads Publishing, eventually I got to work on the proofs. As I edited my way through the manuscript, I was horrified that I’d used the filter word “feel” and its different tenses over and over. I made a search for it and found to my amazement there were over 200 of this pesky word in a 104,000 word novel, and so I proceeded to delete most of them.

There is the rule not to use filters, those words that are so easy to drop into my writing. Filters don’t make writing better. In fact, if filters can be the cause of a rejection, they usually are. They also keep the reader at arms length from my story.

The only time filters are okay to use is

a)when a sentence has more than one subject and it wouldn't be clear who the primary subject was without the filter;b)when any other rewrite of the sentence makes the phrasing awkward or slows the pace in such a way the filter actually reads better, or

c)when the action could be attributed to another character in a preceding or following sentence. Here the filter belongs for clarification.

Other than that, filters are not important to use. Sometimes, a better alternative eludes me at the time of writing, and I just leave it in, hoping to fix it on rewrite. And remember, too that writing in your strongest, clearest voice, is a lot more important than a few 'filters' popping up in your work. It’s like chocolate—too much at once will make your tummy hurt, but a little over time is satisfying.

So, these are the filters:

He/She felt

He/She heard

He/She saw

He/She smelled

He/She tasted

and others, like:

He/She thought

He/She believed

He/She wondered

The latter three (and others more like them) are really not as "bad" as the preceding “sensory” list. As with any general writing rule there are instances when a filter is actually needed or works better than without it—just as there are sentences where the word "was" works better than any other word.

The reason filters are considered unnecessary or bad for the story is because it keeps the writer from reaching a depth of character, and jerks the reader out of the story. For instance:

"She felt embarrassed by his lewd comments."
The writing would be stronger, and give the character more depth if I showed this rather than told it: "She recoiled and averted her face, embarrassed by his lewd comments."

In the first instance, I’m telling you about her embarrassment, in the second I show how she behaves when embarrassed.

Now, take another character, who perhaps becomes angry when she's embarrassed: “The embarrassment made her angry.” Not so good, don’t you agree? Like this it works much better: "She clenched her fists and scowled, enraged he would embarrass her with such lewd comments."

By fixing the reader deeply into the character and her/his POV, there is no need to tell she felt or she saw. The writer simply needs to show what that characters feels and sees. For instance, a character who has a background in fashion design might look at a sunset and see this: "The glowing sun cast the landscape in vermilion and gold, a combination she would use in the fall designs."

Or another character, who is a romantic at heart, might see the same scenery with the thought: "The glowing sun cast vermilion and gold over the landscape, which needed only entwined lovers to perfect the postcard imagery."

Neither of the above would have quite the same impact if the I wrote, "She saw the glowing sun cast vermilion and gold over the landscape."

Today Flashlight Commentary is pleased to welcome author Rayne Golay to discuss her latest release, The Wooden Chair.

Welcome to Flashlight Commentary, Rayne. To start things off, please tell us a bit about The Wooden Chair.
Thank you, Erin, for having me. It’s difficult to summarize THE WOODEN CHAIR in a few words, but I’ll try. The story opens Helsinki in 1942 against the backdrop of the Finno-Russian war. This is Leini’s story:

As a child, Leini stands ready to do anything to win her mother Mira’s love. This includes undergoing a risky surgery to straighten a lazy eye. If the eye is straightened, Leini will be beautiful and deserving of Mother’s love. Post-surgery, something goes terribly wrong—Leini loses sight in one eye.

Leini suffers bullying from kids her own age because of her wayward eye.

In her late teens, Leini struggles to break free of the emotional and psychological abuse Mira heaps on her. Leini leaves her doting father, loving grand-parents, and native Helsinki to study psychology at the Geneva University. In her early twenties, she meets Bill, a wonderful man. Inexperienced and innocent, she falls in love with all the fervor of somebody who’s never loved before. Ten years her senior, intuitively sensing Leini’s fragility, Bill is very protective of her. When he fails to phone her as promised, Leini rushes to conclude she cannot trust him. How could she? Her own mother, the person she has every right to expect to be able to trust, betrays her in a thousand and one ways. Leini reacts to Bill’s perceived betrayal in the only way she know, the one learned at her mother’s knee; she gets drunk. Leini’s dear no-nonsense friend Vickie helps them mend the right Together Leini and Bill go to Helsinki, where they are married.

