Silkkiniitty – Tapiola’s lungs

My friend, Hassan, taught me how to make fishing dough. The recipe was very simple: when water and wheat flour are mixed in the right proportion, it creates a sticky mass that stays on the hook – at least for a while. One warm evening in August, I took my fishing rod, bucket, and the dough. I hopped on my bike and pedaled to the shore of Otsolahti bay.

The setting sun reflecting brightly on the water still warms me nicely. I leave my bike leaning against a nearby birch tree. For a moment I ponder if I should try to get access to the locked pier with the help of a returning boater. However, it is so late that there are hardly any boats on the water. The shallow end of the bay will do.

I mold a piece of dough onto the hook, estimate the water depth, and cast my line into the murky water. Too shallow! The float tilts to one side. I try to pull the line up. The hook is stuck on the bottom! But wait! A massive fish struggles its way onto the shore, bending the rod almost double. A big bream. I had never caught anything this size before. At least two pounds of fish. A fresh bait on the hook. Now the float sinks below the surface right away. I cautiously raise the rod in the air. Another big bream! Quickly, more dough!

The sun has already set behind the bridge construction site. I start to feel cold in just my t-shirt. But I already have a mighty catch. About a dozen copper-sided breams splash in the bucket. There wouldn’t have been room for more anyway. With joy in my heart, I wrap the line around the rod, toss the remaining dough into the sea, and carefully transport the fish, splashing in the full bucket, on the rear rack of my bike, heading home.

– Oh dear, Robert! These are not breams, these are carps. They’re full of silt and mud. You can’t eat these. Take them right back to where you caught them.

With a heavy heart, I drag my big catch to my bike. There are still a few guys playing soccer in the yard. Everyone gathers around me to marvel at the content of the vibrating bucket.

– Hey! Come see what Rob has! Huge breams in a bucket.
– They’re not breams. They are carps. And I have to take them back to Otsolahti. Mom’s order.
– You don’t need to take them all the way back there. Let’s set them free into Ankkalampi.

Ankkalampi, translated literally as a duck pond, is originally, as its name suggests, a decorative pool in the middle of Silkkiniitty; in English the Silk Meadow. Although there are no ducks there, there are mallards and other waterfowl. Above all else, it serves as a wading and swimming pool for children, while families spend their leisure time on the wide grassy fields of Silkkiniitty, in the heart of Tapiola.

In the darkness of an early August evening, we dump the gang of carps to the pond. All but one go happily swimming in the moonlit artificial pond. The fallen war hero we toss into a nearby bush.

A couple of days later we are going to Ankkalampi for a swim. Biking closer, we see two trucks of the municipal maintenance by the pond. There is no water in the pond. We join the group of children wondering what the men in overalls are actually doing.

– Some morons have transported sea fish to the pond. There were about a dozen dead breams floating about here. This pond had to be emptied and it will be closed for at least two weeks until the samples have been examined. Salmonella is suspected.

Next week, leafing through the Tapiola Tänään magazine, I find a full-page story about vandalism on Silkkiniitty. My mother, reading the magazine after work, indignantly comments on the bit of news.

– Those hooligans who threw dead breams into the children’s swimming pool deserve a damn good whacking!

Live carps, I almost say aloud. But I wisely remain silent.

Silkiniitty is by no means a wild meadow. It is a seven-hectare outdoor recreation area built by Asuntosäätiö in 1964 for the residents of Tapiola. It is a wonder indeed that the massive, decades-long building frenzy, that almost totally destroyed the Garden City of Tapiola, didn’t swallow this lush green oasis. In addition to the World War One trenches of Vallihaudat, Silkkiniitty is the other intact remnant of the garden city dream of the 60s. Almost everything else that made Tapiola an exceptionally cozy little neighborhood has been lost or destroyed.

