The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2003, Blaðsíða 41

Vol. 58 #2
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
83
is still living and nearing his 90th birthday,
and lives in Winnipeg. He may be seen
walking down Main Street when the
weather is fine and sunny. He walks with
his gnarled cane, puffing through his beard
and has a gentlemanly bearing. His eyes are
always the same, twinkling like diamonds.
They are always youthful just like the pure
soul and noble heart of this remarkable
man. It is just recently that he quit driving
his horses. He was a true friend of the horse
and indeed was kind to all animals. He is
living with his son who is well-off and
respected, that came from Iceland shortly
after the turn of the century. It is a long
time since his wife died, and he has never
been really happy since then. He loved her
passionately with all his heart. He was
extremely fond of Arnor and they corre-
sponded often. Many times O’Brian
showed me the last letter that Arnor had
written him. It was written two days before
Arnor died. He was encouraging O’Brian
as usual, to come south to Brooklyn and
stay for one winter there. O’Brian would
maybe have accepted the offer and gone for
the fun of it, if Arnor had lived. When I had
finished writing the first chapter of this
story, I let O’Brian know and told him
what I was going to write about and what I
would leave out. He said he would agree
with that, but I said that it was annoying
that I should not write the story in the lan-
guage that a true Christian Irishman could
understand—
“But apart from other considerations,
my dearest son” he said “You avoid like
hot fire to make an elephant out of a fly, or
a fly out of an elephant, which isn’t much
better. Above all, do not have an poetic or
flowery talk in the narrative—rather stay
with the truth of the matter, so that the
reader understands. That which lasts is
what is written and understood by the
common people, because it is something
they can retain. They do no want any gib-
berish, either in the narrative or anything
else. This is why no story endures for long.
It has to be true and without an embellish-
ment.
I knew an author in Ireland. He was
my cousin, who was a prolific writer of
stories in poetic language. All were stories
of his sweetheart. He said that among other
things that she was “brighter” than the sun,
and countenance was like that of a full
moon. He swore a solemn oath that he had
often seen mushrooms dancing around on
the dung heap by his father’s barn, and he
had often heard frogs singing a song of
praise to the clock on the edge of the hill.
People finally quit reading his works
because they were not realistic. No one
wanted to read about a woman who was
“brighter” than the sun and keep in mind,
my son, that while you write a story, I do
not want you to make me out as some
demi-god. Just describe me as I am. I am, as
you know, an uncouth, crooked, pock-
marked Catholic Irshman. If you wish to
mention the wart that is on my face, do not
say that it is on my chin, though it would
certainly look better there. Just say that it is
where it is--on my nose. Remember one
thing. To tell the truth, and nothing but the
truth. Then the story will be yours, and
maybe it will be placed on the same shelf as
the story of the Irishman Handy Andy.”
O’Brian spoke thus and I kept all that
in mind when I was writing the story.
There is not much to tell about my
cousin Solrun. She lived in the crooked
house till the fall of 1892. She then went to
her daughter Anna and Kjartan’s. They
lived in the west end of the city and became
well-off in their early years, because
Kjartan was a good carpenter and was
always employed. He was a man of good
habits and spent his money wisely.
In 1904 they all went to the west coast
and live in one of the large cities there.
Kjartan established a construction business
and has prospered, and may well be said to
be one of the richest Icelanders in America.
Solrun is now 87 years old and is said to be
in good health. I am told she reads the
Icelandic weekly papers without glasses
and still writes legibly. Two young men
and three young ladies call her “Amma”
and two boys and four girls call her
“Langamma”.
She is always lively and in good spirits.
When she sees another Icelander that has
recently arrived from Winnipeg, she asks
how things are there now where the old