It was the summer of 1979. Our identical twin baby boys were 6 months old. We lived in a little raised ranch in the farming community of Fairfield Center, Maine. I worked at a paper mill and Connie was a full-time mom. We quickly discovered, as do all new parents, that raising babies was more than a full-time job. It was a busy, busy time in our lives and it required both of us to keep up with things. So when my work informed me that I was to spend the last three weeks of June in Finland, we were both stunned... especially Connie.
The day of my departure arrived and Connie put on a brave face as I walked out the door. I remember her standing at the top of the foyer stairs, sleep deprived, holding two crying babies, covered in spit-up and formula, with tears streaming down her face.
We worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week during the three weeks at the paper mill of our parent company in Finland. The jet lag and the northern latitudes midnight sun made sleep difficult. I missed my family and I was worried. Every few days I would call home. Connie was exhausted. The boys had colic, weren't eating and the doctor was concerned about dehydration. It was the skin of a nightmare. I needed to be home.
On our last night in Finland, we were invited to visit the company sauna. The sauna was a 200 year old log structure and was hotter than anything I had ever experienced. We endured the heat as long as we could and then bolted to the lake to dive off the dock into the frigid lake. On the way back into the furnace, we would bolster our courage with bottles of ice cold Finnish vodka. On my third dive into the lake, my wedding ring slipped off my finger and sank to the bottom. For half an hour I tried unsuccessfully to recover it. Hans Bjornberg, the Finnish Vice President who had joined us at the sauna, put his arm around my shoulder. "You will have some explaining to do when you get home," he chuckled. "Yeah, she's not going to be happy," I agreed. One more thing...
I was exhausted when I walked through the front door into our sweltering little house on July 3rd. But I put on a happy face, rolled up my sleeves and pitched in to wash dishes and diapers, feed the kids, and allow my wife to collapse on the couch. She was numb with fatigue. But we had survived this ordeal and I was determined to help get things back to normal... whatever that was.
The next day was Independence Day and I convinced Connie that we should pack a picnic and head for the lake to escape the heat. We arrived at a public swimming spot on Great Pond around noon and found that a good deal of floating litter had accumulated in the weedy end of the beach. As Connie sat in the shallow water in the sandy part of the beach with the boys happily splashing in a plastic clothes basket, I waded into the weeds and collected the trash. A dozen ducks swam around me watching my progress. It was a pleasant couple hours, but soon the boys began to fuss. It was nap time and we headed home.
Sometime after supper, I began to notice an intense itching on my upper legs and in my groin. I headed to the bathroom and dropped my swim suit around my ankles to check things out. The skin from my knees to my belly button had broken out in an angry red rash. It looked like I had the bubonic plague and I was perplexed. What had I gotten into? Whatever it was, I was in agony.
At that point, Connie walked into the bathroom and stopped short. She walked over to me cautiously and slowly inspected my situation. "I don't know what this is, but it's itching like crazy," I blurted. She took two steps back, put her hands on her hips and demanded, "Where's your wedding ring?" Ahhhh... "Yeah, I forgot to tell you that I lost it in Finland. But this has nothing to do with that!" I scrambled. The look on her face let me know she was not convinced.
The rash was a common malady called swimmers itch caused by a parasite that lives in weedy fresh water lakes and ponds. It is transmitted from water fowl. Later that evening Connie also developed a few itchy, red spots on her ankle. So my diagnosis and explanation was finally, begrudgingly, accepted. But it was weeks before her mood improved. The swimmers itch on top of the three week ordeal was just too much. She had seriously lost her sense of humor.
The loss of the wedding ring was forgotten for the most part. Six weeks later the Finns came to Maine and the company threw a party for the management team. 75 employees and their spouses gathered at the company house. Hans Bjornberg stood to welcome the group. "It's nice to be among you. Thank you for all your hard work. We are very pleased with the progress being made here. But I have one question..." He pointed towards me, standing in the crowd with my arm around Connie's shoulder. "Glen, did she believe your story about the lost wedding ring?" I blushed 10 shades of red and the crowd roared with laughter. Connie laughed, too, her wonderful sense of humor regained.
