The Icelandic Canadian - 01.09.2004, Page 30

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THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 59 #1
It was a good time to take an interest in
current events; whether it was the upcom-
ing referendum in Quebec, the Oilers' new
star, Wayne Gretzky, or Terry Fox's inten-
tion to cross the entire country by foot,
there seemed to be a great many things
happening. I personally hoped that the cit-
izens of Quebec would not leave the coun-
try, as I had just started taking French in
school and I felt it would be an awful
shame if I were to learn the language and
then have no-one to talk to. Thus it was
with great interest that I devoured the news
contained in the Winnipeg Tribune every
day by the fading light of the sun as I dis-
tributed the papers to the people on my
route.
Since nothing particularly out of the
ordinary happened in our neighbourhood
(well, perhaps once or twice), the fact that
somebody was moving into the old
Pudruchny house by the turn in the road
was naturally the chief topic of conversa-
tion. Not much was known about him,
beyond the fact that he lived alone; some
said that he had had something to do with
a circumglobal undersea line, presumably
fibroptics; I heard from others that he had
recently spent some time in Quebec.
The newcomer, whose name was Louis
Karl Larson, but usually went by his first
initials, quickly endeared himself to the rest
of the people in our sparse community by
coming up with creative solutions to seem-
ingly impossible problems. The one which
nobody forgot was the way he put a stop to
the late-night use of our road as a private
drag-racing strip.
From time to time, teenagers from
Winnipeg would show up on our road in
their souped-up hotrods and roar down it
to the point where it turned sharply, right
by Mr. Larson's house. It was never any
use calling the RCMP, because by the time
they arrived on the scene, the teenagers
were already long gone. Now, everyone
who had lived in the neighbourhood for
some time knew exactly where the turn
was, and could have found it blindfolded,
but of course Manitoba Highways had
placed a warning sign there for the benefit
of other drivers.
It so happened that one night, when
the increasingly familiar rumble and growl
of the exuberant, speed-crazed youths'
vehicles was heard at the far end of the road
from Mr. Larson's house, and the pairs of
headlights wobbled and glared as the cars
restlessly awaited the word to hurtle down
the road in an attempt to impress some-
body or other, that sign mysteriously dis-
appeared. There followed the usual
cacophony of roaring engines, and head-
lights streaked like comets down our nor-
mally peaceful road as a flag was dropped
somewhere and the race began. However,
on this particular night, the end result was
that two carloads of unhappy teenagers
ended up in the ditch just beyond the sharp
turn, their vehicles held captive by the
snowdrifts until the police arrived, at
which point the sign had mysteriously been
replaced. Of course, no-one could tell
exactly what had happened or who had
done it, but the final outcome was that
more than a few driving priveliges were
revoked and our neighbourhood got its
peace and quiet back.
I, however, did not trust Mr. Larson,
but I must admit that my first impression
of him was based on a rather unfortunate
incident with his dog, which I was con-
vinced was part crocodile.
When he subscribed to the Tribune, it
gave me an opportunity to find out more
about him. I walked up to his mailbox by
the side of the road, and once I had done
my duty as paperboy, I decided to have a
closer look at Mr. Larson's abode and took
a few casual steps down the tree-lined dri-
veway. I immediately wished I had not, as
the black shape by the side door, which I
had taken at first glance for an unusually
dark boulder, lifted its head and looked at
me. I was terrified for a moment, amazed
that something the size of a small, fur-cov-
ered Volkswagen was aware of me, but
then I relaxed, because I knew that a dog so
large would be on a leash. I had staked my
peace of mind on this logical assumption,
which unfortunately turned out to be sheer
fantasy, as I saw when the montrous crea-
ture rose to its feet unaccompanied by the
reassuring rattling clink of a well-secured,
hopefully titanium chain.
My mother has often remarked that I