Lögberg-Heimskringla - 05.12.2003, Qupperneq 2

page 2 « Lögberg-Heimskringla » 5 December 2003
Editorial • Ritstjórnargrein
Lillian Vilborg
Managing Editor
WlNNIPEG, MB
At this time of year we
encounter figures of an
otherworldly nature in our
homes, public places, commer-
cial establishments, on televi-
sion. These entities contribute
to the magic of the season. In
northem climes, the magic is
further heightened by the dark-
ness that envelops us for
greater and greater portions of
the day.
In North America it is
Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus and
Santa’s elves that we see every-
where. And angels. In Iceland,
Grýla, Leppalúði and their thir-
teen sons, the Jólasveinar
along with their * pet
Jólakötturinn (the Christmas
Cat), enter the lives of many.
I love the “jolly old elf,”
while ugly, srnelly, mean old
Grýla is a bit more difficult for
me to fathom.
Both in Iceland and North
America, angels are in evi-
dence as decorations on trees,
in windows, on doors, or out-
lined in lights. The angels
remind us of the love and light
at this celebratory time. What
amazes me is how often angels
manifest all year round.
For instance, this fall my
cell phone fell off the roof of
the car (yes, I had forgotten it
there at a pit stop). It was pitch
dark, no streetlights, a two-lane
highway. We pulled off, put on
the flashers and started looking
for the black phone on the
black pavement in the black
night. A black truck, driving in
the opposite direction, stopped
to ask what we were up to. A
few minutes later, the truck
pulled up behind us and handed
us the phone, did a u-tum and
drove away. Almost before we
could thank him, and certainly
before we could see his face.
I said to my companions,
“That was an angel who came
to our aid.”
I have often had such
angelic presences in my life.
Last year in Iceland, my aunt,
uncle, granddaughter and I
were stranded at the side of the
road with a flat tire. I called the
car rental people - we had only
had the car for a half hour! (I
was hampered because I didn’t
know the Icelandic word for
flat tire.) I insisted they send
someone out to help us.
I had no sooner rnade that
arrangement when two young
men whipped up to us, sur-
veyed the problem, changed the
tire, and took off. Driving past,
they had seen our plight, turned
around and came back to help
us.
Angels they were.
Angels have come to me in
female form too. When I
arrived at Ardrossan to catch
the ferry to the Isle of Arran, it
was a hike from the train sta-
tion to the ferry and there was a
wicked storm. Not a car or
human soul on the streets. I
was carrying two heavy bags,
and had no clear idea where the
ferry terminal was. As I was
ploughing through the wind
and rain, suddenly a young
worqan approached me, asked
where I was going, grabbed one
of rny heavy bags, and marched
ahead of me. Over the howling
of the wind and rain, I could
hear her stiletto heels clicking
on the pavement. i felt I had to
run to keep up to her. She left
me at the door to the ferry ter-
minal and disappeared. I can’t
even remember thanking her.
I’ve had angels tap me on
the shoulder to let me know a
car is going to crash into me if
I don’t stop. They materialize
out of nowhere and go back
into the nothingness. They
remind us of the goodness that
exists in the world.
At this time of giving, the
best thing we can give is what
those angels give, our time, our
kindness and caring. The won-
derful part is that we don’t have
to wait for Christmas. There’s
magic in the air all year round.
We just have to welcome those
angels into our lives.
Letters to the Editor • Bréf til ritstjóra
Dear Editor,
I must confess that I am one
of those “invisible” Icelanders
who were the subject of your
recent editorial. It was only
three years ago that I went to
my first Islendíngadagur at
Gimli. But your article also
brought to my mind that we are
sometimes not as invisible as
we might think, sirnply because
we are such few needles hidden
in the vastness of God’s
haystack. About fifty years ago,
while an undergraduate at the
University of Manitoba, I was
riding a bus down Sargent
Avenue in Winnipeg. It was
quite late and there were only
three passengers on the bus,
myself and a middle-aged cou-
ple near the front who were
heavily engaged in a domestic
quarrel. They must have felt
safe, as they were speaking
Icelandic. I managed to control
my amusement until I got off
the bus, leaving them still hap-
pily involved with each other.
A few years later while I
was working for Canadian
National in Kitimat, a man
came into the office one Sunday
aftemoon, full of complaints. I
soon realized he was also full of
something else. I thought, how-
ever, there was something
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familiar about his accent, and
interrupted his flow with the
question “Ertu íslenskur?” He
replied “Já” and continued on
without a break — but now in
Icelandic! It tumed out that he
had been a fishing captain in
Iceland, but at his wife’s insis-
tence had given up the sea and
moved to Canada. At first they
went to Lunenburg where' he
1 retumed to fishing, but after a
year or so they moved to
Kitimat where he was working
as a longshoreman.
About twenty-five years
ago I was travelling from
Harare to Johannesburg and as
we approached Jo’burg a pretty
young wontan in the seat in
front of rne began to chivy her
two small children in prepaia-
tion for landing. As on that
Winnipeg bus, I had to smother
a sntile for she was scolding
them in Icelandic.
From 1984 to 2000 I taught
at the university in Bahrain in
the Persian Gulf. On one occa-
sion I had to call on the chaplain
of the American Mission
Hospital. It turned out that the
chaplain was an Icelander who
had been bom in Ethiopia where
his parents were missionaries.
He himself had returned to
Iceland and Norway for theo-
logical studies and was now in
Bahrain.
One evening about five or
six years ago I was having my
dinner in the restaurant on the
compound where I lived when
a young man came up to my
table and began to speak to rne
in Icelandic. It seemed that he
and two colleagues from
Iceland had a big contract to
install some equipment in the
aluminum smelter in Bahrain,
and had been infomied by the
staff at the restaurant that I was
of Icelandic descent. For sever-
al months we shared each
other’s company, to the great
benefit of my Icelandic. When I
told my mother, who was then
about ninety, in one of my occa-
sional phone calls to her in
Canada, that I was getting a
chance to practice my Icelandic,
her reply was simply, “I hear it.”
It was my habit to try to speak a
bit of Icelandic with her during
our conversations as that was
about the only chance I had to
use my grandmother tongue.
I am sure many of us invis-
ible Icelanders are very grateful
to you for keeping a light shin-
ing on our heritage while we
lurk in the shadows.
All the best,
Eggert Peterson
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