The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.1994, Blaðsíða 43

SPRIMG, 1994
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
153
Olavia Finnbogason
my first cousin, Olavia Finnbogason,
was twenty-six years older than I.
Next to my mother, she was probably
the most important woman in my life.
It so happened that Olavia’s son,
Alan, was bom the day after I was. I
was my mother’s thirteenth child and,
as she wasn’t well, Olavia offered to
breast feed me along with Alan. Even
to this day Alan chides me that, as a
result of his mother’s generosity, he
was an emaciated child because I had
a stronger “pull.”
Olavia and I continued to maintain
our special bond. From the time I was
married and living in a suburb of
Winnipeg, many was the time the
phone would ring in the morning and
there would be Olavia. "What are you
doing today? I want to come out to
see you.” I’d bundle up the kids and
go down to the bus stop to meet her.
Olavia had a lot of class. You never
saw her when she wasn’t beautifully
dressed, with her makeup on and
earrings to match her outfit. She
loved to play the piano and her
Ingunn Marteinsson
One day she showed me how to
make skyr from buttermilk. As she
poured the milk from the carton, I
watched her as she held it in mid-air
until every drop escaped. I thought to
myself,
“There’s a dairyman’s wife.”
Kleinur remind me of my Auntie
Ingunn, my father’s sister. On
Sundays, after my father dropped my
older brothers and sisters off at
church to attend Sunday School at
First Lutheran, he’d take me with him
to Auntie’s house on Lipton Street. I
don’t know the number, but I could
pick out the house with the long oval
window in the front door. My aunt
was married to Reverend Runolfur
Marteinsson.
I remember standing on a chair
and singing the song my mother
taught me, "Dansi, dansi, dukkan
min, ” and all the love and praise I
received as I filled myself with
Auntie’s freshly made kleinur.
Being one of the youngest in our
large family, it’s not surprising that