Lögberg-Heimskringla - 16.05.1986, Page 5

WINNIPEG, FÖSTUDAGUR 16. MAÍ 1986-5
Tales of
Travels
Sam and Laura Thorkelson. Between them, their daughter.
"Skál, Jónas, og til hamingju með afmælið" Gunnar Thorvaldson.
I was invited to participate in a
Scandinavian Cultural Symposium in
Camrose, Alberta. I was to give a
paper (which I did), but this story is
not about that; it is about my flight
to Edmonton and the Icelanders I
met there . . . those who fed me,
clothed me, housed me, lent me a
car, took me to a hockey game,
helped me celebrate my birthday and
so on.
I had met Gunnar Thorvaldson be-
fore. I think it was here in Winnipeg
a summer or two ago, but I am not
sure. We couldn't remember no mat-
ter how hard we tried. But at the con-
vention in Vancouver (the Icelandic
National League) we were introduced
(again?) and I informed Gunnar about
.my up-coming visit to Edmonton. It
was agreed that I'd give him a call
once I got there. I decided, however,
to phone from Winnipeg the day
before I left and sure, Gunnar was
going to meet me at the airport.
It was a beautiful day in Winnipeg,
Thursday, April 10. Temperatures
soared well above 20 degrees;
women in the neighborhood were
tanning in bikinis. Spring was final-
ly here. I dressed accordingly, the
thought of winter boots, parkas,
scarves, mitts, frozen nose, etc. did
not enter my mind — that was in the
past. I should have known. It was too
good to be true. Winnipeg was the
hottest spot in Canada that particular
day, Edmonton the coldest! This I did
not realize until I was airborne. The
captain greeted us in the usual man-
ner, gave us his flight plan, altitude,
speed and then the weather in Ed-
monton. "In Edmonton it is current-
ly minus three and snowing." Opti-
mistic as always, I thought to myself
after the initial shock, "What does he
know? Sure, he can handle the plane,
but he knows nothing about the
weather." Satisfied, I turned to my
magazine but was interrupted by a
female passenger sitting by the win-
dow in my row. "Is this not smoke
coming out of the eingine?" she
asked. I tried to see, but there was
nothing but clouds. "Just clouds,” I
answered, but noticed she was hold-
ing onto her seat with all her might.
I have never been scared of flying,
but all the recent accidents and this
woman’s fright gave me an uneasy
feeling. I tried to guess her age.
Around 50, perhaps older. "Do you
think the pilot is sober?" she asked.
"I thought I detected a state of
drunkenness in his voice," she con-
tinued. "No, don't worry, he is sober
as a judge," I answered. She looked
at me with a strange expression on
her face. "She must think I am nuts,"
I thought.
I got back to Maclean 's and on the
front page it read, "Terror In The
Air." A friendly stewardess rescued
me from my unpleasant thoughts and
offered beverages before dinner. My
neighbor ordered two vodkas; I ac-
cepted a beer. She lit her tenth
cigarette, grabbed her bag, and pulled
out a book. "Now we can rest," I
thought. I got through one paragraph
before she spoke again. "My God,
isn't he one of them? Look, he must
be. He is dark and scruffy." She
dropped her cigarette, her book hit
her glass and what remained of
the vodka got my pants wet where
I used to wet them regularly myself
the first two years of my life. A young
man, probably a university student,
was heading towards us, obviously
on his way to the lavatory. Yes, he
was dark, but I had no reason to
believe he planned to hijack the
plane. He had entered the plane
ahead of me and along with him an
elderly couple of the same ethnic
background (could be his parents).
I succeeded in calming the woman
and we started talking. She was on
her way to Red Deer, Alberta, to visit
her sister. It was all her sister's fault.
She had bought the tickets, mailed
them to her in Toronto, and probably
bribed her daughter to take her to the
airport. "She calls it a family re-
union," she said. "But it's only going
to be me and her and her ugly dog.
