By William Hageman
Tribune staff reporter
Published August 22, 2004

THREE RIVERS, Mich. -- "All these houses"--David Jirikovic lets up on the throttle of the boat and makes a sweeping gesture toward the homes bordering Long Lake--"all from Chicago. You go down the road and look at the cars. All Illinois plates. And all along that other side of the lake too."

And all Latvians.

Jirikovic is an anomaly in these parts, these parts being the east end of Long Lake, where Latvian Center Garezers sits.

Garezers (pronounced "GAR-uh-zars," it's Latvian for "Long Lake") is a 169-acre cultural, educational and recreational haven for Latvians, not only from Chicago but from across the country.

Jirikovic usually is the only non-Latvian around. That gives him a unique perspective--and appreciation.

"One of the most awesome things about this society is a complete commitment to family values," said Jirikovic, 25, who is of Czech descent and who was introduced to Latvian culture by a college roommate. "Their society, traditions, language, culture.

Religion isn't forgotten here. Take confirmations. They're very important. I go to confirmation after confirmation. Weddings, same way. This means
something."

Jirikovic, who runs an orthopedic distributorship in Grand Rapids, started coming to Garezers seven years ago, learned the language, worked for two
years as resort manager and has become part of the Latvian community. And vice versa.

"I have two different lives," he said. "I have my other friends. Then I have my Latvian friends.

"With Latvians, it's all about the group. The fun, people, socializing. Are they rich? Are they poor? Who cares? That stuff doesn't matter here."

The epicenter of this fellowship is Garezers. It was founded in 1965 after a group of Latvians purchased an old Girl Scout camp. At the time, Latvia--a nation of about 25,000 square miles, half the size of Illinois, located on the Baltic Sea in northeastern Europe--was under the control of the Soviet Union. Many of the Latvians in America had come here after World War II as political refugees without a homeland. Garezers was a
place where they could preserve their culture.

Through the years, a Latvian community grew up around the camp and continues to draw people, even though Latvia has been free for 13 years.

"I bet there hasn't been a house [on Long Lake] that's gone up for sale in the last five or six years that hasn't been bought by a Latvian," said Ugis Grinberg, executive director of Garezers.

An enclave

There's also a small subdivision that's nearly all Latvian, with street names such as Kurzeme and Zemgale (both regions in Latvia). In all, there are 40 or 50 Latvian families within shouting distance of Garezers.

"Garezers is referred to as `Little Latvia,' and it's more than a cliche because that's what it is," said Anda Vizulis, director of the facility's children's camp. "In terms of Latvians being together, nothing tops Garezers."

There are about 100 buildings on the property--cabins, administrative buildings, a hall where meals are served, classrooms, a library, cultural museums.

At Dzintari ("The Ambers"), the resort area of Garezers, there's a beach, docks, pavilions, a volleyball court and room for dozens of tents and trailers.

All summer, Garezers, about 140 miles east of Chicago, is jammed with campers and students. The kids start as young as 2 with half-day play groups and go up through the high school.

But it's not all academics. There's always time for fun. Big fun, like Volleyball Weekend, held earlier this month.

"Americans have golf; Latvians have volleyball," said Rasma Kraulis of Chicago, an assistant administrator at Garezers. "It's their passion."

Nearly 600 people, most of them appearing to be under 35, showed up for the two days of serious competition, but the volleyball was just a part of the weekend. When they weren't playing or watching, people reconnected with friends, golfed with friends, boated with friends, sang folk songs with friends, ate with friends, drank with friends, roasted a pig with friends . . . you get the idea.

"I think Latvians are close all over," said Egils Vitands of Lisle, a member of Garezers' board. "But I find that especially [true] among young people.

"People who go to the school here, they develop lifelong relationships and friendships. There are a lot of Latvians who have become totally assimilated--and that's OK, that's fine--but a large number want to maintain their heritage, maintain the language."

The bond extends beyond Garezers. Chicago's Latvian community--an estimated 4,000 people--is equally active. There isn't a Latvian neighborhood, per se--people are scattered throughout the city and the northwest suburbs--but the Latvian Evangelical Lutheran Zion Church and Krisjana Barona Latvian School are on Montrose Avenue.

Raising funds and spirits

There's also Latviesu Nams ("Latvian Clubhouse") on Elston Avenue, where social events and fundraisers are held. There are language classes, fraternities and sororities, Scouts, a newspaper, a newsletter, and the
pretty-much-what-the-name-implies Latvian Happy Hour Club.

It's like one big family. Almost.

"`Family' doesn't begin to describe it," Jirikovic said.

"Most of the people I hang out with, I've known them since we were in diapers, 20-plus years," said Janis "Chunk" Klavins of Chicago.

There are different ways to keep the culture alive. Klavins, 22, is a stradnieku puisis--a rough translation is "workers boys"--one of Garezers' operations managers, whose job it is to keep the facility clean and running smoothly. He's in a punk band, Agrais Pirags, that puts a modern spin on Latvian culture.

"We don't want the culture to die out," he said. "We play all the Latvian songs everybody knows, but we play them punk."

His mother, Silvija Klavins-Barshney, has a more traditional way to continue the culture. She teaches language classes.

"It's Latvians who never learned the language or spousal units of Latvians who want to learn it," she said of her students, most in their mid-30s.

The language part can get a little tricky. Spend a weekend at Garezers, and 95 percent of what you hear is Latvian. English is sprinkled in occasionally.

Mikus Kins of Chicago recently married a woman of German background. Kins said his wife finds his Latvian connections interesting.

"We Latvians don't realize it, but when we're hanging out and we're talking back and forth," Kins said, "it's Latvian-English-Latvian-English. I didn't realize it until she pointed out that she understands only half of our stories."

Chicago's Latvians will forever be indebted to Kins because he got the Latvian Happy Hour Club up and running. The group raises money for various causes, but in a very social way.

A moving celebration

"Every month or so, 70, 80, 90 Latvians get together and head to different bars around Chicago," Kins said. "The Happy Hour Club [www.lhhc.com] makes
that small community closer. . . . And a lot of Latvians are moving to Chicago because they see how close Chicago Latvians are."

Another bond in Chicago is formed by the various Latvian fraternities and sororities in the city. They're along the line of German fraternities, said Chicagoan David Blumberg, one of about 25 members of Fraternity
Lettegallia, which meets every couple of months.

But for all the ongoing closeness and camaraderie, there is the question of the future. Can Latvians remain this dedicated to their culture indefinitely? Or is it only a matter of time before so many become assimilated that Volleyball Weekend becomes just a memory?

"There is a question of how long this is going to last," said Chicago-born Anita Grivins, now living in Climax, Mich., who is in her eighth year as president of the camp. "It is a small population. We have to find a way to
maintain it and bring others in.

"When I look at the figures of how many we are and how many children will be coming here, I'm positive this will last another 15 or 20 years."

Elisa Freimane is the director of the high school at Garezers. A high school teacher from Arlington Heights, she attended four years of school here and is in her 18th year at Garezers in some capacity. She, too,
wonders what's ahead.

"My graduating class had its 25th reunion," she said. "We had 55 graduates, and 25 showed up at the reunion. And of those, almost all have children, and about all the children speak Latvian. It's still important
to them. I don't know about the other half [of the class].

"One half will have to work to keep our society alive and vital. The other half . . . I don't know."
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More information on Latvia can be obtained from the Latvian Institute (http://www.alausa.org).

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