Me, dad, sauna, today.
We having a break, drinks in hand. Beer for him, Coke for me — I was too uptight to get into alcohol when young, and now it’s too late, my brain is wired to derive the equivalent social pleasures from the black poison — and us standing outside, nude, watching the winter’s last snowdrifts melt into soggy mud. Us, watching a decorative stretch of stone wall, hedging in a few birches and what would be a kind of a small garden-and-bench type thing if not for the snowdrifts; the whole being last summer’s project of agrarian self-amusement.
Dad, saying the stone wall survived the winter, and total submergement in snow, remarkably totally intact. Then again, that’s the way of stone things, is it not, like with centurial stone walls across the fields of Merrie Olde Englandie, etc. etc.
Me, commenting, saying this summer we might try something more ancient and durable. A pyramid, maybe, if there was a free spot somewhere. Which is not difficult; mom and dad live in a big house with a big yard, sloping and tree-avenueing itself into semi-used fields, berry bushes, saunas and eventually big fir forests in most directions.
Dad, saying a Stonehenge would do for a project as well. Except that finding and hauling the stones might be a bit of a bother.
Me, pointing at the steep valley across the road, and the long ridge beyond. There’s stone, visible in a few places even, no more than a hundred meters up the steep, tangly-forested, rocky ridgeside. And dad has a tractor that is mostly younger than he is, so there’s a project for us!
Dad, commenting the neigh-bor across the road’s horses might laugh at us, us hauling tons-heavy rocks behind a near-antique tractor up their field of containment. Because there’s some saying about even the horses laughing, is there not? But then again, the secondary means of hauling shouldn’t too much ridicule the primary, should they?
Me, saying pyramids are better than a Stonehenge; plus, you can use much smaller stones. And, as for the place, how about that there sandy ex-tennis field — er, we are not wealthy, it’s just that Finland has lots of cheap space, and apparently high school teaching isn’t enough physical exercise for dad — that small field-like space which was then after a paddock for the across-road-neighbor’s daughter’s pet horses before that big one across the road. That’s solid sand you could build a pyramid on.
Dad, saying you might as well build the pyramid hollow, leave space for the horses inside.
Me, suggesting that as pyramids sharpen razors placed under them — according to gullible sources, and as applied to much smaller pyramids — then what would happen to the horses?
Dad, saying there would be superintelligent horses obviously. Or at least as intelligent as your average human beings.
Me, suggesting future histories would glumly tell it was the stupid folly of two Finns that brought on the Horse Uprising and the Fall of Man.
Dad, envisioning horses in the parliament — municipalities with horse majorities — an equine president! Unless they’d prefer royalty. Whereupon a pun intrudes; “kruunattu” being Finnish for “being crowned, enthroned, that sort of thing”, and “ruunattu” being “being with your male parts removed, as horses get because their owners think this makes the horse happier; nobody ever asks the horse as far as I know and they, being fully informed, might not think this a sensible option at all”.
This has been offered as an example of what sauna makes Finnish people say. Or as an example that, whatever this imagination of mine is, I know where I got it.