The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1955, Síða 18

16
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Winter 1955
^Uin aj ikauCfUt
by FREDA BJORN
Freda Bjorn
Imagination is the fruit of the mind;
when ripened with joy, food for the
soul. I like to return to the valley of
my thoughts and linger awhile in the
scenes of my childhood, where I meet
many dear friends. I seek with the gay-
est of thoughts a little man, thin-faced
and wrinkled with humor, disfigured
in gait, hut with a light step and a
rhythm of his own.
We children run south of town in
the late afternoon and wait for him
by the old, red, rusty bridge. In the
early spring we can see our shimmer-
ing reflections in the narrow stream
below, but now in mid-summer there
is just enough water to cool our dusty
feet. I think he is as glad to see us
waiting for him as we are of the ride
home, for I don’t ever remember seeing
a shadow of despair upon his features.
He has a way of twisting his ruddy
mustache and turning bis head to one
side, as if his cheerfulness were over-
powering him. His everlasting good-
will leaves the seed of gaiety in my
thought, and I find it in full bloom
when I think of the postman and the
ride home over the curving wagon
road south of my home town.
The ride comes to an end at the
main grocery store, that also serves the
community as a post office, where he
delivers the daily mail. The store build-
ing is low and wide, with a long narrow
platform, and worn, wooden steps that
make a squeaking noise that varies with
the burden they carry. There are
many familiar figures sitting on the
south side of the entrance to the
store waiting for the evening mail. It
must be more of a tradition than a
necessity, for I feel sure many of them
have never received a letter.
I see a stocky figure there, swinging
his legs and talking to himself, seem-
ingly lost in the enchantment of his
thoughts. His small beady blue eyes
flash with humor and express the
music within. I kneel down and adjust
my shoes near him to listen to his
chanting, for he is a chattering poet
and reminds me of a murmuring river.
1 can skip a long time on the melody
of his flow. I think he returns to me in
the kinship of harnessing my thoughts
in rhyme and rhythm.
I can tell what farmers are in town
by looking at their horses tied to the
posts nearby, whose restless manes
indicate a lengthy sojourn, or what
farmers have just arrived by the drowsy
feeling of rest that hovers over their