Bill’s unconditional love and total acceptance of her sustains Leini. It gives her the strength to break the chain of abuse. Herself about to become a mother, she’s determined she will not repeat Mira’s behavior with her own children. With the help of a psychiatrist, she revisits the harrowing experiences of Mira’s maltreatment. She becomes a successful professional, a nurturing and loving mother and wife. Leini’s triumph over her past is complete when she grows from victim to victor over the trauma resulting from Mira’s emotional and psychological abuse.

Who or what inspired you to write this story? What made you feel this story needed to be told?
As a psychotherapist I worked with rape, incest and child abuse victims. Long after our professional work was over, their stories lived on with me, their unimaginable suffering haunted me. From what these people told me, I knew there were at least four persons in their lives who knew about the abuse and neglect, but didn’t say anything.

Leini prompted me to tell about her. She isn’t by far the worst of the cases I came across as a therapist, but the juxtaposition of her abusive mother with her very loving and caring father, paternal grandparents and uncle, is as commonplace as it is compelling. Leini’s doting family members are the silent witnesses. In fact, “Silent Witnesses” was the title I toyed with, but when Leini climbs on Mother’s lap to cuddle, she reflects that Mother’s lap is as hard and unwelcoming as the wooden chair in their kitchen. So there was the title, right there, in Mother’s lap.
The silent witnesses observe the abuse. Although they know the goings-on, they refrain from confronting Mira, lest by doing so they would leave Leini more exposed to Mira’s cruelty.

As a practicing alcoholic and anorexic, Mira is powerless to change her behavior. She’s as much a victim of her disease as Leini is of Mira’s maltreatment.

What research went into writing The Wooden Chair?
I didn’t need to spend too much time researching. I checked some facts about The Soviet Union’s invasion of Finland in 1939, which led to USSR being expulsed from what was then The League of Nations, now the United Nations. Fortunately, I have saved notes from my clinical work with abuse victims. They were great to fall back on to refresh my memory.

As I wrote THE WOODEN CHAIR, I hadn’t lived in Finland for many years, so I traveled to Helsinki to refresh my memory. It came as a bit of a surprise and shock that things were no longer the way I remembered them. I had to rely on old photos for local color, and my own recollections. I spent some time interviewing family members about the evacuation from the USSR bombardments of Helsinki to the north. Nobody in my family was very forthcoming to share memories from the war. Those who lived through the war years in Europe don’t want to remember the dark past.

THE WOODEN CHAIR is, of course, fiction based on a few actual events. To a great extent I’ve used my imagination and creativity to paint the pictures of Leini’s life.

Your book deals with some heavily emotional subject matter. Were you at all intimidated by weight of your material?
Yes and no. The material as such was the use of my clinical notes. As a therapist, I’d been trained to remain emotionally distant, to avoid identification with the sufferer. That part was easy.

And then Leini became a person. She became a part of me. For the time it took to write THE WOODEN CHAIR, I lived my life through Leini or Leini through me, I’m not sure which. Leini spoke to me, directed me, was by my side, a constant in my life. There were episodes in her life that were emotionally excruciating. When Mira takes away Leini’s key to the only home she’s ever known, I cried with her. When Leini’s daughter Hannele was born, I rejoiced with her, proud of her, proud to know her.

Yes, writing THE WOODEN CHAIR was difficult. It was also wonderful.

How have you enjoyed the response you've received for the book thus far?
Rayne: Any writer who receives 5-star reviews is delighted, and so am I. Soon after THE WOODEN CHAIR was published, I received a letter from Stockholm from a gentleman to thank me for having written such a beautiful story. I hadn’t expected men to read and like THE WOODEN CHAIR. So far, all reviews and comments have been very positive, which is great.

What is your favorite scene in the novel?
Oh, Erin, this is like asking which of my children I prefer
In fact, there are two scenes I like very much. The first is in the very beginning of the story, in the first chapter. The second is in Leini’s hospital room with Mira after Hannele is born. Instead of doing a poor job of summarizing these two scenes, I’ll put them up here.