Hans passed away ten years later at the age of 46. Too soon. Too young. But in the intervening years, whenever I saw him, he never failed to tell the story of the lost wedding ring. And ever since that day on Great Pond, I avoid swimming with ducks.
The day of my departure arrived and Connie put on a brave face as I walked out the door. I remember her standing at the top of the foyer stairs, sleep deprived, holding two crying babies, covered in spit-up and formula, with tears streaming down her face.
We worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week during the three weeks at the paper mill of our parent company in Finland. The jet lag and the northern latitudes midnight sun made sleep difficult. I missed my family and I was worried. Every few days I would call home. Connie was exhausted. The boys had colic, weren't eating and the doctor was concerned about dehydration. It was the skin of a nightmare. I needed to be home.
On our last night in Finland, we were invited to visit the company sauna. The sauna was a 200 year old log structure and was hotter than anything I had ever experienced. We endured the heat as long as we could and then bolted to the lake to dive off the dock into the frigid lake. On the way back into the furnace, we would bolster our courage with bottles of ice cold Finnish vodka. On my third dive into the lake, my wedding ring slipped off my finger and sank to the bottom. For half an hour I tried unsuccessfully to recover it. Hans Bjornberg, the Finnish Vice President who had joined us at the sauna, put his arm around my shoulder. "You will have some explaining to do when you get home," he chuckled. "Yeah, she's not going to be happy," I agreed. One more thing...
I was exhausted when I walked through the front door into our sweltering little house on July 3rd. But I put on a happy face, rolled up my sleeves and pitched in to wash dishes and diapers, feed the kids, and allow my wife to collapse on the couch. She was numb with fatigue. But we had survived this ordeal and I was determined to help get things back to normal... whatever that was.
The next day was Independence Day and I convinced Connie that we should pack a picnic and head for the lake to escape the heat. We arrived at a public swimming spot on Great Pond around noon and found that a good deal of floating litter had accumulated in the weedy end of the beach. As Connie sat in the shallow water in the sandy part of the beach with the boys happily splashing in a plastic clothes basket, I waded into the weeds and collected the trash. A dozen ducks swam around me watching my progress. It was a pleasant couple hours, but soon the boys began to fuss. It was nap time and we headed home.
Sometime after supper, I began to notice an intense itching on my upper legs and in my groin. I headed to the bathroom and dropped my swim suit around my ankles to check things out. The skin from my knees to my belly button had broken out in an angry red rash. It looked like I had the bubonic plague and I was perplexed. What had I gotten into? Whatever it was, I was in agony.
At that point, Connie walked into the bathroom and stopped short. She walked over to me cautiously and slowly inspected my situation. "I don't know what this is, but it's itching like crazy," I blurted. She took two steps back, put her hands on her hips and demanded, "Where's your wedding ring?" Ahhhh... "Yeah, I forgot to tell you that I lost it in Finland. But this has nothing to do with that!" I scrambled. The look on her face let me know she was not convinced.
The rash was a common malady called swimmers itch caused by a parasite that lives in weedy fresh water lakes and ponds. It is transmitted from water fowl. Later that evening Connie also developed a few itchy, red spots on her ankle. So my diagnosis and explanation was finally, begrudgingly, accepted. But it was weeks before her mood improved. The swimmers itch on top of the three week ordeal was just too much. She had seriously lost her sense of humor.
The loss of the wedding ring was forgotten for the most part. Six weeks later the Finns came to Maine and the company threw a party for the management team. 75 employees and their spouses gathered at the company house. Hans Bjornberg stood to welcome the group. "It's nice to be among you. Thank you for all your hard work. We are very pleased with the progress being made here. But I have one question..." He pointed towards me, standing in the crowd with my arm around Connie's shoulder. "Glen, did she believe your story about the lost wedding ring?" I blushed 10 shades of red and the crowd roared with laughter. Connie laughed, too, her wonderful sense of humor regained.
Hans passed away ten years later at the age of 46. Too soon. Too young. But in the intervening years, whenever I saw him, he never failed to tell the story of the lost wedding ring. And ever since that day on Great Pond, I avoid swimming with ducks.
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