Lögberg-Heimskringla - 08.10.1999, Blaðsíða 4

4 • Lögberg-Heimskringla » Friday 8 October 1999
Helen Swinburne
Lloyd
(1892-1979)
Her daughter Eleanor Oltean tells her story
Helen and Thordur Sveinbjörnsson aged 3V2 and 5, in June 1896.
Photo courtesy of Kirsten Wolf.
Kirsten Wolf
Professor of
lcelandic
University of
Manitoba
Continuedfrom the
previous issue.
The man on the train from
Halifax to Winnipeg, who was to
bring about yet another dramatic
change in Helen Swinbume Lloyd’s
life, was Ralph E. A. Lloyd. Mrs.
Oltean reported: “In 1921, my mother
and father, Ralph E. A. Lloyd, were
married. Ralph was an Alberta farmer,
who had served overseas during the
war, and who had retumed with the
rank of Major. He continued to serve in
the Militia and rose to Lt. Col. with the
15th Canadian Light Horse. My par-
ents’ married lives were spent on the
family homestead, which had been
established in 1884 by my father’s par-
ents, who at that time had arrived from
London, England, and settled approxi-
mately fifteen miles southwest of
Calgary in the Midnapore district.
When my mother married, she had
no knowledge of farming. At the time
of her arrival as a bride, Seighford
Ranch, as it was named, had been estab-
lished for thirty-six years. Regardless of
the newness and spaciousness of the
family home, it was, like all farm
homes of its time, completely void of
modern conveniences. At first, my par-
ents lived with my paternal grandpar-
ents, but later the living space was
divided and they had their own rooms.
Eventually, my parents and their chil-
dren occupied the entire house.
In the 1920s, roads were mere trails
and generally impassable in bad weath-
er. A retum trip to the city of Calgary by
horse and buggy took all day and some
hours into the evening. However, trips
such as these in good weather held
happy memories for my mother. She
described to me the rising of the sun
and singing of birds in the freshness of
the early moming air, when she and my
father would set forth across the coun-
try on a beautiful midsummer day.
There were few fences, and my father
knew all the shortcuts to the city. Along
the way they enjoyed a picnic lunch,
while the horse grazed and drank water
from a little creek. Both of my parents
had a great fondness for the beauty of
nature, and I can well understand why
my mother so enjoyed those horse and
buggy trips to the city. Winter travel, I
am sure, must have been less enjoyable.
In 1922, my mother gave birth to
their first child, Benjamin Bertie
Sveinbjöm. He was a very delicate
baby, and before he had reached his first
year the poor little fellow passed away.
His death just broke my mother’s heart.
A friend of my mother’s described to
me many, many years later how pitiful
it was to see my mother on the day of
the baby’s funeral. She stood all alone
and grief-stricken at the grave side.
Members of my father’s family were
there, of course, but my father could not
be beside her. He was too ill to attend.
My mother never told me this, and I
wonder if perhaps if the memory of it
all was too painful to put into words,
although from her poem Through
Memory’s Door [included in Cloth of
Gold and Other Poems, pp. 86-87] it
seems as if she has come to terms with
the tragedy. The poem is as follows:
A mother knelt beside her baby boy,
She laughed and played, she watched
the answering joy
That lit his eyes ofblue,
Nor even dreamt a day was drawing
near
When she would lose her happiness so
dear.
His tiny hands she drew
Within her own, and felt her heart
rejoice ...
No fairer flower could bloom; with
sweeter voice,
No dove could ever coo.
The mother knelt beside her babe while
Death
Stood by, and listened to each fluttering
breath,
She heard a last-drawn sigh,
She sobbed, “My gentle dove has jlown
away. ”
My heartis sad, for, on this fateful day,
Myflower has drooped, to die.
But lo! Upon her baby ’s lips so cold
Death left a smile ... a gift for her to
hold...
While one more soul passed by.
The mother knelt beneath a willow tree
Beside a tiny grave, and wept to see
A cross ofcold white stone;
But midst her tears she saw her child
once ntore.
He smiled with eyes of blue through
Memory ’s door,
She knew himfor her own;
And, in the silence ofthe night, he came
To her in dream; she called him ...
spoke his name ...
No more tofeel alone.
Between 1923 and 1926, my moth-
er gave birth to three more children: a
son, Francis Charles Sveinbjörn,
myself, Eleanor June, and another son,
Jon Edrie Shenstone MacLean. We
were all bom strong and healthy and are
now in our seventies.”
The loss of Helen Swinburne
Lloyd’s baby boy in 1922 was followed
by another tragic loss only five years
later: “In 1927, my grandfather, of
whom my mother was very fond,
passed away. Five years prior, my
grandparents had gone to live in
Iceland. His sudden death occurred in
Denmark, while he was playing the
piano. It was a time of great grief for
rny mother, especially as she was so far
away. A decision was made that her
widowed mother should come and live
with my parents, and for my mother this
was a great comfort.”
Eleanor herself has very positive
memories of her childhood, yet she
acknowledges that life must have been
difficult for her parents: “When I look
back on my childhood days on the farm,
I can honestly say that my memories are
very happy. I realize now that life must
have been a struggle for our parents.
Times were hard, there was always a
shortage of money, especially during
the 1930s, and always an abundance of
work. Our parents did not inflict their
worries on their children; we never
went hungry and always had sufficient
clothing. Surely, at times my mother
must have felt that her life had turned
into a life of drudgery. Domestic duties
on a farrn in those days were frorn
morning until night and terribly repeti-
tive. My mother always felt that duty
came first and then pleasure, and
indeed, there were many pleasures,
many happy times among family and
friends. I well remember gatherings in
our farm kitchen with interesting con-
versations over cups of coífee and fresh
baking. Both of my parents were very
hospitable.”
In an autobiographical sketch,
“Outline of My Life,” which Helen
Swinburne Lloyd was asked to write for
Árdís (22 [1954]: 18-22), she comments
that “as the work on the farm is very
constant, my time for writing ... was
very limited, so much so that these
hard-eamed moments seemed of the
greatest possible value” (21). Eleanor
confirmed that despite the very limited
time her mother had to her herself and
her interests, she never lost her love of
the arts. “Her interest in literature and
writing had commenced at a very early
age. Soon after she started school, she
wrote children’s short stories. By the
time she was fifteen years old, some of
her stories were in print, having been
accepted by a monthly children’s maga-
zine. It was not until about 1930 that
she started writing poetry. Despite her
many home duties she managed to write
numerous poems. I recall that on occa-
sion her poems were composed with her
hands in the dish pan or as she churned
butter, shelled peas, or scrubbed floors.
To be continued in the next issue.
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