Lögberg-Heimskringla - 07.07.2000, Side 2

2 « Lögberg-Heimskringla « Friday 7 July 2000
Remembering Afi
May Britnell
Toronto, ON
My grandfather was blind. In
1910 he and my grandmoth-
er—Afi and Amma in
Icelandic—came to live with us in
Leslie, Saskatchewan when I was three.
My amma died shortly after and I don’t
remember her. I know she had a crutch.
I seem to recall the tapping sound it
made.
Afi and Amma came from Iceland
in 1883, when my mother was nine.
They settled in an Icelandic district in
North Dakota and hence had no need to
leam English. That was my good for-
tune. In order to talk to them I had to
learn their language. I’ve always been
grateful to them for making me “bilin-
gual.”
My afi lived on till he was ninety
and I twelve, so I have vivid recollec-
tions of him. His bedroom was oíf the
kitchen since that was where most of
the action was. Hardly a day passed
without at least one visitor and often
several. They were generally Icelandic
farmers. They very often brought a
quart of cream. No matter what the
hour, they were always served coífee
and in no time they were quoting poet-
ry. I’ve often thought of it. Never were
the discussions related to farming. They
always commented on how good the
coffee was. That reminds me of a story
my mother used to tell about a neigh-
bour who visited her parents. When
offered a second cup of coffee he
always declined by saying, “When the
coffee is good, I don’t need any more.
When the coffee is poor, I don’t want
any more.” The coffee carried by the
local merchant was all one grade—
poor. When anyone went to Regina or
Saskatoon, they were commissioned to
bring back five pounds of Eaton’s first
grade mocha or java in the bean. I never
went home without it after I grew up. It
was fifty cents a pound. I can still see
my afi with that wooden coffee mill
anchored between his knees. It was
always freshly ground for each infu-
sion.
I sometimes wonder now whether
the days were long for Afi, despite all
the company he had. The only things I
recall him doing were grinding the cof-
fee and playing the piano. Whenever he
wanted anything, he always called me.
When he had the urge to play, I would
lead him into the back parlour. After
awhile, I would hear the sounds of
“God Save the King.” That would be
my signal to lead him back to his chair
in the kitchen.
For Afi’s sake, we had a large
wooden clock that sat on a shelf in the
kitchen. It had a loud resonant tone
when it struck. It must have been a great
comfort to him during his long still
nights. I don’t know what became of the
clock. I wish I had it.
Just before the end of World War I,
a sister of mine was selected to be a
V.A.D. nurse in London. She was a
librarian in Regina. Before her depar-
ture, she came home and brought her
trunk. She decided to discard some of
her possessions. She’d lift things out
one by one and say, “Who wants this?”
“Why,” I said, “I do,” when a pair of
white kid gloves were displayed. Why I
chose those I don’t know. Leslie village
society didn’t really make white kid
gloves de rigueur. One evening I decid-
ed to clean them. I put some gasoline in
a saucer, a glove on my right hand, and
rubbed it with a soaked cloth. I was
almost through when I heard Afi call
from his bedroom. I jumped up quickly
to see what he needed. He wanted to
light his pipe. Poof! Flames two to three
feet high leapt from my hand. My father
came quickly and smothered the fire
with his hands. Fortunately we had a
doctor. That was unusual. I think I
would have gone mad if we had had to
wait for one from the next town. This
doctor had served in the war and was
experienced in dealing with bums. Till
he arrived, I kept running out the back
door, around the house, and into the
front. Twice a day the doctor came for
about three weeks. One day he arrived
carrying a shingle. What could that be
for, I wondered. Not to paddle me, I
hoped. The doctor then laid my hand on
the board, straightened my fingers as
much as possible, and bound the two
together. Every day the fingers were
straightened a bit more till they were
perfectly straight. Thank you Dr. Scott.
I still remember your name. I owe it to
you that my hand healed perfectly.
I know I never felt any ill feeling
toward my afi, thinking that if he just
hadn’t felt it necessary to enjoy a pipe
at that particular moment, this would
not have happened. I loved my afi.
Letters to the Editor
To the Editor:
On a recent Sunday, after having lis-
tened to a brilliant sermon on “The
Good Shepherd” (John 10) at our local
Knox Presbyterian Church, Margaret
and I drove a few miles to neighbouring
Campbellville to have lunch with
friends at “The Country Laine” [sic].
This small restaurant, which we can
heartily recommend, has been lovingly
moulded from part of an old lumber
yard building with the rustic atmos-
phere charmingly maintained. Part of
the decor consists of old books which
lie about in casual piles here and there.
We were seated at a table under a
window on the ledge of which rested a
small pile of books. I glanced at them
and was suddenly stirred at seeing the
name “Gunnar Gunnarsson” as the
author of a slim volume with the title
The Good Shepherd. I found the double
coincidence exciting: the Icelandic
name of the author and the identity of
the morning’s sermon and the title of
the book.
Gunnar Giinnarsson was indeed an
Icelander, bom about 1889, who wrote
a large number of books and other writ-
ings, all about Iceland. The Good
Shepherd was written in Danish while
he was studying in Denmark. It was
translated into English by Kenneth C.
Kaufman and published by the Bobbs-
Merrill Company in 1940.
My object in telling you this is to
enquire whether any L-H reader has a
copy of an Icelandic translation, or
knows where there is one. I would very
much like to acquire such a copy, either
by purchase or by a temporary loan.
Yours truly,
Ed Eggertson
Burlington, ON
Correction
In ourprevious
issue, we print-
ed that Einar
Arnarson had
been president
of Betelstadur
from 19H7 to
1986. It should
have read from
1987 to 1996.

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