The Icelandic Canadian - 01.04.1988, Blaðsíða 24

22
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING, 1988
to me, greeted me in Icelandic and gave me
a resounding kiss.
“I would have to be stone blind not to
recognize you even among many thou-
sands,” she said, “because you are the image
of your late grandfather. However, I thought
you would not be quite so tall but would be
fatter. Please forgive me for being so late.
The train arrived earlier than I expected
and also, there were other things that de-
layed me.”
I asked her not to say anything more
about it because I was so pleased to be in
Winnipeg and to have found her.
“We will start out immediately for my
home,” she said, “and don’t worry about
your luggage until tomorrow.”
And so I set off with my cousin, my
suitcase in my hand. We first went east
along the track for a bit and then turned
north towards the river. My cousin walked
so fast that I could hardly keep up with
her. Nor was she silent on the way, talking
incessantly about various things, especially
about the many jobs then available in Win-
nipeg, the high wages and the chronic
shortage of people.
“Now we have come to Gladstone
Street,” she said suddenly, “and over there
you can see the ‘crooked house’ where I
live. She pointed to a big house which
stood on the river bank.
“Why is it called the ‘crooked house’?
said I.
“Because it leans a little,” said my cousin.
“But I find it suits me very well because the
river is so close and the rent is not so high
compared to other places. I have four
rooms upstairs. Anna and I moved there
early this spring. She works during the day
at a laundry just south of the railroad sta-
tion, but I do laundry at home for several
people in the neighborhood, and as well, I
sell board and room to three men. My
boarders are all Icelandic.”
Shortly after, we reached the crooked
house. It stood on the bank of the Red
River, a very short distance from the old
mill on Point Douglas. It was one of the
oldest houses in the city and had once been
a splendid hotel or inn which was called
“The Buffalo.” But in 1882, when the river
flooded Point Douglas, it shifted quite a bit
and thus became the “crooked” house.
Because of that, little care had been taken
of it since. It was a huge, two-story timber
house with a flat roof and had originally
been painted white but in later years had
become gray and ugly. It had stood for
many years, alone and aloof on the banks
of the Red, like a beached ship, silent and
gloomy. Its shadow seemed to be blacker
than the shadows of other houses, and the
wind seemed to stay there longer and
whistle more dismally. The south-eastern
rains searched it out more often and found
more holes in it everywhere; the hoarfrost
was thicker on its panes than on other
windows and it seemed that the snowbanks
were both higher and denser around it than
elsewhere. And although the town grew
year by year with great haste, stretching
itself far west over the prairies and spread-
ing itself over all of Point Douglas, and
though the houses became denser and
closer along every street, it was as if every-
one avoided building near this solitary,
weatherbeaten, crooked house. It was as if
everyone regarded it with distaste and
wanted to build as far away from it as
possible, and even to walk by it as seldom
as possible.
The crooked house always reminded
me of the leaning tower of Pisa. Likewise,
it called to mind a ruin which was said to
be haunted because of its story, mostly
true, but perhaps partly untrue, a story of a
strange happening, which had taken place
within those walls in former years, when
most of the white men in the Red River
Valley were adventurers and heroes. But
this story was never recorded and is now
known to very few.
The house faced north and south, and