The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1955, Qupperneq 20

18
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Winter 1955
bloom, their orange tints only sur-
passed by the sun shades. Often he
turns off the trail Where patches of
violets are in bloom and, with the
same shyness that characterizes the
violet, he pulls the ferns apart so we
can pick the flowers.
I can still see his rough, soiled hands
holding the tender stems of fresh vio-
lets. He also knows where the sweetest
berries grow and lifts us up to reach
the fat ripe plums on the highest
limbs. But, if there is a nest in the
tree, he does not allow us to go near
it, for he guards the robins like his
precious hens. I can still hear his soft
laughter when he tells us about the
baby robins bursting their pale blue
shells and much too young for us to
visit, for if we were to touch even a
twig of their nest the mother robin
might leave them. He is innocence in-
carnate, and gives me the key to
simplicity that unlocks the secrets of
nature. He lives in my love of sticks,
stones, and earthly air.
As my thoughts hover over this part
of town with admiration for the wealth
of the store and the comfort of the
big house, I find my memory clinging
to the blossoms of lilacs in full bloom
south of the house. The fragrance of
spring after a long winter is as refresh-
ing as mountain air. And now I feel a
longing tugging at my heart to go
further south and visit my old home.
I will only circle the sacred ground
and catch a glimpse of mother kneel-
ing in front of a wide open oven, tak-
ing out steaming loaves of delicious
brown bread. There is a feeling of
domestic friendliness around an old
wood range, when its fire is crackling
up the chimney and its warmth radiates
through the house. I never resist the
temptation to touch one when I see it
cold and inert and think every
blister is worth it.
For a moment, while I listen, I hear
the high clear notes of my father sing-
ing to his heart’s content in the long
twilight before mother settles down
to read to us; yet, here I cannot linger,
for personal interference will cloud my
thinking and dim my sight. I will look
for the little tow-headed girl I used to
be, hiding under the front porch, for
the visiting Doctor is in town and,
after one frightful experience with him
I usually find a safe place to hide the
day I know he is in town.
The Doctor is a man of middle
height and he stands on the bridge of
agelessness. His greyish-brown hair is
not unlike the fur cap he wears in the
winter time, and being quite long, it
almost hides his thick neck. His power-
ful, broad shoulders seem to carry his
whole weight and his body bends for
ward with his firm step. But it is his
long, almost claw-like hands I recall
the most. They remind me of a vicious
wolf. In those tender years that was the
only wild animal I had seen, but now
when I visit the zoo I see his likeness
in ill-tempered bears. (I am not at all
surprised to hear that he is only partly
Icelandic.)
He serves the community from a
neighboring town, once or twice a
month, as the weather permits, and his
office is in the open on the floor of
the only drug store. He has a scolding
attitude. When he enters a sick room
he shames people into health by min-
imizing their illness. Yet, as I look back
1 wonder what compensation, if any,
did he receive for all his work. While
skilfully attending to us youngsters, he
tells us if we make a move or a sound
he will cut our heads off, and being
reared in an atmosphere of gentleness
we believe him. Once I closed my fa-
ther’s pocket-knife on a fat fist and in-