The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.2004, Blaðsíða 45

Vol. 58 #3
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
139
Johanna
by Chester Donaldson
Until I was about eight years of age my
grandmother, who could not speak
English, lived on a farm about eight miles
from where my parents and their children
lived. It was always a joy to hear that we
were going to “Grandma’s” for the day. It
was about a two hour trip with the horses
and wagon, or sleigh, depending on the sea-
son. Grandma would meet us at the door
with hugs and kisses, and her Icelandic
greeting, “Kundu Sael”. My sisters and I
would return the greeting, and with an
added half dozen other words, there wasn’t
much more verbal communication between
kids and grandma. Our mother, on the
other hand, could carry on a continuous
chatter until time to start the two hour
drive home to “get the cows milked”. For
the first five years of those eight years, my
grandfather was confined to his bed; in fact,
he spent the last twelve years in bed. I never
did see him out of it until he died when I
was five. He was in the living room then in
a dark wooden box, and my mother
answered my questioning look with,
“Grandpa is sleeping”. That didn’t make
sense to me, and in time, when I didn’t see
him anymore, I concluded that grandpa
died, whatever that meant.
Grandma was a gracious, kind and lov-
ing person, with a slight shake in her
almost eighty-year-old hands, and a con-
stant smile on her lips. Those hands,
though, could whip up and cook delicious
donuts and cookies. We could always
count on having piles of both ready when
we arrived, if she knew we were coming.
Of course, there were no telephones con-
necting the two farms in those days, and we
didn’t even have homing pigeons to deliver
a message. I still use her recipe to make
donuts at Northland Bible Camp, where I
still do a bit of cooking. Our guests never
did sample grandma’s delicacy, and can’t
compare mine with hers, but the compli-
ments prove that they are enjoyed. I can
inwardly smile and thank Grandma.
The two farms mentioned above were
situated in the heart of the Swan River
Valley, some 320 miles northwest of
Winnipeg. This beautiful valley lies
between two picturesque mountains, the
Porcupine Hills to the west and north, and
the Duck Mountains to the south and
southeast. The latter straddles the provin-
cial boundary between Manitoba and
Saskachewan. Until the latter part of the
nineteenth century the valley was covered
with a luxurient growth of trees of many
kinds. The mountains carried a wealth of
trees suitable for lumber, just waiting on
men to harvest them. The Swan River ran
the length of the valley, and eventually
emptied into the Swan Lake some twenty
miles north east of the edge of the flat land.
A trail known as “The Pelly Trail” also fol-
lowed the ridges and meadows from the
town of the same name inside the
Sakachewan border and ended on the
shores of the lake. Indians made and used
this walkway with its ideal camping spots
along the way to the lake. My nephew,
Marlin Sercombe, an ardent collector of
ancient artifacts, Indian arrowheads, etc.
has located many of these not far from the
farm where he grew up.
During the 1890s and in the first
decade of the 20th century, a prospective
farmer could pay a $ 10.00 registration fee
and “homestead” a quarter section of land.
This offer enticed many people to move
from many parts of the world to take
advantage of this wonderful opportunity.
The years of untold hardships and unimag-