Chapter 1
Helsinki, May 1942
The policewoman stood on the corner of the crowded marketplace, staring at a little girl with long legs and curly toffee blond hair. The child sang a popular German refrain with high-pitched fervor. “Wie einst, Lili Marlene, wie einst, Lili Marlene.” (My Lili of the lamplight, my own Lili Marlene).Suppressing a smile, the policewoman observed the little girl standing with feet slightly apart, hand outstretched to receive what coins the shoppers could afford. An orange cardigan accentuated her long neck and the high cheekbones of her pale face. She kept adjusting black-rimmed glasses that slipped down her nose.
This was a mere child, at the most five years old. Is there no adult accompanying her? The policewoman studied the crowd.
The officer approached the little singer. “Are you here alone?”
A shy smile came and went on the child’s face. Her eyes, dark like bitter chocolate, were wary behind thick glasses that detracted from her prettiness. She nodded, causing her glasses to slide again.
“Where’s your mother?”
She waved in the general direction of the street. “My Mamma’s there.”
The policewoman creased her brow. “Why aren’t you with your mother?”
“Mamma doesn’t want me to be with her.”
That’s odd. “How old are you?”
“I’m … this old” She held up four fingers.
“You’re four years old?”
“Uh-huh. Almost five.”
“Why are you singing in the street? Does your Mamma know you’re begging?”
The girl shook her head vigorously, shoulder length curls dancing. “I don’t beg.” She stamped her foot. “My Mamma says it’s bad to beg. I’m not bad. I sing so I get money to take the yellow tram home.”
She speaks Finnish with a slight accent, the vowels not so open. Her mother tongue is probably Swedish. She looked into the girl’s palm. It contained two one-penny copper coins. Poor kid, she’s not going far on so little money.
“Where do you live, little girl?”
“There.” Again she waived a tiny hand toward the city center. “At the end of the yellow tram line.”
“Can you show me where you live if I take you?”
The child raised her shoulders and made a movement with her head, which might have been “yes” or “no.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mamma says not to tell strangers.”
“Your Mamma is right.” She tugged at the lapel of her uniform jacket. “I’m a policewoman, so you can tell me.”
“I’m Leini.”
“Leini? That’s a pretty name.” The policewoman looked around at the small group of people drawn close by the interaction. “What’s your family name…? Your second name?” she added, in case Leini didn’t understand “family name.”
The girl looked at her from under her brow, mistrust in those dark eyes. She shook her head while she played with a strand of hair, twirling it between forefinger and middle finger.
The policewoman smiled. “My name is Tuula Heinonen.” Perhaps this will help. “Now you know mine.” She cocked her head to the side. “Please tell me yours.”
A fleeting smile crossed the child’s lips, and she held out her hand to shake. “I’m Leini Ruth Bauman.”
Tuula took the slim hand and held it in her own. She looked into the crowd, hoping to spot the mother.
“I have an idea,” Tuula said, pointing at a phone booth across the market square. “Let’s have a look in the phone book to see if I can find your address, so I can take you home.”
Leini gazed at her with eyes too serious for a small child. Making up her mind, she stuck her hand in Tuula’s. “Let’s.”
Adjusting her pace to Leini’s, Tuula pushed through the throng of people. Her ears caught snippets of conversations from the cacophony of Swedish, Finnish and the occasional word in Russian, mingled in with an organ grinder’s tune. She glanced at the crowd, mainly women and children, here and there an elderly man or a very young boy among them. Every able-bodied man was now defending Finland against the Russian army.
Holding the door for Leini, Tuula followed her inside the booth. “Here’s the book.” She glanced at the girl’s upturned face. “Now, let’s see. Bal, Bar, Bas. Ah, here.” She kept talking to reassure Leini. “Hmm. There are several Baumans.” Tuula caressed Leini’s head, the hair silky under her hand. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Papi.”
Tuula laughed low in her throat. Have to try something else. “Well, there’s no ‘Papi’ listed. Does he have another name?”
“No, just Papi.”
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Mamma Mira.”
“Good girl.” She ran her finger down the column of Baumans …. Herman, Markus, Oskar, Pertti. “There! I found it—Robert and Mira.” She gazed at Leini. “Does it sound right?”
“Uh-huh, Papi Robert and Mamma Mira.”

My heart goes out to this little girl alone on the vast market place with Russian bombardment imminent, doesn’t know how to find her way home.

