The Icelandic Canadian - 01.09.1981, Síða 24

22
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
AUTUMN, 1981
often take time to read aloud — she had to
spin — so most of the time my sister was
elected. She could read better than I,
although mother and father had taught us
both to read Icelandic before we went to
public school at the age of six.
We sat around a nice fat box stove in the
living room, the one oil lamp placed high on
the table where the reader sat. I could tease
the wool and even card it and knit quite
creditably, while the soft whirring of
mother’s spinning wheel mellowed the
atmosphere and set a stamp of peace on the
little family group. My sister’s childish
treble would rapidly take us through an
enthralling chapter of an old Saga or more
modern romance. The books were mostly
borrowed from the Library Society, which
was organized as soon as the settlement was
born. No matter what material comforts
might be lacking the Icelanders have to have
books — good books and learning! Even in
the extremity of her impoverished circum-
stances Mother was one of the organizers of
the Library, and the first president of the
First Ladies’ Aid in the district.
Mother would explain to us all the big
words, tell us about the heroes of the Golden
Age Literature of Iceland. It was all very
wonderful.
Sometimes in the long autumn twilight
when the lamp light was not necessary we
just sat around happily with our work and
sang. Mother had taught us all her favourite
folk songs and we had memorized long his-
torical ballads. There was one lyric nar-
rative about the adventures on the banks of
Mississippi, by a poet in Iceland. What an
imagination he must have had! There were
sixteen long verses, but we sang the whole
thing! And the immortal lyrical epic of
Sweden’s Tegner: Frithjov’s Saga, based on
an Icelandic tale! We never got around to
singing the whole twenty-four cantos, be-
cause all of it had not been adapted to tunes,
but we never failed to sing the dramatic duet
of Frithjov and Bjorn, enacting the two parts
with great gusto and histrionics.
Or mother would tell us stories from Ice-
land. She would describe the shimmering
blue haze on the mountain sides, the mag-
nificent waterfalls, or the perilous crossing
of a raging river on horseback. She would
thrill us with tales of the fairies and elves
that supposedly dwelt in the cliffs and hill-
sides around every farm home, and who
were so real to all Icelandic children.
She would tell us how the sheep were all
chased to the lush green mountain sides for
summer grazing and about the great round-
up in the fall. “Oh, it was a pretty sight”,
she said, “when wave upon endless wave of
the fat white flocks came undulating down
the hills, with all the farmers and their dogs
skillfully bringing them into the communal
corrals, from there to be separated and taken
home.”
Mother put to good use her early training
in preparing Icelandic dishes and she had
that certain knack that knowledge or ex-
perience alone cannot give. There was her
Lifrapylsa, a very superior liver sausage;
rullupylsa, lamb’s flanks rolled up with
spices, sugar-cured, boiled and eaten cold
on her delicious brown bread. There was
head-cheese and cured meat, smoked at
home; there was of course, skyr, a glorified
sort of cottage cheese, but smooth as ice-
cream and served for dessert with cream and
sugar.
Friends and neighbours liked to visit
mother. Perhaps they found her gentle
cheerfulness a tonic for the wear and tear of
Manitoba pioneer life! It was never too
much trouble to serve a cup of coffee, with a
hastily stirred up batch of her famous pon-
nukokur, paper thin pancakes rolled up with
sugar, or bit of vinarterta, which has now
become a favourite cake with all Canadians,
where Icelanders are domiciled.
Christmas and New Year’s festivities
were gaily observed, with special baking