The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1955, Page 22

20
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Winter 1955
present is found for us under the
tree; Easter mornings, with the stiff,
starched white dresses and the natural
colored straw hats, tied with wide rib-
bons under the chin, and the black
patent leather shoes, as I tiptoe into
the church, eyes downcast, firmly hold-
ing my mother’s hand.
Here in the church I like to linger
and watch the whole community enter
the double-doors. Somehow the women
all look alike. Perhaps it is their hats,
with the wide brims and high crowns
favoring satin bows or thin black
feathers, all with the same home-made
touch. They are buxom and motherly
and I know I must follow their way
of life to reach my destiny.
Their children stiffen (in a disci-
plined way) as they step aside for their
elders, yet I see the gleam of divine
humor in their eyes. It is difficult for
me to recognize the men as I seldom
think of them in “dressed-up” attire.
I miss the wide straw hats, the red
handkerchiefs around their necks, the
odor of horses and the sweat of the
brows, all forming the ensemble of the
comfortable blue overall. And now I
hear the church bells ringing in the
white steeple and I know how proud
the little man called the Proprietor’s
Shadow must feel, for it has been his
honor to pull the ropes that ring the
bells as far back as I can remember.
Then there is the wonder of the organ,
with its beautiful strains supplemented
with the melodious voices of the choir.
Every fiber of my being feels at home.
As I turn my thoughts and leave this
scene I find myself shaking an old
iron gate just north of the church,
very heavily locked, and there comes
a little old lady, running in haste to
greet me, although she really does not
have the time to visit with me, nor
does she open her gate to every one.
I enter and follow her to the back
door which she just left and wait as
she unlocks it. I am fascinated by all
the keys around her waist. She must
have something very valuable in her
possession, as I never saw a lock or
key in my house, and I follow her as
she unlocks and locks room after
room. I revisit her many times in hopes
of seeing into the next room. It is not
until I follow her to her barn and wait
as she unlocks the barn door, and see
her cow locked and chained that 1
realize her mania, for who would
steak a cow? Everybody has one.
Here is a letter written by her
daughter addressed to my father, and
I am running home to the hotel to
give it to him. It must be very impor-
tant, as I cannot recollect seeing a
letter coming to him before. Mother
and Dad are having their late after-
noon coffee at the kitchen table, and
we must wait until my older sisters
come home, because the letter is writ-
ten in English. As my sisters, giggling
hysterically, read page after page, my
father becomes impatient and remarks
when finished:
“If the lady wishes to scold me
about her old cow, why does she not
walk across the path and speak to me
in words I can understand?”
This is the first time I hear my
mother voice her reaction to a foreign
language. She is furious that my
father should be attacked in a language
he can not understand. It seems strange
to me that there should be anything
in this world my mother can not
understand. With her power of
thought she firmly holds her large
family together. My father is different.
He never voices his opinion nor raises
his voice to anyone. The only thing
that sets him luminously alive is . . ■
music!