This is the second scene:

Leini had finished nursing Hannele when Mira came to visit, a whiff of cloying perfume accompanying her. Handing Leini a bouquet of long stemmed roses, she gave her a peck, which landed on the pillow.
“Congratulations.” Without a glance at the bassinet, she dropped her handbag on the foot of the bed and sat. “You look fine. Not like me when you were born. After the ordeal you put me through I was half-dead.” Pivoting on the chair, she scanned the room. “So many flowers! Who sent them?”
“They’re from Bill’s and my colleagues and our friends.” To her surprise and delight, even Dr. Morgenthaler had sent an arrangement of spring flowers.
“Bill says the baby is wonderful.”
Trying in vain to catch her eye, Leini smiled. “So she is, but we may be biased.” Pointing at the bassinet. “Look for yourself.”
Mira nodded, rose and leaned over the baby. With her back turned, Leini couldn’t see her expression, wondering why she watched for so long, why she didn’t say anything. After several minutes Mira turned, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Moved by Mira’s display of emotion, Leini held a hand to her.
“She’s precious, isn’t she? Your first grandchild.”
Without taking Leini’s hand, Mira returned to the chair. She blew her nose, eyes downcast.
“Yes, she’s a dear. Don’t worry too much about her hawk-like nose. If she won’t outgrow it, which she probably won’t, she can have plastic surgery when she’s older.”
Speechless, Leini caught her breath. She stared at Mira, who fixed on a point above Leini’s head.
“What nose? There’s nothing wrong with her nose. You’re imagining things.”
Mira breast heaved from a sigh. “I know mothers are blind to their children’s faults. Your daughter’s pretty. The nose is a detail that can be fixed.”
Pulling on her dressing gown, Leini left the bed. With a couple of strides she was by Hannele’s side. Taking the baby in her arms, she turned her so the light from the window fell on her face. Staring at the tiny features, she couldn’t see anything wrong. Hannele’s small nose was straight with tiny nostrils. Leini thought it was a pretty nose.
She fixed Mira with a stare. “Show me where you see anything wrong.” Her voice was shrill, her legs wobbly.
Mira bent closer and peered at Hannele. “Oh,” she said. “It must have been the light. A shadow or something.”
Leini returned to bed, lying on the covers. Afraid to let her go, she kept Hannele in the crook of her arm. She was still trembling from the fright Mira caused. Won’t she ever let up?
“Let’s not talk about it. Just so you remember, Mira, our daughter is perfect.”
Mira shifted on the chair. “Have you decided on a name yet?”
“Sure. When we knew I was pregnant we decided to call her Hannele. We both like the name.”
Mira kept staring past Leini’s head. “After all, she is your child. Of course you give her the name you want. I’m disappointed you didn’t ask my opinion, though.”
Dizzy from disbelief, Leini shook her head. “As you say, she’s our child. We name her. I haven’t consulted with Papi either. The idea didn’t cross my mind.”
Mira’s mouth kept working as if masticating on something unsavory, the corners pulled down. “That’s the problem with you. You never think. I hoped you would name your first daughter after my mother, Rebecca.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this! “You’re being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable? Me? After everything I’ve done for you!” Mira’s raucous voice was cut off by a fit of coughing. “My mother, may she rest in peace, was an angel. I’d think it would be an honor to name your child after her.”
“I’m sure your mother was a fine woman. But she died when I was a small child. I don’t even remember her.”
“Well, maybe you’d consider calling her Rebecca as a second name. Hannele Rebecca. Doesn’t it sound nice?”
“Mira, Bill and I agreed to call her Hannele and Yvette after his mother.”
“Bill’s mother? What about my mother?”
Leini closed her eyes for an instant, nails digging into her palms in her effort to stay calm.
“Let me spell it out. Bill is Hannele’s father. His mother, had she lived, would be Hannele’s grandmother. Our daughter will be named Hannele Yvette.” Her gaze bore into Mira’s. “That’s final!”
Mira leaned closer to Leini, her face white, eyes staring, but not at Leini.
“How can you?” She spat the words. “I’ve tried to do everything in my power for you. Is this the way to treat a mother? I only ask—” Her voice rose until she was almost shouting.
Hannele started crying. Glancing at Mira, Leini spoke in a low, distinct voice. “Don’t raise your voice, Mira. This is a hospital. I’d rather you left. Hannele’s agitated. I’m upset and… Please leave.”
I’m not going to cry, not cry, not cry …
Snatching her handbag off the bed, without another word, Mira marched to the door and slammed it shut behind her.

I want to stand up and cheer for Leini. Now herself a mother, protective of her child, she finally finds the courage to stand up to Mira. I’m proud of her.

What scene posed the greatest challenges for you as an author?
Shortly after Leini returns with her grandfather from Vienna where she undergoes cosmetic surgery, Grandpa passes away. Leini’s grief after his passing was a challenge. To write a scene like this, it’s important to strike the right balance between what moves the reader and what can easily become a cheap trick to a tearjerker.

