Lögberg-Heimskringla - 15.10.2018, Page 7

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Lögberg-Heimskringla • 15. október 2018 • 7
It wasn't a banner day for me
– certainly nice to get a call
from Dad, but news could
have been better.
“Your Afi just phoned and
he will pick you up in at school,
so the two of you can motor
up here for Mom’s special
Thanksgiving supper, that is
exciting,” said Dad.
I enjoyed the old boy, yet
here I was in second year science
at the University of Manitoba,
not sure of a career path and not
keen on travelling all the way
up to Cranberry Portage with
my Afi. He was a good fellow,
set in his ways, and could get
longwinded with tales of his
youth in Riverton and his unique
take on the Icelandic culture in
those days, the Dirty Thirties.
Cranberry was a solid eight-
hour drive north from Winnipeg
and already I felt roots growing
in the city. Country living still
had a pull though, especially
up there. Now that was real
bush country, lakes upon lakes
and untouched wilderness with
mosquitos that could drag you
into the muskeg. Not too bad but
living in this country was not for
the meek. Afi loved the area and
came up to visit every chance he
got. So what the hell, a road trip
with the old master and Mom’s
famous turkey dressing to top it
off.
Honk, honk, then an
embarrassing loud cavalry
horn sound and I knew Afi
was parked outside my dorm,
right in the middle of the “No
Parking” area with his bold
new 1968 Pontiac Laurentian
turquoise convertible. It was a
beautiful car but he added extras
that were “Afi only” – a large
Viking ornament on the hood
with Icelandic banners flying
from the side mirrors and, to
top it off, sheepskin seat covers.
I quickly scooted out of my
second-story room and raced
to his car; I could not get out of
there quickly enough.
“Góðan daginn, Bossi, it is
a great day to head north. Hop
in and lets get a move on,” said
Afi, grinning from ear to ear.
He always called me Bossi,
some ancient nickname from an
Icelandic past – or was it a shot
in the ribs? – I never knew.
“Geez, Afi, I told you before
there is visitors parking at the
rear; this is a restricted area,” I
muttered. And to make matters
worse, my pals from physics
class were passing and noticed
his shiny car, the girls giggling
behind their armfuls of books
and winking at Afi who took
it all in like he was a visiting
professor or the mayor of
Winnipeg. Lets get out of here,
please, I prayed to myself and
hopped over the car door in one
swift motion.
“See you girls! Next visit I
will take you for a spin. Bossi
didn’t introduce us; he forgot
his manners. We are heading
north,” he said and gave the
girls a toot of the horn, causing
them to jump.
“Bossi, Bossi,” they giggled
and I suddenly turned beet
red, hoping against hope that
we would leave very quickly.
Of course he had to do a loop
around the university by the
impressive admin building
where we abruptly stopped.
“You know, I would have
loved to go to school here but
times were tough and my father
pulled me out of Grade 11 so I
could commercial fish with him
and then, after that, I joined the
Navy in ’41, World War II.
Not harping on things – that
is just the way it went and all
turned out fine. But geez, those
girls – ha-ha – did you see
how they ogled my Pontiac?”
he quipped, and then pulled
out his big, checked hanky
and blew his nose. I think the
proper terminology is the girls
are laughing at your car, but I
kept my thoughts to myself and
motioned for him to drive on
before more of my classmates
spied us. He gave a wave of his
grey, tweed, pancake hat and
we drove away like a couple
of buds heading off on an
adventure, which I realized we
were. Goodbye to U of M for
now, his convertible weaving
its way along University
Crescent, blowing through
stop signs and receiving glares
from frustrated drivers looking
twice at the spectacle we made.
It didn’t matter to Afi, he was
on a mission, a getaway with
his grandson, that was all that
counted for him today.
