The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1979, Side 31

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
29
violet eyes would look quietly, and her gaze
would penetrate deep into one’s conscience.
When she was pleased, or even proud of
her children her chin would lift, and her left
eyelid would blink, involuntarily, and one
felt that it was approval of the greatest kind.
During the first year of our marriage, my
husband, Henry, and I made our home in the
little village of Elfros, Sask. During the cold
winter months, my parents came in the four
miles from the farm to live with us. In spite
of the wind, snowdrifts and freezing tem-
perature we enjoyed a comfortable sociable
time, for we had as next-door neighbors the
late Mr. and Mrs. Johann Magnus Bjarna-
son. Mr. J. M. Bjarnason had been decor-
ated by the government of Iceland with the
Order of the Falcon for his writings, his
novels, poetry, and articles written during
his school teaching days, and retirement.
All were written in flawless Icelandic, and
did much to raise the spirits of the Icelandic
readers with his wholesome philosophy. He
had come as a child to Nova Scotia where he
and mother had their first schooling, and the
bond of friendship had not weakened with
the passing of time. Elfros has gained dis-
tinction as the burial spot of the novelist and
his wife. A very impressive headstone
marks their graves.
Mother and Dad had arrived in Alberta a
few years after the Riel Rebellion had
created mistrust of the Indian population,
yet by their honest acceptance of each
human being, they gained the friendship of
the native brotherhood.
One incident will illustrate how Mother
led me into the appreciation of all of God’s
creatures, no matter how unfortunate, un-
kempt or illiterate. It was on a cold January
night in Elfros. Henry and I had returned
from a train ride and were hurrying home
because of the wind which penetrated even
our fur coats. Scarves covered our faces so
that we did not notice the sleigh in the yard.
Eager to reach the warmth of the home, and
the welcoming supper, we burst into the
back door, aided by the blast of wind, and as
quickly shutting out the cold. As we greeted
our parents, I noticed in the dim winter light
a pile of blankets and furs in a corner of our
large kitchen. I looked in amazement as I
detected a wrinkled old, brown-skinned
squaw sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her
beady dark eyes shone as she rocked to and
fro in excitement at my unwelcome stare.
“Mother!”, I exclaimed, “What on
earth?” Mother had returned to the stove
preparing supper, and her reply was typical.
“Lil, dear!” she said, “there’s a blizzard
outside”. Her voice was gentle. After years
of living with her, I knew whose side she
had taken; so I shrugged and hung up our
coats.
Our new friend remained a few days until
the storm subsided. I grew to like her tooth-
less grin and our comical attempts at con-
versation.
By many gestures and finger pointing, we
discovered that our self-imposed guest was
a Cree Indian, from a northern reservation,
travelling south to the Punnichy area, to
welcome a new grandchild. Her son-in-law
was in jail, and her mother-love showed in
disgust for him but joy in seeing her
daughter again.
Dad had found shelter for her pony, and
fed it daily. We found her sleigh interesting.
She had fashioned it herself, made from
wood, box-like, roomy, shoulder height and
well padded with hay, blankets and an as-
sortment of clothing. Around the rim, she
had placed short spindles of poplar or wil-
low branches, which added a decorative
touch. Each day she fared forth into the
cold, going from door to door in Elfros,
begging for “OP Close” (clothes). She
would return to our house with her collec-
tion, pack them carefully in the sleigh, and
start out again, coatless, and cold. Such a
sight prompted much generosity.
When she left, laden with food, and our
good wishes we knew she had a strong