The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1982, Blaðsíða 32

30
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SUMMER, 1982
I went on picking at my food, not lis-
tening to the conversation. Then I blurted
out, “Daddy, you wouldn’t ever kiss
Mama, would you?”
Everyone stared at me. Then my parents
started speaking in Icelandic so that I
couldn’t understand. My brother and sister
were listening as if they could catch a word
or two. The only thing I understood was
my mother saying “Fisher.”
My father almost laughed, but looking at
me, he said soberly, “Your mother will
talk to you after supper.”
“You always do that,” I complained.
“English all the time until you don’t want
me to know what you’re talking about. It’s
not fair.”
My father restrained a smile. “You’d
better learn Icelandic, Kathryn. You know,
it’s the only language spoken in heaven.”
Everyone chuckled, but I didn't get the
joke.
“Only language spoken in heaven,” Ted
grinned. “Why’s that again, Dad?”
“It’s so ancient and pure, it’s God’s
favorite,” my father answered straight-
faced.
More chuckles and I still didn’t get the
joke.
After supper I cleared the dishes from
the table while my brother and sister had
their usual fight about who was going to
wash and who was going to dry. They had
to argue in whispers because my parents
didn’t allow fighting. That night they were
too noisy, so my father came in to the
kitchen to settle things.
“Stop that. Brothers and sisters get
along. Now whoever washed last night will
dry tonight. No quarreling.”
I went into the living room to talk to my
mother who was supposed to explain some-
thing about kissing. I was embarrassed and
I hoped she’d start the conversation. My
mother never seemed embarrassed. She put
aside the newspaper when I sat down be-
side her on the sofa. My father sat in his
rocker also reading.
“You should listen more when we speak
Icelandic, Kathryn,” my mother said.
“You’d learn it if you’d listen and then
make an effort to speak.” I sighed because
I knew I was going to get another lecture.
My mother would talk and talk and then tell
me a story to illustrate a point she was
explaining, a point I never quite grasped.
“Now, you know we kiss all our rela-
tives when we visit them. You’re used to
that,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered tentatively.
“Well, between visits there isn’t much
kissing among many of us Icelanders, but
that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.
We have our customs. We aren’t very out-
going in many ways — in fact that can be a
problem. We often keep too many feelings
inside — love, anger, even joy. Now when
Mr. Fisher kissed Mrs. Fisher, he was ex-
pressing his love. But people don’t have to
be outwardly affectionate to feel love.
Your dad and I love our children, but we
don’t do much hugging and kissing.”
“Is that why the Dolans kiss Monica
before bedtime,” I asked, thinking of the
last time I had stayed overnight with my
friend. “Because they’re Irish?”
“That might have something to do with
it. They’re just more outgoing, but now let
me tell you a story. This one is from the
sagas.”
Mother went on to tell me about a time
long ago when a brave man named Gunnar
married a woman who had long beautiful
hair. This woman was not only a poor
manager of their household, she constantly
tried to make trouble between her husband
and his friends. She even had her servants
steal provisions from their neighbors.
Gunnar was so outraged when he realized
she served stolen food to him and his guests
that he slapped her on the face. She warned
her husband she would pay him back for
that. In time fortune went against Gunnar.
Eventually he and his family were alone