She has never visited me in Toronto,
so I never should have agreed to see
her." I talked about the importance
of families sticking together, brother-
ly love, and went on to tell her about
the old days in Iceland. How wonder-
ful it was to have so many relatives
nearby, even on the same farm. This
was a mistake, because now I got her
life story. Her sister was no good.
Spoiled rich, but unhappy. They
never got along as kids, teenagers or
adults. "There is certainly no hope in
us getting along now. Oh, we are
here. Thank God, but the worst part
is over. Do you know that so many
planes crash while attempting to
land?" The plane suddenly dropped
a foot or two. "See what I mean," she
whispered.
Gunnar was at the airport wearing
winter boots, a thick Icelandic
woolen sweater and mitts. "Wel-
come," he said. "You wait here while
I get the car. It is rather cold out-
side." So the pilot was right, I
thought. I looked around. People
were dressed in winter clothes but I
was wearing a thin shirt, a very light
jacket, and shoes which do not hold
water and are really meant for dry,
hot summer days. "I wonder if I
missed the summer of '86?" I
thought. Gunnar appeared and we
drove off.
Gunnar Thorvaldson was born in
Oak Point, Manitoba. He lives with
his sister, Rose, in a very fine house
in Edmonton. She greeted me as we
entered the house and offered me
coffee, or whatever my stomach
desired. I sipped coffee and looked
around the living room. I quickly
noticed Icelandic literature on book-
shelves and Icelandic records and
tapes near the stereo. Their pride in
their heritage was evident wherever
I looked. Gunnar said he wanted to
take me to a hockey game and with
us went Sam Thorkelson and Lillian
McPhearson. Sam was born in
Framnes, Manitoba, but his wife
Laura (Thorvaldson) is from River-
ton. Lillian is the daughter of Mr. and
Mrs. Hafsteinn Bjarnason of Regina,
Saskatchewan. Gretzky and com-
pany easily beat the Canucks from
Vancouver, so we headed back. Gun-
nar had lent me a parka, boots and
mitts. I thought about Winnipeg. I
wondered if the women in the neigh-
borhood got tanned. No one in Ed-
monton did, that was for sure.
It was coming down heavily as we
drove to Gunnar's piace. Lillian, our
driver, used caution on slippery
streets where cars were skidding in
all directions. This would not happen
in Winnipeg until November, I
thought.
Laura had arrived while we were
at the game and soon lively discus-
sions were started. These people
reminisced and told stories from Oak
Point, Riverton, Gimli, and Win-
nipeg. The eVening passed quickly.
As we talked, I thought liow Icelan-
dic these people are. Here is a tradi-
tion that has lived with Icelanders
through centuries . . . to tell stories.
In the dark ages people would gather
in the baðstofa and either read aloud
or enjoy a good story-teller. This
tradition lives in Canada among the
Icelanders, that is for sure.
It was past midnight. Guests had
left and Gunnar and I sat in the liv-
ingroom silent for awhile, both in
deep thought. I broke the silence and
told Gunnar that since it was past
midnight, it was now my birthday,
the eleventh of April. "Well then, we
must celebrate some more," he said
and grabbed my glass. It was 3:30
when we went to bed.
Gunnar lent me a car to drive to
Camrose which is about 150 km
southeast of Edmonton. As the con-
ference in Camrose has already been
accounted for in this paper, further
comments will not be made here.
Suffice it to say that I got there and
back (Saturday, April 12) safe and
sound.
My friends hadn't wasted any time.
I just managed a quick shower and
then I was at the Thorkelson’s for
dinner. It was stiil cold, probably
below zero, and although the sun had
been shining the entire day, it had
not managed to melt all the snow.
My neighbors probably worked in
their yards today, I thought. Sam and
Laura had prepared a wonderful din-
ner which we all thoroughly enjoyed.
As we relaxed over coffee our con-
versation returned to the Interlake.
We got talking again about the fishing
Continued on Page 6.