Before Silkkiniitty, there was only the clayey and muddy wasteland of Hagalund Manor. It did serve some purpose, albeit on a small scale. We built huts and dug holes along the edges of the area. The vast, well-maintained lawn was something completely different. When standing at the eastern edge of this area, right at the end of Poutapolku, the green carpet of grass seemed to stretch into eternity. Paths and roads did cross the area, but due to the visual trickery of perspective, they couldn’t be seen.

There were a row of vegetable plots for rent on the area’s edge close to the street of Menninkäisentie; as if a remnant of the war years, when home farming was necessary to ensure the availability of fresh vegetables. The gardening patches combined with youth groups moving around in the area produced exactly the expected result. Carrots and other veggies disappeared from the plots. And there was always the same uproar about it, all the way up to the pages of Tapiola Tänään magazine. In addition to nicking a few cabbage heads, stupid vandalism reigned. Someone had gone to trample and tear up a couple of these plots, completely ruining them. A police patrol visited and the situation calmed down – for a while.

A wading pool, Ankkalampi, was also dug on Silkkiniitty. During the summer heat, many families came to the meadow to hang out as if they were on the beach. Toddlers and slightly older children splashed in the pool. Ankkalampi had a fountain; of course, not such a towering water jet as the ones in the Central Pool, but it did bring a trickle of new clean water to the pool. Still, the pool water became cloudy due to heavy use. The duck pond was shallow and its bottom, laid out of round natural stones, that did not absorb water very effectively. As a result, the pool was quite often temporarily banned from use.

My school path to Aarnivalkea elementary school wound through Silkkiniitty. In the first couple of years, however, I walked along a narrow muddy path. By the time I reached the third grade, the meadow was finished and the sodden path had turned into a solid dirt road.

All cross country skiing competitions were organized on Silkkiniitty: a huge white and windy field in winter. The track was laid along the woody edges of the area. The little skier had a tough job ahead of him or her when the starting order was given. The snaking path among the trees ensured that there were always a few pupils dragging their broken skis behind them, crying and trudging towards the school. Some evil magic hovered over these all-school skiing events. I had gone on long ski trips with my mother and therefore I was certainly in good skiing shape. However, every time, something went very wrong.

The school’s soccer activities were always arranged on Aarnivalkea’s own sandy and dusty field, even though there would have been a soft, green grass field right next to it. The only reason I can think of is that there were those absolutely necessary white sidelines on the schoolyard. The extreme seriousness and unnecessary competitiveness associated with sports dawned on me very early. Finland had not been put ”on the world map” by having fun, but on the path of pain with the taste of blood and vomit in the mouth.

At Tapiolan yhteiskoulu, the co-ed school, had the same ethos with the slight difference that as there were parallel classes up to the letter E, you couldn’t send everyone to swallow dust on the ball field next to the school. However, Silkkiniitty, however soft and green it was, had a small structural problem. The meadow wasn’t quite flat at any point for a very long distance. Playing soccer, the other team had to attack uphill, and not just figuratively. After the change of sides, you quickly had to learn the tricks of playing downhill. Undoubtedly, the grass field was a more comfortable surface; the green stains on the sweatpants went away in the next wash. It took a week or two for the scratched knee to heal, and no one at home was happy about the holes in the new pants. It was the same situation with baseball matches. On the sand, very few were eager to plunge to the next base. On the grass, even this self-sacrificial deed, an essential part of the game, was manifested often.

When the Cooper’s test mania took over Finland, that 12-minute running frenzy was organized at Silkkiniity – where else? And not in the middle of it, but on the steep part of the western edge at the foot of Kelloseppäkoulu, the institute for watchmakers. Many of my friends played soccer and ice hockey and were therefore in fairly good aerobic condition. All had that magical achievement of 3000 meters on their minds. On that sadistically hilly track, that was only very rarely achieved. In addition, very common in those days, cigarette smoking was a definite obstacle to the goal. My classmate Timo was a heavy smoker and a bit of a daredevil: the worst possible combination for Cooper’s strenuous torment. A few days before the test, someone came up with the idea of organizing a bet on Timo’s run. The bet was placed with the principle that if he reaches three kilometers, Timo wins the entire pot. Otherwise, the bets are void. As the Cooper day approached, more and more money accumulated in the betting pool; the cashier announced 52 marks on the morning of the running day. Always suffering from a cold and exempted from running, Olli agreed to shout lap times. Everything was ready for the big sports event. The girls who placed bets, along with a lot of other spectators, showed up to watch the record attempt, which only increased the boys’, and especially Timo’s, desire to prove themselves.

