Lögberg-Heimskringla - 15.08.2014, Blaðsíða 3

Lögberg-Heimskringla • 15. ágúst 2014 • 5
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4 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • August 15 2014
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Say what you will, the world is still filled with fine people, and you can
meet them in the strangest
places.
I’m just back from five
fairly manic days wherein I
jammed two Icelandic August
2 festivals and other activities
between two eight-hour bus
rides. One of the other activities
included an attempt to get a
passport within 24 hours so that
I could cross the border for the
one-day trip to The Deuce in
Mountain.
Yes, it was my fault. I knew
my passport had expired, but
I wasn’t going to be flying
anywhere until October. Grim
reality struck when someone
suggested that I could get a ride
to The Deuce.
I phoned the Winnipeg
passport office on July 29 and
was surprised to find someone
at the other end of the line
who was determined to be co-
operative, though he wasn’t
sure my request was feasible.
The agent who served me in
Winnipeg on Thursday was
just as helpful, though he, too,
wasn’t sure that they could
manage overnight service. The
trip to Mountain was slated
for Saturday. He turned me
over to his supervisor, who
said she needed four people –
no relatives – to vouch for me
as a person and to verify my
stated travel plans, and told
me to turn up before 4 p.m. on
Friday. I learned later that she
made only two calls – one to
Winnipeg, one to Wynyard. I
had the passport in my hand by
3:35 Friday afternoon.
Yes, I do travel with
supplementary oxygen, and
the next challenge came on
Monday, the Big Day for
Gimli. I was picked up at 9:30
a.m., knowing that we would
move from parade to lunch to
the formal program to the final
reception to the drive back
to Winnipeg to the bus depot
with no opportunity to pick
up a spare tank or recharge the
concentrator batteries. There
would be a minimum of 20
hours between the first pick up
and the spare tank I had waiting
in my car in Wynyard.
Kendra, my hostess,
invented a way to secure two
canisters of oxygen into a
cloth-sided briefcase. I had
all five concentrator batteries
fully charged, and a canister
of oxygen in the holster over
my shoulder. Everything went
smoothly until we switched
buses in the middle of the night
in Dauphin and the front seat,
which I normally book for the
extra space, was taken. I found
a seat near the back of the bus,
tucked one canister between
my knees, put the loaded
briefcase behind my back, the
concentrator in the aisle and my
purse in the overhead. It was
going to be a long ride.
We hadn’t gone far when
the young man – probably early
20s – beside me asked, “Are you
all right?” I assumed he meant
health-wise and responded that
I was. “No,” he said. “You are
very uncomfortable.” And he
insisted on taking the briefcase
and dealing with it himself.
That got me to Wynyard in
some comfort, but facing the
prospect of de-bussing at 4
a.m. carrying the concentrator,
the two oxygen bottles in the
briefcase, the bottle over my
shoulder, and my bulky purse.
Three young people – again,
probably early 20s – got into the
act, and formed a little parade
down the length of the bus, each
carrying one of my items. The
bus driver took on the final job.
He hauled my suitcase over to
the car. No, I didn’t offer anyone
money. I did say thank you. And
meant it.
The world is full of goodness
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Editor
A little correction
Hi Everyone,
I was honoured to read such
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I stare out the window
Down at the sea.
Wondering if my dear husband
Will return to me.
He sails to new lands
He sails under new skies.
I wonder if Thor will help him
Or if Loki will tell him lies.
Will he come back
Happy and proud?
Or will he come back
With his head towards the ground?
What if he comes back
Not all in one piece?
Will my life continue
Or will it cease?
But for now, all I do is pray
And work while the children play.
I will wait here,
While my husband is at sea,
And pray my beloved will return to me.
Maxine Ingalls
I am going home.
Home where my heart is.
Home, where my soul flies to wondering
What it might have been like to be there with her.
To run with her on the beach,
To hear her hearty laugh,
To see her smile and to feel
The warmth of her genuineness.
I am going home for her.
She never came back.
She tried but could only go home in her mind.
My heart aches.
Aches for her;
For her longing to stand on the same soil where her mother is buried.
To visit the grave.
To cry.
As a child, she had no way to really say goodbye.
I am going home to find what she left behind.
Her memory as if she was still there.
Every detail so minute and exact,
Seared forever in her mind,
So that when she described it everyone after her would know where it was.
Her home, that is, or where she lived before she left!
She found love as a young girl.
"Unrequited", " puppy love", they called it.
Nevertheless, to her it was real -
The only love she knew - then she was sent away!
America held no joy for her.
Yet she must go for her father and sister
Waited for her there.
Left behind as a child.
Now, a youth, she had to go. They said so!
I am going home to walk on the same beach she ran on as a child,
To hold the same rocks on that same beach,
To watch the ocean come in and go out,
To walk around the only remnant left of her former home.
An overgrown patch of ground where a house once stood.
Decayed and finally destroyed by the elements of time -
Leaving only a memory!
This is where she lived and I am trying to feel her here.
I loved her even though I never knew her.
I knew her through her children, my father, and his siblings.
Through the stories they told of her beautiful face and kind spirit,
Of her love of life and family.
I knew her because of friends and family that spoke only kind words
In regards to her and found no fault in her.
She died too early and I missed the opportunity.
I can only image what it might have been had she lived to share
Her laughter, to hear the gleeful shrieks of her children
As she relayed the old stories that she told with horrible images
And the more they cringed and cried,
The more she laughed and told them another of the stories from Iceland.
I would like to turn back the clock and spend a few minutes with her.
But it can only happen in my mind.
I knew her because we share the same name, the same month of birth,
The same ability to tell stories.
I am her and she is in me.
Stefania - elsku Amma - grandmother!
I am going home for you!
Scott Stevens
Villian like
In the Dark Ages
Kidnap women and make them slaves
In Sweden, Norway and Denmark
Naughty boys
Gone now
Super Mean
FIRST PLACE INTERMEDIATE POETRY
Viking Poem
FIRST PLACE OPEN POETRY
Fara Heim
ICELANDIC FESTIVAL
OF MANITOBA
The Íslendingadagurinn Poetry and Short Story competition
is sponsored by the University of Manitoba Icelandic Department. L-H will print all the
winning entries, beginning, in this issue, with the three First Place poetry winners.
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FIRST PLACE JUNIOR POETRY
Vikings
Harvey Thorleifson meets his cousin travelling from Iceland
to North America.
Heard around the Festivals
“Both festivals, The Deuce of August and Íslendingadagurinn, seem more like family reunions of Icelanders coming together in unity.” Claire Eckley, President, INL of NA
Betty Goodman, Burnsville, MN and Shirley Rockwell,
Bloomington, MN meet cousins from Reykjavík.
THANK YOU
Our gratitude to Harold McConnell, Cavalier, North
Dakota, who made a three-year-old dream come true when he
provided aerial photos of Mountain, North Dakota during the
Deuce of August Parade on August 2.
Many thanks,
The L-H teamLÖGBERG-HEIMSKRINGLA Inc.
in our Arts & Literary
L-H
Issue # 19, October 1
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