The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1979, Page 38

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THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
WINTER 1979
think the water drained directly outside from
the sink, and this was the extent of our
indoor plumbing. As for electricity, that
was more than a decade away for the Gimli
area. The cellar opening from the kitchen
was dark and mysterious — and out of
bounds.
Adjacent to the house at Loni was the
well-house. Here the artesian water was
piped, flowing constantly into a large
wooden box and emptying out into the
stream running to the lake. This was the
family refrigerator, where milk, cream and
butter was chilled and kept fresh in the cold,
clear water.
Across the farmyard to the north was the
big. red bam, with a lovely, big hayloft. On
the south side was a carpentry shop, smell-
ing fragrantly of sawdust and full of interest-
ing tools. It was here that grandfather made
a beautiful playhouse for my sister and me
— large enough to walk about in and to hold
child-size furniture and all our dolls’ things.
The spacious kitchen at the back of the
house was the family-room in summer: here
was the big cook-stove, the work and play
areas, and the table where we usually ate,
under the row of windows overlooking the
farmyard, the road and wooden sidewalk,
and the cottages across the way. The front
parlour and the dining room were used for
formal callers, but the casual visitors who
were the more numerous usually stopped in
the kitchen.
There always seemed to be people com-
ing and going at Loni. Besides the family
there were campers, local friends and
tradesmen, relatives and other visitors,
some stopping only for coffee or a meal,
others staying as house-guests, especially
during the Icelandic Festival.
But most important to us, along with our
parents, were our grandparents: Gisli, slight
of frame but strong, skilled, quick in
thought and action, public-spirited, devout
and generous; Margret, dignified in car-
riage, with a straight back and warm, ma-
ternal bosom, well-read and house-proud,
cook and poet, and an excellent story-teller.
However, in the egocentricity of the young,
we saw them simply as our “afi” and
“amma”, who, in the ageless way of grand-
parents, were wondrously indulgent and
endlessly tolerant of such childish mis-
demeanours as tracking sand all through the
house and leaving the doors ajar for flies.
Following the working adults about, we
were never told we were in the way: all they
were firm about with us was that we should
care for each other, and that we should
cherish the language and traditions of our
ancestors.
From whatever landlocked prairie town
we came that year, our arrival at Loni
seemed always the same. After the hugs and
kisses all round, it was a happy scramble
over the long grass of the yard, through the
swinging gate, and on to the sandy beach to
see the Lake, which we had been looking
eagerly for, all the way from Winnipeg
Beach. Next, to the well, for a drink of the
matchless Gimli water. Only after that was
it back to the house, a good meal, and the
comfort of the kitchen.
What luxury to go to bed on the screened-
in balcony, seeing the stars above and some-
times the moon making a path on the water;
then in the morning to wake with the sun-
beams sparkling on its surface, and grandma
bringing in a tray of cookies and chocolate as
a pre-breakfast treat! After breakfast, there
was a tour of the farm, renewing friendship
with the old dog, Coalie, and the cat, Kisa,
visiting the bam and the chicken enclosure.
Our favourite horse was an old mare, who,
after many years of faithful service, was
enjoying an honourable retirement — an
early lesson in the humane treatment of
animals.
Much of our holiday time at Loni was
spent on the beach. Barefoot, dressed in
light cotton frocks or play-suits, we built
elaborate sand castles with ramparts and
moats, and shells for windows. We wan-