The Icelandic Canadian - 01.08.2006, Page 17

Vol. 60 #2
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
59
Growing up Unitarian
A recollection of the past 90 years
by Allie Benson Pascoe
I am in the Unitarian Church and the
buzzing of the crowd has stopped as I
reflect on the saddest day of my life. I
shimmied up the back window of the
church. In my bag I carry a powder puff, a
comb and a screwdriver. I want to make
sure Benna’s hair is in place and knew she
never liked a shiny nose. With the screw-
driver I jimmy up the lid of the wooden
box that contained her coffin. I raised the
lid of her coffin. Her hair was in perfect
order and her nose was not shiny. My old-
est sister was dead of spinal meningitis at
age 20. I left the church as I entered. The
next day, the church was packed to over-
flowing. Then I recalled a happier memory
as my sister Kristine, ‘Buddie’ was married
here and again the church was full, with
school children leaning over the little bal-
cony.
“No, I am not going to the cemetery.”
My oldest sister Benna replies, “Yes you
are. He was a member of our family who
has brought disgrace upon our good
name.” The three Benson girls and their
cousin Helen Benson trekked the mile
from their home opposite the Lutheran
church to the cemetery on highway nine.
The cemetery was now one as some
Unitarian lads after partaking of copious
amounts of ‘Brenavine’ or home brew had
poured gas on the fence, which divided the
graves of the Lutherans from those of the
Unitarians. The fence burned. Would we
go to two different parts of Heaven?
After arriving at the grave site of
Benedict Freemanson, Benna proceeded to
give forth a resounding tirade of displea-
sure in that the newly departed had written
a letter to his brother-in-law and other
members of the community as to his views
of them and their actions. This was read
out at the gravesite. The missive was so
long that the sun had begun to set and a
lantern had to be requested. My older sis-
ter, Kristine who we called Buddie fol-
lowed Benna. Then Benna directed that we
all spit on his grave. She spat, Buddie spat,
as did Helen. I refused. Benna told me I
was part of the family and I must spit. At
age five, my efforts at spitting were not
acceptable and I was told to do it properly.
That night, I stuck as close to my
mother as possible following her every
step. At bedtime I tried to say the numer-
ous prayers taught to me by my very
Lutheran Amma. I was unable to get
through them, as I was unable to recall
them. I called for my Amma who was hard
of hearing “What damn word comes after
Jesus’ name? That brought her in and I was
told to say an extra prayer for using a blas-
phemous word. I finally fell asleep and was
relieved that the morning sun did rise and I
had not been consumed by fire in the night.
Whenever I visited the cemetery, I skirted
around the desecrated grave.
Gimli had two Jewish families, the
Greenbergs. I was about seven years old
and Benny Greenberg was a grade ahead of
me. As I was coming out of the church after
Sunday school, he proceeded to tell me
that Jesus was a Jew. I said he was crazy as
everyone knows that Jesus was Icelandic.
We had just had a story about him and we
sang about him all in Icelandic. I went
home and indignantly shared the stupidity
of Benny Greenberg with my mother. I
was dumbfounded when she confirmed
that in fact Jesus was a Jew! He was not
even a Unitarian. Well, I was never going to
speak to him again. My mother lectured me
that I was lucky to have such a friend as
Benny Greenberg and that we should be
grateful we could choose our friends