“Já, Bossi, we should stop
for a snack before we get out of
the city today. I’ll bet you are
hungry. I know just the spot
and this trip is on me, what do
you say?” asked Afi, giving me
a sound whack on my shoulder
in case I wasn’t listening. Sure,
I thought, food was not to be
passed up and I was curious
what sort of snack the old boy
would enjoy. True to form, he
surprised me and pulled into a
faded diner on Main Street in
an area that had seen its best
days.
Nettie’s Ukrainian Restau-
rant, the bold sign proclaimed,
and it had a circle of light bulbs
around that would flash in the
evening – most impressive
except half were missing. This
was not posh and it was not the
spot I imagined Afi stopping at.
“So is this your comfort
food – perogy heaven? – didn’t
take you for the type, ha-ha,” I
joked. As we parked in front,
where there was lots of room,
he suddenly became very
solemn and looked off in space,
lost in his thoughts.
“My first real girlfriend,
Bossi, was Ukrainian, and
we were lost in love – but in
those days that was frowned
on. Goolies stuck to their own
people and my parents made
things difficult. But enough of
that – lets eat, I still have a taste
for perogies though, ha-ha.”
So we sat in the diner and
ate in silence, each lost in his
own thoughts. Was that a tear
I saw in Afi’s eye when the
shapely blonde waitress brought
his steaming bowl of perogies
and gave him a cheery smile?
Poor old coot, I thought;
he really must have been head
over heels way back then.
He devoured his food before
I was half way through and
then began to slurp his coffee,
pausing to dip a sugar cube in
and then pop it in his mouth.
“You know her name was
Nancy, but I won’t tell you her
last name and she still lives in
the Riverton area. I was furious
with my parents for a long
time; it just seemed cruel at that
time. Be thankful, Bossi, your
parents aren’t that way; the old
days had their dark side.”
Hmm, I didn’t reply but
I appreciated this rather sad
secret and after he had two cups
of coffee and many sugar cubes,
we departed Nettie’s Ukrainian
Restaurant. Our next stop, Gimli.
The Pontiac was a pleasure
to ride in but Afi’s choice of
music was a little grating. He
had brought along a selection of
tapes that he changed regularly
like an expert disc jockey, all of
them the country and western
greatest hits from cowboy
yodeling to syrupy crooning
and, of course, he hummed
along and tapped his fingers on
the steering wheel. Luckily, I
had my favourite James Bond
book to pass the time. Along the
route Afi would point out special
locations where some incident
from his past cropped up and he
would give me the gossip.
“That dock is where Erik
had his boat tied up and it was
lost in the storm – all his nets,
nothing was recovered.”
“Over there, Bossi, your
great-uncle Palmi kept his
horses; there was a rustler came
through, but I don’t recall what
happened.”
“See that point? That is
where the lobstick marker
guided our fishing crew in
every summer; it is gone now.”
This went on and on, country
music and little tidbits of local
news that he emphasized
with a slap on the dash or a
sudden twirl of his cap. It was
actually fun for me. I enjoyed
his company and I must admit
I reveled in probing his mind,
chuckling to myself at some
of the outrageous stories. Of
course, he would get frustrated
and then pull out his snuff can,
taking a big chew, bits of the
Copenhagen’s Finest dribbling
down his chin. This was my
hint to clam up and let him
listen to his music, the volume
up and down, then getting more
excited as we approached the
outskirts of Gimli. This was
just the beginning. Six more
hours to Cranberry and Mom’s
Thanksgiving supper – a unique
trip, indeed. Geez, I wasn’t
Hemingway, but some day I
would have to write about it!
Ian Johnson
The Pas, MB
Afi hits
the road
PHOTO: WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
Late ’60s Pontiac convertible
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580 Victor Street
Winnipeg R3G 1R2
204-772-7444
www.mts.net/~flcwin
Worship with us
Sundays 10:30 a.m.
Pastor Michael Kurtz
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L-H
Translat ion
Serv ices
English to Icelandic
or
Icelandic to English
We can accommodate
your translation needs
contact L-H for a quote
LH@LH-INC.CA
(204) 284 5686 TF: 1-866-564-2374