If you could sit down and talk with one of your characters, who would you choose and why?
When I finished writing THE WOODEN CHAIR, I had a period of mourning. I missed these persons who became an intimate part of my life, but with the book done I had to let go of them. I also had to allow myself a time of mourning because I missed them all. It was hard to detach myself from them, particularly Leini, of course.

The character with whom I would like to talk is without a doubt Grandma Britta. To Leini, she is the mother she doesn’t have. Grandma Britta is so warm, so feminine. I would like so ask her to tell me about Papi, what he was like before he met Mira. I would like to know what made her so wise and strong?.

What do you hope readers come away with after reading your work?
THE WOODEN CHAIR isn’t about a message to the world. I hope the readers learn that no matter how difficult the situation is, there is always a solution. Suffering and misery are optional. Anybody with the willingness to change their trajectory can do so at any time. Anybody can turn his or her life around when they are brought to the realization that they alone have to do it, but that they cannot do it alone. When they reach this point, there are lots of help resources.

I hope that Leini serves as an example of a downtrodden, visually handicapped little girl who as she grows up, becomes determined to be a different person from Mira. To do so, she learns to help herself by asking for help. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

Finally, what is next for you? Any new projects waiting in the wings?
Together with my critique partner, I’m editing my third novel, The Surviving Sister. It’s about a woman suffering from anxiety disorder with panic attacks. I’m excited about this story, but I’d rather not say more. It’s in the future, THE WOODEN CHAIR is now.

To learn more about Rayne E. Golay and her work, please visit her website, www.raynegolay.com

The Wooden Chair is available on Amazon and at Untreed Reads Publishing.

My then husband, the father my two children, was transferred from Helsinki to Geneva. He left before the children and me to look for a house. I followed with my daughter, Linda, six, and my son, Max, four. Along with heaps of luggage and the children, I also traveled with a frisky and willful boxer who answered to the name Beve.

Beve became a member of our family a few short weeks before Max was born, 23 months after Linda. Max and Beve grew up together, inseparable, one the shadow of the other.

It’s probably evident that the children would traveled with me in the cabin, but Beve had to be crated and was put in the baggage compartment. Cruel? Yes, but airlines didn't allow big dogs in the cabin, not then quite some years ago, not now.

During the flight from Helsinki to Copenhagen, where we had to change planes, Max kept asking for Beve, whining that he wanted to see his dog. As we were about to board in Copenhagen for the next leg of the flight, Max had a fit, a temper tantrum to trump all temper tantrums. He threw himself on the tarmac in front of the stairs to board the plain, kicked his legs, screamed on top of his lungs that he had to see his dog. Nothing removed him from the tarmac, least of all me with my hands full of carry on luggage, goody bags, and Linda clinging to my skirts. To my amazement, the baggage handlers accommodated this screaming little boy, brought out the crate with Beve to reassure Max that his dog was all right. Then, of course, Max wanted to travel in the box with the dog. Shortly after we were air born my angelic son screamed himself to exhaustion and fell asleep. We eventually made it to Geneva airport, all of us alive, Beve a bit groggy from the sleeping pill I’d given her before take off from Helsinki.

This was a foretaste of what life was going to be like in Geneva with two kids who, like their father, didn’t speak a word of French although they were bilingual Swedish and Finnish. My French was pretty rudimentary, but I did better than the rest of my family.

Until our house was ready for us to move in, we stayed in an apartment hotel across the street from a large square with parking space. Husband pointed to a sign that mentioned 7 pm to 6 am and some words I told him were nothing he needed to bother about. The next morning, husband stormed into our room, waiving his arms like windmills, cursing and shouting that it was my fault the car was no longer in the square. Instead of a parking lot, there was now a farmers’ market, which I learned later happened twice a week, but how was I to know the sign spelled this out; I only had three years of French in high-school. Later that morning, husband paid a heavy fine to have the car released from the pound where it had been towed.

Installed in our lovely home on the outskirts of Geneva, we enjoyed all the pleasures of residential living and city life. One of my first must-do purchases was to outfit Linda, Max and myself with swim suits. In Finland, we had our own summer place by the sea and used to skinny dip like most Finns.

