The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1955, Blaðsíða 21

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
19
fection set in before his next visit. As
I left with my father to have it attend-
ed to my mother’s famous last words:
“Do not disgrace me”, recorded this
incident. She told me that quality of
character is revealed under stress or
pain.
I think as I dig my free fingers into
my father’s large calloused 'hand that
no building of character is worth
such agony. I always look at his hands
in my dealings with doctors, for that
doctor of my childhood left a mental
scar on my soul and a deep, thin, V-
shaped physical scar on my right hand.
As I hide from him under the porch 1
trace with my bare hand the knotted
oak roots that curve on the ground and,
when the Doctor has gone, measure
their tall shade over the house before
I skip north on the two-way, wooden
plank that forms the narrow side-
of it. We know of few places where we
can lift up the planks in hopes of find-
ing a nickel—but never finding one.
Now I see a pitiful old man coming
toward me—the first cripple I have
ever seen. His legs form the figure X
when he stands still, and he bends so
far forward that he is no taller than
his cane. He has to hold up his head
with his left fist so he can see where
he is going. He struggles a step or
two at a time on his way for the even-
ing mail, and on his return trip there
are papers pressed -close to his
side under his arm.
We, children, always pause in our
play when we see him coming al-
though he never speaks to us—'but per-
haps his childhood memories clouded
ours. Years later I learned it was mal-
nutrition that deformed him. With
the same awe and compassion I felt
for him in my former days I think of
him now when I hear of the home-
less and hungry all over the world. I
also find myself wishing that I could
pick him up and carry him wherever
he wished to go. I know now such a
valiant spirit never could have been
carried. I am sure his courage outlived
his crippled body.
In the center of town I see the
church and the hotel across the way.
Here terrific action confronts me all at
once as I enter the hotel. I am older
now and my thoughts are not as tender.
I can almost greet the whole family
with a matter-of-fact air as I see every-
body working. There are long white
tablecloths to be ironed, the old
leather furniture to be dusted, the
back porch to be swept, and endless
trips up and down the stairs to be
made before the delicious smell of
food comes from the kitchen.
Here in this hotel there is gaiety
and good living. Mother is in the es-
sence of her heritage, managing a large
househould. Here also is the sanc-
tuary of the only titled citizen in the
community, the Colonel.
The Colonel is a tall angular figure
with the manner of a country gentle-
man, but not the character. As I see
him sitting in his study, with one leg
crossed over the other, smoking an
old curved pipe with the odor of stale
tobacco, he pauses in his reading and
rests his glasses on his high, bridged
nose, looking directly at me as he
starts to tell the most fantastic stories
I ever heard, building himself up as
the hero of them all. There is a loneli-
ness in his unreality and I hope some
day he unwinds them all and . . .
finds himself.
How vividly I remember the church
across the way and the many beloved
scenes: the community Christmas tree
with the short, colored candles all
aglow on Christmas Eve, and the joy
of hearing our names called when a