THE WOMEN'S SAUNA
I knew a girl named Laska--like "Alaska," without the "a." She was from Alaska, but not named for the state. Actually, she told me, Laska is a Russian word, and it means beautiful. Her family was Russian decedents, belonging to a sect of Russian Orthodoxy called the Old Believers. They'd escaped Russia in Czarist times, scattered across the world, including small villages in the former Russian territories of Alaska.
Laska told me of her childhood in the village. The men fished and drank vodka, she said. The women grew tubers and canned what vegetables they could grow in the short summers. They kept goats for milk, cream, butter. They sewed the men's work clothes and dresses for church. At nights, they would sauna. It's a tradition shared by nearly all cold-climate cultures. It was a time to relax from the day's chores. The men and women had separate saunas. That time, said Laska, was her fondest memory of the village, and growing up.
The sauna was a safe place. No drunk fathers, no abusive uncles. No chores and no scoldings from mothers and aunts and grandmothers. Some of the women had already had babies, and some were not yet married. Some women looked more Scandinavian, other's were part-Inuit. Whatever their body shape, size, or age, in the sauna they were all the same.
"American culture," said Laska, "doesn't have this. It's sad."
"It's sad," I agreed.