The weather was gorgeous that first June we were in Geneva. The children had to be by the water as they were used to, so I packed a pick nick basket, we donned our new bathing suits and took off to a public beach. Free at last in a familiar setting, Lind and Max scampered and shouted with joy. As their little feet hit the grass, they stripped off their swim trunks and made for the water. In no time, two guards appeared, pointing, gesticulating, their eyes spewing shock and outrage. Apparently, in Switzerland, small children aren’t allowed on a public beach in their birth costumes.

Culture shock followed culture shock. On one of our walks in town, I grasped each child’s hand firmly in mine, as they were not quite used to traffic. Linda stopped to stare at an black man, and pointed. I told her it was impolite to point and stare. Never having seen a black man before, mouth gaping, she continued staring, making me cringe. My sweet innocent daughter commented that this man had spent a lot of time in the sun to be so tanned.

Little did we know that restaurants served lunch from 11 am to 2 pm. We arrived at a downtown eatery close to 1.30 pm. Max’s favorite meal was “stek, frites, salade,” a French classic of steak, French fries and salad, which he ate with gusto. We’d finished the French fries, but Max insisted he wanted more. I sighed in resigned anticipation of Max’s outburst after the waiter told us there were no more “frites” because the kitchen was now closed. Silent, Max slipped off his chair and vanished from sight. Not long after, he reappeared accompanied by the waiter, who carried a large platter of “frites.” Max spoke no French, but already at four he could charm the fur off a monkey.

On one of our walks in tow, we waited on a street corner for the traffic light to turn green for us. Next to us a gentleman spoke to his puppy dog in French, wanting her to sit. He gave his commands in a firm voice, but no pull on the leach, no tap on the behind made the puppy obey. My sweet Linda gazed at me with her chocolate brown eyes and said, “Mami, if the man spoke Swedish to the puppy she would obey.”

When growing up in Finland, I wore mid calf high rubber galoshes, a.k.a. boots. They were black or dark brown, felt lined, and left painful scuff marks on the back of my legs where the edge gnawed as I walked. They were a must in the climate where it rains most days when it doesn’t snow. It’s said about Finland that she has two winters: the white winter and the green winter. It may be a slight exaggeration, but the balmy sunny summer days are few, while it’s chilly, windy and wet too much of the time. The Nokia boots, were a must.

The Nokia footwear story begin in 1898 when a group of Finnish business men established the company Suomen Gummitehdas Oy (Finnish Rubber Works Ltd) to compete successfully with Russian imports. The factory started its activity in Helsinki. After a few years, the factory was producing high quality rubber galoshes. As production grew, the factory moved to the city of Nokia, some 120 miles north of Helsinki, and the company began to highlight the name Nokia to communicate Finnishness. Demand grew, and the boot became a utility item for the whole nation. Many eons later, the name Nokia evokes mental images for me of these boots, subsequently worn by my children. By then they came in a variety of gay colors to brighten up the gloomy days.

The period after the Second World War, boots were more and more designed for specialty footwear. At the same time, boots were increasingly designed for leisure time use.

In 1967, after long negotiations, Finnish Rubber Works Ltd merged with Finnish Cable Works Ltd and further merged with the forest and power industry company OY NOKIA AB (NOKIA CORPORATION). Nokia’s cable Works Electronics department started to conduct research into semiconductor technology in the 1960’s, the beginning of Nokia’s voyage into telecommunications.

In the early 1970’s, the majority of telephone exchanges were electro-mechanical analog switches, and Nokia began developing the digital switch. The Nokia FX 200 was born, became a success. At the same time, new legislation allowed Finnish telecommunications authorities to set up a mobile network for car phones that was connected to the public network. The result was Nordic Mobile Telephony (NMT). Opening in 1981, NMT was the world’s first multinational cellular network.

During the 1980’s, Nokia’s field of operations rapidly grew to new business sectors and products. In 1988, Nokia was a large television manufacturer and the largest information technology company in the Nordic countries.

Despite the deep recession in Finland in the 1990’s, Nokia managed to stay on its feet as the company started to streamline its business. In 1992, Nokia made the strategic decision to divest everything that wasn’t its core operations to focus on telecommunications. In 1994, Nokia’s goal was to sell 500,000 units. They sold 20 million.

Today, Nokia is a world leader in digital technologies, including the MOBILE PHONE. And Nokia still makes boots.

From the 13th century Finland was part of Sweden. The Russo-Swedish war raged on and off until 1809 when Finland pledged allegiance to Russia’s Tsar Alexander I, but remained an autonomous Grand Duchy in the Russian Empire. The degree of Finland’s autonomy varied. There were periods of censorship, political and religious persecutions. Throughout history, the Jews have been through hardship. Under the Russian boot their situation was precarious.

