Lögberg-Heimskringla - 24.01.1997, Blaðsíða 2

2 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 24, januar 1997
Obituary I jZetters
Jenny Jonasson
September 19,1897 - January 8, 1997
A tribute by Helgi Carl Johnson,
her Lutheran nephew
writing an obituary for Aunty
Jenny, it became painfully
clear to me just how inadequate
this form of prose is to the task. Were I a
poet, perhaps I could convey in those few
words, the significance, the beauty and
the dignity of this remarkable woman’s
life. Not possessing this talent, I sought
inspiration in a singular document that
Aunty often referred to in her latter years;
a tribute to her father Pétur Péturson. This
eulogy was composed and delivered by a
quite exceptional Unitarian minister —
Albert Kristjanson. Kristjanson was a
man of great intellect, deep compassion
and humanity. His love and respect for
my Grandfather are so vividly conveyed
in that text, that even today I can visualize
in the most minute detail, the service that
took place June 7, 1931.
The final interment took place in a
little cemetery near Otto, Manitoba, a
stone’s throw from the homestead that
Pétur and his family had carved out of
the Manitoba wildemess. The sky was
clear, but for a few wisps of cloud. A mer-
ciful breeze kept the buzzing insects at
bay. The smell of prairie and freshly dug
clay filled the nostrils of the small
congregation.
Jenny, then 33, glanced sideways at
her husband Oli. She could not help but
think how handsome he looked in a suit
and tie. This gentle man snuggled closer
to his wife, knowing how important his
strength and support were to her at this
time. As he reached out to put his arm
around her waist, she could not help but
notice his hand — muscular, sinewy, not
quite clean. His work as a mechanic
made it virtually impossible to eliminate
every vestige of grease and oil. Out of
the comer of her eye, she could see her
family: eldest sister Kristin (Stina) and
her husband Gudmundur Thorsteinsson;
sister Sigga and husband Harold Cook;
sister Rósa, then eight months pregnant,
and her husband Jón Johnson; sisters
Imba, Björg and Asta; and brother Pétur
with his arm around their mother
Jóhanna’s shoulder. Though small of
stature, mother Jóhanna was a witty and
intelligent woman who loved poetry and
literature. She also possessed uncommon
moral strength and character. The older
Jenny got, the more she realized just
what a remarkable person her mother
was.
She strained against the wind, to hear,
as the young minister began the service.
Kristjanson was a tall, angular man who
bore a resemblance to Abraham Lincoln.
You could see the anguish in his face and
feel the emotion in his voice as he bade
farewell to his Iong time friend. His
beautiful metaphors and thoughtful words
had a special resonance for Jenny. The
then radical values of the Unitarian move-
ment had not been accepted lightly by
Jenny Jonasson on her 98th birthday
the Pétursons. However, once accepted,
they formed the ethical and spiritual
foundation of the family.
Many times in her life Jenny’s mettle
was tested. She lived through two world
wars and the great depression. She nursed
chronically ill family members in her
home. When Uncle Oli’s health failed, she
supplemented the family income by
seaming nets with her mother and sisters.
Her deep faith enabled her to meet
adversity with grace and courage.
Although I never saw her with a Bible
in her hand, nor heard her preach,
moralize or lecture, she and her siblings
were and are, perhaps, the best am-
bassadors of Christianity that I have ever
encountered. Aunty Jenny lived the
golden rule. Her example had a more
powerful effect on those of us that were
privileged to know her than the most
eloquent of sermons could have. As she
grew older, her spirituality seems to have
deepened, as the following incident
attests:
Jenny, then in her early eighties, and
sister Björg decided to attend a concert
at First Lutheran Church. As they alit
from the Sargent Avenue bus on Victor
Street, a young thug grabbed Jenny’s
purse. Instinctively, she clutched the strap
with her right hand and held fast. The
cowardly miscreant then pulled with such
force that he wrenched her shoulder from
its socket and dragged her along the
ground bruising the entire right side of
her body. In excruciating pain, she let go
of the strap.
After picking up some groceries for
my aunts the next day, the Viking in me
came out. I drove up and down Victor
Street in the hope of getting my hands on
the perpetrator of this cruel and heinous
crime. Not seeing anyone that fit the
description, I delivered the groceries. As
I entered 1025 Clifton, I found my aunts
praying for the soul of the wretch that had
inflicted the injury. I must admit feeling
humbled when I contrasted my lust for
vengeance with their dignified humanity.
Always a warm and gracious hostess,
aunty’s beautiful blue eyes would twinkle
Continued on page 4
■ Two letters have appeared recently in
the L-H, decrying its quality, complaining
that it isn’t up to snuff compared to the
past and that, in its present “uninteresting”
state, it’s not worth the high subscription
cost ($37.45).
As a subscriber to the L-H, I have
seen, over the years, the ebb and flow of
this tenacious little weekly. That it has
survived for well over a century, serving
such a small population, speaks of its
ability to hold the reader’s interest.
For me, not every issue contains
riveting news items or informative
community and historical articles. To be
sure, there have been times when I’ve
indifferently scanned some issues, but
never with lack of appreciation for all the
effort going into its production. In fact,
within its mandate, the paper has amply
demonstrated an impressive scope of
topic coverage.
I note that L-H constantly invites
readers to submit articles, allowing for
some ownership of content. It’s like
Kevin Johnson says (October 4/96):
“Perhaps we can get the stories from
Kansas City and Glenboro, and they will
be less praising and less clever...”
Don Gislason
Toronto, ON
txip^L
FAMILYl FUNERAL
COUNSELLORS
■ You will no doubt be receiving
comments on your article on “K.N.” in
your December 13 issue. These articles
are most welcome, as they give us some
insight into the unequalled poetic skill of
our Westem Icelandic poets in the early
part of the century.
K.N.’s unique play on words renders
his work extremely difficult to translate.
The poem in question “K.N. Required to
Explain his Beliefs,” when literally
translated has a much different inter-
pretation when one reads the accom-
panying explanation provided on page
159 in K.N.’s book Kviðlingar og Kvæði.
There was an Icelandic missionary
travelling in the mountain area, and the
story goes, that it had been “Jakob the
Mormon apostle” as he was called. He
came to the farm where K.N. worked as
a hired hand. He knew K.N. could be
found cleaning out the bam, which was
indeed the case. He then proceeded to
deliver a sermon with great fervour, but
K.N. continued shovelling without saying
a word. Finally, the preacher demanded
that K.N. should explain his beliefs, since
he had tumed a deaf ear to the preaching.
K.N. replied by reciting this verse with
great solemnity:
Continued on page 4
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