Lögberg-Heimskringla - 26.07.1996, Qupperneq 10

10 * Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 26, juli 1996
More than survivors
The final installment in Carl Johnson’s continuing story
Jón G. Johnson
The beginning and the end
By Carl Johnson
slendingadagurinn, Sunday, 6 Au-
gust 1995. I felt wilted. The dor-
mant air in Gimli’s Park was sti-
fling. My cotton shirt welded to my
back with perspiration. At 10:30 a.m.,
cousin Neil Bardal had asked me if I
would mind watching the Lögberg-
Heimskringla booth for an hour. I
looked at the clock, 3:45 p.m. —
some hour!
If the good ladies ffom Lundar had
not fed me, I would have been pros-
trate on the floor. Just then, John
Matthiasson waved me over to the
Icelandic Canadian table. We had
been öying to get together all day.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,
Carl. I am impressed by Kevin’s writ-
ing in the paper. He has talent. But,
he’s making mistakes common to
many young writers. Do you think that
he would be offended if I offered a lit-
tle constructive criticism?”
“To be honest, John, I don’t
know?”
At that moment, a shame-faced
Neil Bardal made an appearance.
“Sorry about that Carl, I got tied
up.”
“Some hour Neil! I collapsed from
hunger and heat prostration an hour
ago,” indicating a beautiful young
woman in Icelandic costume, I carried
on, “If she hadn’t given me mouth to
mouth resuscitation I’d be toast.”
Neil laughed, “You wish, Johnson!
With your luck it was probably John
that revived you.”
Actually, I did not mind helping my
overworked cousin, but I knew that he
would be disappointed if I did not give
him a verbal shot.
“Neil, I was just asking Carl if
Kevin would be receptive to a little
mentoring from an older cousin. I’d
like to get together for supper one
evening at my cottage. Could you join
us?”
“I’d love to John; just let me know
when you airange a time.”
Packing up our booths, John and I
headed for the Beer Garden. Kevin
had left the Icelandic Canadian Fron
booth at 3:00 p.m., bearing in that
general direction with some out of
town friends. My son gratefully ac-
cepted John’s offer, and we planned to
get together the following Thursday.
I felt elated as we pulled into the
parking lot behind John’s cottage. I
had often told my children about
growing up in the West End in the
1940s and 50s, and of how close the
cousins were. Now Kevin would ex-
perience that special relationship first
hand.
A familiar aroma hit us as John
opened the back door. Chop suey —
Aunty Jona’s (John’s mother’s) fabu-
lous recipe. What a nice touch.
Kevin listened intently as John out-
lined various techniques that could
improve his writing. As this discus-
sion concluded, Neil arrived.
Sitting around the kitchen table, en-
joying supper, we reminisced. Like
old times, die evening was filled with
warmth, humour, pathos and irony.
“Somebody should put our story in
the paper,” Neil stated. “If for no other
reason than that our children and
grandchildren leam about the special
environment that we grew up in.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about
doing just that,” I added.
“I was thinkiiig about weaving the
Vescio killings into my narrative.”
This theme hit a chond with both of
my cousins.
“Do it Carl. That would really woik
well,” Neil encouraged me.
John nodded in agreement, “But
don’t underestimate the task. As I
was telling Kevin, to be a writer
you have to commit not less than two
to three hours a day. It can be veiy de-
manding.”
Buoyed by the support of my son
and my cousins, I resolved to start
writing the next day. As Neil depart-
ed, John, Kevin and I retired to the
hving room. The reflection of the full
moon echoed across the waves of
Lake Winnipeg. It was breathtaking.
“I can certainly understand why our
forefathers were drawn to this part of
the world,” I observed.
Sitting in the darkened room, I re-
lated the stoiy of one of the people I
admire most — Mother’s sister, Jenny
Jonasson.
My Uncle OU Jonasson worked as a
mechanic at the Winnipeg Electric bus
garage. A gentle, kind man, every-
body loved Uncle Oli. Having an intu-
itive feel for things mechanical, he
could fix anything — a skill needed to
keep his venerable Terraplane Hudson
on the road. This substantial automo-
bile conveyed our entire family on
many out of town excursions.
Unfortunately, Oli had a heart con-
dition and suffered increasingly fre-
quent bouts of asthma. The fume rid-
den environment of the bus garages
undoubtedly made his condition
worse. For much of his career, miss-
ing a day’s work meant missing a
day’s pay.
Aunty Jenny faced adversity with
courage and ingenuity. Helping
Amma Peturson seam nets, she sup-
plemented the family income. More
amazingly, Aunty found time to nurse
chronicaÚy ill family members.
Her home was always beautiful,
decorated with flair on a shoestring
budget. A professional interior decora-
tor would have been hard pressed to
do better. A wonderful cook, family
meals were special occasions at the
Jonasson house. Aunty always provid-
ed ponnukokur when we visited; it
was the best I ever tasted.
Cousin Raymond Jonasson eamed a
degree in Civil Engineering. His ca-
reer took him to Calgary, where he re-
cently retired as Vice íÝesident of Do-
minion Bridge. Ray pioneered the de-
velopment of trade with China for his
company.
Cousin Joan became a Registered
Nurse. She now resides with her hus-
band, Hunt McKay, in Penticton,
British Columbia. Although she would
be embarrassed at my saying so, Joan
typifies the women in my family. A
wife and mother whose family comes
first, she is supportive, loving, warm
and generous. Strength, resourceful-
ness, and loyalty, she also displays.
a unty Jenny, now also in Pentic-
/\ ton, will be 99 this September.
I \Health failing, her frail body is
kept alive by tne strong neaii ana
courageous spirit that served her so
well in times of adversity.
There was silence as I finished my
story.
“These people were certainly more
than survivors,” John commented,
aíter a suitable pause; I had a title for
my narrative.
On the drive back to Winnipeg,
Kevin asked, “Will you mn your story
in Lögberg?”
“I hadn’t thought about that. Pri-
marily, I want to do this for Susan,
Brian and you, and my grandchildren,
Brock, Jenna and Lindy. If Tom Ole-
son feels it’s appropriate and meets
his standards, I wouldn’t be averse to
going that route.”
Tom liked the story, and the rest is
history.
Allow me to tidy up some loose
ends at this point. I will deal with
events in chronological order:
Amma, Asta Johnson, died at home
surrounded by her family on 26 De-
cember 1947. She was 69 years of
age.
On 29 December 1957, almost ten
years to the day after Amma’s death,
Afi, Helgi Johnson, died. Although he
had celebrated his ninety-first birth-
day, Afi played his last game of
bridge just days before his passing. In
accordance with his wishes, six grand-
sons, including Peter and I, acted as
pallbearers at his funeral. The devel-
opment of his 23 grandchildren and
five great-grandchildren particularly
pleased Afi, the ultimate family man.
On 8 October 1980, Father died in
his bed. Knowing that cancer had
spread throughout his body, he chose
to make the most of his remaining
days. Nursed by his family, Dad faced
Continued on page 11.