In the Grand Duchy of Russia between 1809 and 1917, Jews were not allowed to dwell in Finland. Jewish men were sent there to serve in the army for twenty-five years. The Russians dispatched trainloads of Jewish women for these soldiers, avid for female company. The men, accompanied by a rabbi, met the train with its cargo and were married to a woman, any woman, right there on the railway platform. Most Jews in Finland were retired soldiers, allowed to settle in Finland as trades- and craftsmen, which sounds good, but in actual fact they were permitted to trade only in old clothing. After Finland declared independence in 1917, her Jews along with the general population were granted full Finnish citizenship rights.

My mother, born in Vyborg on the Karelian Isthmus, Finland, didn’t talk much about her family history. Her father, Abraham was born in Tallinn, Estonia, was allowed to settle in Finland in 1908, married Maria from Vilnius, Lithuania. My mother was the youngest of four girls, six years senior to a fifth child, a boy. I can imagine how wonderful it would have been to grow up with lots and lots of cousins, but apart from my mother, only one of her siblings had a child. The only story I remember my mother telling is that of her aunt being deported by the Germans and died in a concentration camp. I'm named after this aunt.

My information is pretty sketchy when it comes to the two eldest of my forefathers on my father’s side. Some of it comes from stories my father told about his ancestors. I remember well evenings listening to him spin yarns about this great aunt or that great-uncle as he puffed away on his pipe. He was a wonderful storyteller.

My great-great-grandfather, Rashmiel, was born in 1818 in Vilnius, Lithuania, then under Russian rule. Rashmiel had several children; Chaim, was my great-grandfather, born in 1844 in Vilnius, Lithuania. Archives in Helsinki show he moved to Helsinki, Finland, in 1871.
Samuel, my grand-father, was born in 1883 in Helsinki. He obtained permission to remain in Finland on March 8, 1909 after he did his military service. During WWI, between 1915 and 1917, he lived with his family in Copenhagen, Denmark, where my aunt Sarah was born. When Finland declared her independence in 1917, my grandfather and his family obtained Finnish citizenship.

My father, Chaim, born in 1912 in Helsinki, obtained Finnish citizenship along with all Finns and Jews when Finland became independent. Russia’s invasion of Finland on November 30, 1939 started the Winter War. My father fought in the army through this and the Continuation War, which ended in 1944. The injuries he sustained exempted him from fighting in the Lapland war between 1944 and 1945.

Let me mention as an aside that Finland fought the Winter War alone against Russia, the Continuation war with Germany against Russia and the Lapland War between 1944 and 1945 against the Germans. Finland along with other countries signed The Paris Peace Treaties in February 1947. This allowed Finland, Italy, Romania, Hungary and Bulgaria to resume their responsibilities in international affairs and their independence. This also qualified these countries for membership in the United Nations.

Throughout the war years, Finland was independent. I was born a year before the Winter war—the first in my family born a Finnish citizen.

Not so long ago, before I got a publishing contract for my literary fiction and had to learn about promotion, I’d heard and read about blogs. Not knowing what a blog is, I thought it was a river in Russia. Don’t ask me why in Russia of all places. Maybe it has something to do with the first two letters b and l. Pronounced together they cause my lips to trumpet and my cheeks to inflate somewhat, like in some Russian words. That was then. Now I know “blog” is something a writer writes.

I try to keep up with the blogs that drop into my various writers’ group loops, social groups and e-mails. My firm belief is that if somebody went through the effort and took the time to write it and made it available to me, I should show some courtesy by reading and commenting. However, because I’m visually challenged, there are blogs I haven’t been able to read because of the font size and color against the background, which I regret because I don’t know what I may be missing.

Nobody has been able to tell me if blogs sell books. As far as I know, and my publisher confirms this, there are no comparative figures of blog versus number of copies sold. One of the reasons writers blog is to create a buzz around them and their books. I like reading blogs because they tell me something about the writer’s ability to spin a story, express her/himself in a way that makes me want to acquire that writer’s book with some advance knowledge of the quality writing I get if spend my money on that writer’s book.

Now to the main reason why writers blog—in an elegant way they say BUY MY BOOK! Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just send out messages and hang posts that say just that: BUY MY BOOK? How cheap, how inelegant. So I blog to attract you to buy my book.