The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1982, Page 33

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
31
when he was attacked by many men intent
on killing him. He fought fiercely with his
bow and arrows. The intruders were almost
ready to retreat when the string on his bow
broke. He knew it would be the end for him
if he couldn’t replace it. He asked his wife
to give him two locks of her long thick hair
to make a new string — but she refused —
and reminded him of the time he had struck
her.
My mother paused ominously.
“Did they get killed?” I gasped.
“That was Gunnar’s last day,” she
nodded. “His wife had a miserable life
after that.”
“How could she be so dumb?” I bounced
up and down on the sofa in great indigna-
tion. “Why didn’t she give him some
hair?”
“She was selfish and prideful beyond all
reason. This story helps to explain why
Icelandic husbands and wives are con-
siderate of each other.”
“Because otherwise they could get
killed?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Who knows?” said my mother. “But
they do know for sure that at all times they
need each other’s cooperation. You see,
you’re not used to grown-ups kissing each
other, but you’re also not used to grown-
ups deliberately causing each other trouble.
You’ve never seen them hitting each
other. ’ ’
“Hitting!” I was incredulous. I tried to
imagine my father hitting my mother. I
couldn’t. But I ran to his chair and pulled
the newspaper from his eyes.
“Daddy,” I said, “you wouldn’t ever
hit Mama, would you?”
“No siree,” he said, trying to keep from
smiling. “In any fight I’d want her on my
side for sure. But sometimes the same
people who do the kissing do the hitting.
You’d better marry an Icelander so you’ll
know what to expect,” he took his half
smile back behind his paper.
I decided to go to my room to finish my
homework, relieved I didn’t have to worry
about marrying anyone yet.
Before I went to bed, I went back into
the living room where my father still sat
with his newspaper. “Daddy, I don’t think
I’m ever going to learn Icelandic,” I said.
“I can’t even make those funny sounds you
and Mama make.”
My father shook his head. “Don’t worry
about that now,” he said folding his paper.
“Look at this,” he pointed to a front page
picture of a fat faced man with a cigar in his
mouth. “This man learned only English,
no other language. Now if you can do as
well with English as Winston Churchill,
your mother and I will be perfectly satis-
fied. And that will probably be good
enough for heaven, too.”
My father almost laughed, but I didn’t
really know at what he was laughing.
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Lundar, Man. ROC 1Y0
Ph. 762-5261 Ph. 762-5368
I >«■*» -----------——^— ----
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