The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.1994, Page 44

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THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING, 1994
favourite song was, “The Song of the
Moldau.” She played it for me when
she was well into her eighties.
Olavia’s home was always open to
guests. She loved to entertain. Her
hospitality was the ultimate and there
was nothing she enjoyed more than to
offer you a drop of sherry, which she
referred to as a “shot in the arm. ” She
was also a wonderful cook. When I
look at the recipes she so generously
passed along, I laugh to myself. Each
one has an extra “pinch" of this or a
“dash “ of that.
What an incredible character she
was!
In telling these stories, I’m
reminded of the best story-teller of
them all, my cousin Rannveig Bardal.
Rae, as she was later called, spec-
ialized in ghost stories. One Hallow-
e’en night we sat around in a circle in
the H. S. Bardal home, on Sherbrook
Street and Elgin Avenue, while Rann-
veig spun long horrifying tales. I have
no memory of the stories but I well
remember being thoroughly scared.
One night in the kitchen of our
cottage at Gimli, she once more had
us under her spell. For a long time
afterward, I was absolutely convinced
that there was a mysterious white
baby grand piano in the loft of our
cottage but, for some terrifying
reason, I was far too afraid to climb
up and peek through the trap door in
the ceiling to find out for certain.
The women I remember from my
youth were never anything less than
loving, generous and extremely kind.
My eldest sister. Alla (Adalbjorg),
who was even older than Olavia, was
married the year I was bom so I had
little contact with her for most of my
life. I was named after Alla’s maternal
grandmother, Agnes GuSmunds-
dottir. Alla’s mother, Sesselja, my
father’s first wife, died in 1899.
I sometimes wonder about “fate”
because it happened that my sister
came to live in my home during the
last seven years of her life. I actually
knew very little about her, as she had
resided for most of her life in Van-
couver. By 1964, she was a widow
with no children and her nursing
career was over.
Alla came to Winnipeg on a visit
and phoned our place just to say,
“Hello.” At that time I was recovering
from a car accident and our house-
hold was in a state of crisis. In no
time a taxi arrived at the door and
there was Alla to the rescue.
Ours was a busy home, with four
children and a hectic lifestyle. This
was the first time someone had come
to actually help relieve the burden.
Alla helped in the kitchen and she
mended everything in sight. She even
sewed buttons on the sweaters of my
youngest daughter’s playmates! Her
hands were never idle. When there
was no mending to do, she worked at
her needlepoint. I can look around my
house today and count twenty-three
pieces on chairs, benches, stools,
pictures and two chesterfields.
Several other people also cherish
pieces she gave away. Worldly goods
were not important to Alla. Her now
famous saying was, “If you want it,
take it.”
We were all enriched by our
contact with Alla and I like to think
that she enjoyed her last years with
us. My children still recall one of
Alla’s favourite phrases, which
seemed to capture her outlook on life.
“Everything’s beautiful in the garden.”
So you see, we are not necessarily
remembered for our daring deeds or
grand escapades. Sometimes all it
takes to create a lasting memory is a
small word or kindness - and some-
times it is in giving the gift of our time
and energy.
Could it be that maybe years from
now, someone will taste pincherry
jelly and think of me?