Our neighbor family was bohemian. Not hippies, the father was a doctor after all, but were original with a Volkswagen-bus way.
The mother baked cinnamon rolls with dark wheat flour. There were no icing on the top. You could hardly tell if it was a sweet treat or just a bun with cinnamon taste.
They traveled around Finland with the bus, cheerfully waving out from the windows, cinnamon rolls-buns packed along with green tea.
The children grew up to artists, doctors, officers.
Isa, girl my age, my friend, became a pianist. We stopped being friends at some point. Did I mention something impolite about those rolls, I can't remember.
Anyway, their mother got an Alzheimer disease right after turning 50 years. A year after that she died.
Two weeks ago my son got confirmed. He and Isa's daughter attended the same camp. At the church I saw Isa. Her daughter and my son attended the same camp. She nodded slightly and smiled.
After the church we had a confirmation party.
We had buns and cheese, among the cakes. 'I am so obsessed to these buns, if anyone asks, I ate them all' said one guest.
My mother made them. She makes buns adding white suger to the dough. They are soft and delicous. You can hardly tell if you are eating a bun or a sweet treat.
'Did you have cinnamon rolls at that camp?' I asked the party boy, my son.
'Did Alma (Isa's daughter) like them?'
New generation, our children, is so in the white page. Where business failures and bankruptcies banned our relationships, they start creating their own from the empty space.
And if their relationships are disfigured or promptly cut, there comes a new generation. A new wave after wave, again and again.
Life is such a wonderful big wave.