Thursday afternoon’s physical education class has a truly special and electrifying atmosphere. The weather favors the test. Although it’s already autumn, there’s enough warmth to jog in shorts and a t-shirt. The entire group of boys lines up at the starting line, glancing at each other, with Timo naturally in the middle, ready for his heroic feat. He has prepared himself enough to forgo cigarettes in the morning. The starting signal is given, and the mixed group rushes forward, with Timo leading the way, of course. The track is 500 meters long, so reaching the goal requires a two-minute lap time. Timo gives it his all right from the start and takes a clear lead up the hill. Two minutes and ten seconds, shouts Olli. The pace is fast, but not enough. Timo already appears to be panicking. He needs to find a turbo boost. Mischievous cheers from the female spectators propel Timpa, clad in red shorts and a brown shirt, into a full sprint. The chant of ”Hey! Red and brown, your shorts fall down!” gets contagious and echoes around the track. Three minutes and 58 seconds, Olli shouts with all his might through the crowd’s noise. Six minutes flat! Eight zero six! Ten zero three. Timo! Push! Timo! Push! Twelve minutes and stop! The gym teacher yells just as Timo flings himself across the finish line. The other runners freeze in their tracks. I have done 2600 meters; my best result ever. But Timo is the hero of the day. He lies on his back on the grass, his face in agony, even redder than his jogging shorts, his light brown shirt stained dark with sweat, foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Suddenly, he jerks himself up and rushes to the side, feeling sick. Half-melted pea soup and pancake spill into the bushes. When Timo returns to school on Wednesday the following week, he is celebrated as a hero, at least a half-living legend and 52 marks richer.

A lot of the same activities were carried out in and on the trenches of Vallihaudat as in Silkkiniitty. Of course, the terrain of the Vallihaudat did not favor ball games or any other activity requiring a flat and treeless area. During the summer holidays, soccer games and baseball matches took place quite naturally at Silkkiniitty. When the model airplane craze was at its most intense, you could see several large-winged gliders and motorized planes steered by nylon lines circling around on the meadow. Dozens of hours of leisure time could be spent building a combustion engine model plane. One bad loop was enough for a disastrous maiden flight. Assembled from fragile balsa and thin plywood, the aircraft could not even withstand a bad landing. One wrong move with the nylon lines in the first round produced a sorrowful sight of a pile of balsa sticks and shattered pieces of plywood in the blink of an eye. Gliders were somewhat more reliable, but only in calm weather. Even a small gust of wind could blow the beautiful plane high onto the branches of a tall birch tree. For a teenager, in those days, climbing trees was the norm, so there was always someone volunteering to climb the tree and take the plane down. Of course, the tree branches punctured the wing papers of the glider, but such repair work was trivial compared to reassembling the motor powered plane from scratch.

A completely new kind of hobby emerged when Cassu inherited a slightly used golf club, a couple of balls and a few plastic sticks, tees, from his older brother. The club may have been number iron one? At least, if you hit the ball well, you could pick it up a hundred of meters away, if not further. Silkkiniitty was made for golf, without the holes, of course. There were usually three of us playing this holeless golf: two were at the tee, the third guy was on the meadow trying to figure out where the ball flew. It goes without saying that we were very careful to make sure that there was no one or anything in the direction of the shot. Practice makes perfect… Our skills developed and the trajectory of the ball got longer and longer. It was Pekka’s turn to be the ball boy, I zoomed in on the green field opening up in front of us and Cassu wielded the club. Cassu rightly grabbed the club, swung it behind his head and got a mighty shot at the ball. The direction was slightly skewed. The ball whizzed over the tall bushes growing on the edge of the meadow. Pekka was already sprinting after the ball when loud shouting and cursing began to emanate from the bushes. Pekka’s running direction changed in an instant. We at the tee looked at each other. Cassu discreetly moved the club behind his back. We took a few steps back. From the shade of the birch trees we ran to the stairwell of Poutapolku A and directly to the basement, where my friend passed the club through the metal mesh to the corner of their locked closet, behind the skis and hockey sticks, and threw both the ball and the plastic sticks after it.

