Lögberg-Heimskringla - 11.12.1992, Page 2

2 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 11. desember 1992

This article, submitted by Mary E.
Freeman, was found in the papers
of her grandfather, Skapti Olason.
The Metúsaiem mentioned was his
father. It originaiiy appeared
In Fate Magazine in 1959.
' Jhe very center of the worl
Your European hoiiday, centered
around breathtakingly beautiful
lceland, not only puts you in the
very heart of things but saves you
a nice bit of change. too.
By Lauga Geir
The following story was
submitted to me by the
late J. J. Erlendson of
Cavalier. He has sought all
available sourœs to verify his
statements including an inter-
view with Jon Olason,
nephew of Mrs. Long. Miss
Kristbjörg Kristjanson of
Mountain, N. D., also con-
tributed information from the
Thórgeirson Almanac for the year
1929 pages 58-59. This is the most
authentic record now available of
this incident which happened in
March, 1881 or 1882.
The day dawned mild and calm. A
blanket of snow shrouded the Village
of Mountain, N. Dak., and covered
the roofs of pioneer cabins, little
houses, yet so big that there was
always room for the homeless.
Such a place was that of
Hallgrímur Jónsson and his wife,
Nýbjörg, living on what is now the
Johannes Anderson farm, half mile
west of Mountain. Sharing their
home was a comely woman in her
early thirties, Guðrún Long, with her
two children, Borghildur, age 9 and
Vilhjálmur, age 7. She had been in
this countiy only a few years having
come to America in 1878. She was
born in NorðurMúlasýsla, lceland, in
1850. At the age of 20, she was mar-
ried to Sigmundur Long. For some
time her husband was an innkeeper
at Seyðisfjörður, but in a compara-
tively short tíme, they were separated,
and Guðrún with her two children
sailed for America, going directly to
New Iceland near Gimli, Manitoba,
where her half brother, Metúsalem
Ólason was located. Later he and his
brother, Guðni, became homestead-
ers near Akra, N. Dak. After the first
winter in Canada Guðrún brought
her children to Mountain, N. Dak.,
finding refuge with Hallgrímur and
Nýbjörg Jónsson.
On this particular day Guðrún
seemed somewhat depressed. This
mood probably prompted a desire to
see her intimate friends. Looking
through the window she announced,
“This being such a mild day I have a
mind to go visiting. I plan to walk
with the children to Gardar. I want
to see my good friend, Ásta, wife of
Benedict Jóhannesson."
“I hate to see you go that distance
on foot,” replied Nýbjörg. “Why not
wait til later?”
“No, this is a good day,” insisted
Guðrún. “I shall first stop awhile in
Mountain at Þorlákur Jónsson’s
place.” Among the notable homes in
the community was that of Þorlákur
Jónsson and his wife, L&vísa
Níelsdóttir. Guðrún Long with her
children made a short visit there but
soon prepared to leave for Gardar.
Lovísa Jónsson protested. “Walk
to Gardar? My dear, do you realize
that it is six miles to Gardar and the
snow still on the ground.”
“I agree,” echoed her husband,
Þorlákur. “The weather is uncertain
and traveling on foot with children
this time of year isn’t good. Why not
wait til later?”
“Yes Guðrún, Why not wait?
Perhaps you can catch a ride with
some one later,” suggested Lovisa.
Guðrún’s reply was positive. “No,
Lovísa, I am used to walking all and
the children are healthy, the weather
mild. Don’t worry about us; we will
get there.”
So it was; no persuasion could
stop her. Late that aftemoon Guðrún
Long and her children trudged the
road south, bound for Gardar.
Not long after they left the wind
began to howl. Threatening clouds
overcast the sky, and snowflakes
were falling fast. A North Dakota
blizzard in all its fury was sweeping
the prairies. Soon it was pitch dark.
No one knew whether Guðrún and
the children had reached Gardar.
One hope remained, that she might
have reached some home not too far
from the road.
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That night Nýbjörg
Jónsson woke up with a
start calling her husband.
“Hallgrímur, wake up.
Guðrún Long is dead. She
is dead I say.”
“What are you saying,
woman? Dead? How do you
know she is dead?”
“She is. I know it. I had a
dream. I saw her coming
in through the doorway, snow cling-
ing to her garments. She stood at the
foot of our bed, but said nothing.
Then she put her hand under
the bedcovers and touched my foot.
It was an icy hand, so cold it sent
shivers through me. Just now
I saw her fade through the door-
way.”
“There is nothing we can do now,”
replied Hallgrímur. “It is still dark;
we must wait for daylight.”
At daybreak Hallgrímur was out
summoning Þorlákur Jónsson and
other neighbours to search the
road to Gardar. The storm had
then abated. They followed the
road south stopping at the home
of Kristján Backman, which is now
the Ami V. Johnson’s residence; No
one there had seen the wayfarers.
The men continued their search
southward, seeing nothing till
they came to Sigmundur Laxdal’s
quarter section, about three miles
north of Gardar. There they noticed
a stick with a handkerchief tied to
it emerging from a snowdrift. On
investigation they found the child-
ren buried in the snow but
unharmed. A short distance away,
by .a boulder, was the scantily-
clad body of the mother, frozen to
death.'
The bereaved children told hoW
their mother had removed her own
coat and other wraps to bundle
them up in and then buried them in
the snow,, admonishing them not to
stir until she retumed. She was going
to find her bearing before going far-
ther.
“It was such a long night,” wailed
the tearful children. “We were so
scared we couldn’t sleep and we
prayed constantly as Mother told us
to do.”
Now the long night was over, but
there was' no living mother to cling
to.
Þorlákur Jónsson assured the
nine-year-old Borghildur that she
could be a member of his household-
She remained there until she married
at the age of 18.
The seven-year-old Vilhjálmur was
adopted by Bjöm Thórlaksson.
Guðrún Long’s story remains a
symbol of the purest motherly
devotion. The curtain separating
the living from the dead, so seldom
penetrated, was opened by a
mother’s love — love stronger than
death.
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