The Icelandic Canadian - 01.09.1981, Side 23

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
21
MY OWN MOTHER
by Holmfridur Danielson
Shortly after the turn of the century my
parents came from Iceland to the Icelandic
settlement in Pembina County, North
Dakota. But times were difficult there so
they decided to tempt fate anew by moving
to Manitoba to the wilderness which was the
western part of New Iceland.
Within a few years my mother was left a
young widow, destitute, with seven small
children. In those days there was no
Mothers’ allowance or relief of any kind so
mother had to depend on her own re-
sourcefulness and such little acts of kind-
ness as the neighbors could afford.
Besides having all the chores to do and
the children to care for mother industriously
washed, spun and knitted by hand, fabulous
amounts of wool into fishermen’s socks and
mitts. For three years this produce together
with an occasional dozen eggs sold, was all
she had to exchange for groceries at the little
country store six miles down the road.
Then a miracle happened! For the lordly
sum of sixteen hundred dollars mother sold
most of her homestead to the C.P.R. for
their railroad terminal and town site. It
seemed like a great fortune! Now she could
get some necessities for the children and do
her bit in helping others who were in need.
Immediately she started planning how to
stretch the money so as to have a little left
for the education of her two eldest girls, who
would then of course, help out the younger
ones. Education and the building of char-
acter were of great concern to mother. The
self-reliant, struggling, farm folk of Iceland
had for centuries been the very backbone of
Icelandic culture. And being the youngest
daughter of such a family, mother had been
sent to ‘Kvennaskolinn’ or Ladies’
Academy, where home economics was
taught, among other subjects. But she was
determined that her own children should
have better advantages.
From now on mother managed very well,
with her small garden, two cows, a calf or a
pig for winter meat, eggs and hand-knitted
woollens to sell to the stores, which were by
this time right on her own doorstep, as the
little village of Arborg stretched itself along
the one main street, facing the railroad
station.
There were a great many chores to do. My
sister and I, by now nine and ten years old,
were to do our share. This we did with
energy and good-will, but our imagination
was such that we always turned every task
into a game of adventure. When we dragged
home dead trees for firewood we were
building magnificent bridges over turbulent
rivers; when we filled with snow the big
soft-water tank which stood by the kitchen
stove in winter, we wasted time burrowing
deep tunnels into what we termed our vast
sugar mines; when we fed the cows and
combed and curried their shaggy winter
hides, we pretended to be polishing the
sleek, glossy flanks of our Arabian steeds,
whose fleet, slender legs would carry us to
fame and fortune at the end of the rainbow.
Mother sympathized with our make-believe
although our tardiness added some extra
burdens to her own day.
During the long winter evenings mother
followed the age-old custom of Iceland,
where all the family and hired help would sit
in the ‘badstofa’, or living room, hard at
work on their spinning, weaving or knitting,
the men doing woodcarving, leatherwork or
rope-making, while always someone would
read out loud from the famous old Sagas,
Eddas, or modern authors, or they would all
sing ballads or folk songs. Mother could not