We went out the back door as if nothing had happened. However, we were quite keen to know what on earth had made Pekka run away so fast. So, we decided to take a small risk and go see what could have happened. Dragging nerves soothing cigs, we walked towards Ankkalampi. We were standing on the pavement surrounding the pond, when a large man with a cap in his hand scurried from the direction of Aarnivalkea school. The reason he didn’t wear his cap was the big blue-black horn growing on the man’s forehead. In the other hand he appeared to be holding a small white ball. The man rushed to us and immediately started shouting. Under his bushy black eyebrows, angry bloodshot eyes measured us. The man’s general appearance reminded me of the regular villain of Chaplin’s silent films, Eric Campbell.

– ”Have you boys seen that crazy guy who plays golf here on the meadow? God, if I catch that bastard, I’ll strangle him with his bloody club!” Grinding his teeth the man shouted.
– ”I-I guess only an idiot plays golf here with kids playing soccer and families walking about.” I stammered.
– ”Some guy came running past us on the dirt road next to Vallihaudat. Could it be him?” Cassu brilliantly answered.

The man with the horn started walking furiously in the direction we pointed. With my shaking hands, I pulled a couple of ciggies from the pack. There was a visible tremor in Cassu’s hands as he lit our cigarettes with his lighter. Just then, ”Mr Campbell” disappeared from sight. Immediately, we burst into hysterical laughter, water streaming from our eyes. All I had to do was whisper ”hornhead” and we both gasped for air in another manic fit of laughter.

Golf we abandoned.

Not only sports but also culture is offered at Silkkiniitty. A line dancing group practice there irregularly. Sometimes we can see gymnast girls doing outdoor training on the meadow. Also concerts are arranged. While spending a summer evening at Seurakunnan Olotila, the church facility for teenagers, someone we vaguely knew rushes to the door shouting that a performance of Kalevala, the Finnish folk poetry epic, is being held at Silkkiniitty. ”Yeah, right. We couldn’t be less interested.” We all agree in unison. A moment later, the message becomes more specific.

– Kalevala, the band, is playing a free concert on the meadow! Come on now! Kurkinen is on the guitar.

The whole place empties like in a fire drill at school. The guy is telling the truth. Kalevala plays a one-hour set in the clear, warm summer evening. Matti Kurkinen has already been dubbed as Finland’s Johnny Winter, and rightfully so. We sit on the grass, legs crossed, totally enthralled, listening to the skillful playing of the band.

As summer jobs take up all my weekdays, and as my interest on weekends shifts to the beaches and party spots in Mellsten, the enchantment of Silkkiniitty gradually fades. Fortunately, the meadow didn’t disappear anywhere. I took my kids to Silkkiniitty and Vallihaudat regularly to marvel at the essential playgrounds of their father’s childhood and youth whenever we had the time to drop by and say hello to my mother, who still lived in her Menninkäisentie apartment.

In July 1980, I’m writing a letter to my American friend Tim in Fornalutx, Mallorca, a week before my own flight to that island for my first ever trip abroad. Fornalutx is popular among Brits and Americans seeking warmth in Spain. Taking a walk on Silkkiniitty after a long while, it’s great to see that the area is still actively used. As I approach the meadow from the direction of the coeducational school, there’s a cricket match taking place on the left and American football players practicing on the right. And up in the sky, the Goodyear advertising blimp floats. The omens couldn’t be better. The year is about to turn into a very good one.