The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2009, Blaðsíða 27

Vol. 62 #3
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
169
Chalmers dealership, the Johnson Motors
dealership and later keeping track of the
Ski-Doos from Bombardier. He did it all
on his own for the first years. When Dad
returned from the war he added to his
operational duties internship, under Les’
scrupulous tutelage in financial matters.
When Les left to become Secretary
Treasurer of the newly formed Evergreen
School Division, Dad assumed the admin-
istration and accounting functions on top
of his management responsibilities and
took over Les’s place at the back desk
As each new season approached there
was a rising crescendo of activity. Nobody
punched time clocks. Command central
was the office with Dad co-ordinating peo-
ple from Chicago to Winnipeg to Fisher
River, S.R. busy moulding leads and shel-
lacking corks, and Captain Steve and
Captain Victor repairing boats and loading
tugs. The organizational logistics were for-
midable, but these men were experts from
long years of experience. Everything from
trunks with ledgers, boxes with pots and
pans, trays of nets, and bags of flour would
make their way to the Hnausa Dock, the
historic location of the family’s headquar-
ters, where they would be loaded onto the
Spear for the trip north to Berens River,
Georges, Spiders and the Landing. Usually
they would arrive just as the Riverton
Transfer, coming from Winnipeg, with
either Harry or Steve Olafson, and later
Steve’s son Danny, was unloading a load of
groceries from McLean’s, hardware from
Ashdown’s and dry goods from Altman
Shep’s. The first trip eacn year was the peak
of excitement. Fishermen, weighmen and
shorehands, cooks and cookies alike
stormed down the dock by truck and taxi
from every direction “to catch the tug” on
its way north. From the doorway of the
wheelhouse, Captain Clifford Stevens Jr.
would shout out “ let the headline go and
with an enthusiastic gang lining the rails of
the upper deck, and faces popping out and
dangling from every portal and hatch on
the lower deck, the JR Spear would steam
out through the harbor gap and turn north-
ward onto the open sea. Another season
had begun.
Everyone in any way connected to
fishing would find their way into the Sig
Fish office. A lot of business got done, to
be sure, but also a lot of ‘visiting’. You
never knew when someone came to the
office, whether it was before the season
frenzy or the after season lull, how long the
visit may be, whether minutes, hours, or
when the lock was turned as everyone
made their way home for dinner or supper.
There were no stop watches at the Sig Fish
office, Nor did anyone do the “lunch”
thing in Riverton. Those were the days
when dinner was still dinner in the middle
of the day and supper was still supper at the
end of the day.
I could give you small glimpses of
many of such visitors, but I choose to paint
a short and more intimate portrait of one as
emblematic of many others. My Afi Malli,
Mom’s Dad, was the quintessential Lake
Winnipeg fisherman. With his pipe chug-
ging Old Chum tobacco, and a cup of cof-
fee in his hand, he plied his way across the
shallow and treacherous waters of Lake
Winnipeg every summer and fall and on the
even more dangerous ice that covered it for
six months every winter, starting in his
thirteenth year and not stopping for sixty-
two more. The lake moulded him and he
personified it. Through him and many oth-
ers like him who were sustained by the
lake, we came to know its charm and its
guile, its softness and fury, its mystery and
soul. And by knowing the lake, we came to
know and understand Afi and those like
him.
Like so many Lake Winnipeg fisher-
men, he had a charisma that stuck to you.
Dad learned that quickly. When Dad
returned from the navy, he saw a beautiful
young woman walking down the street
entering the Sigurdson Thorvaldson store
where she was working and his romantic
instincts were enlivened. He soon learned
she was Sylvia Brynjolfson, one of those
‘real Hecla girls” as they are known to be
called, whose family had moved to
Riverton in 1942 while he was away.
Talking fish to her dad Malli, by happen-
chance picking up the mail at the post
office daily, would soon lead to talking