The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2009, Blaðsíða 39

Vol. 62 #3
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
181
myself.
This home is where I discovered my
heritage. The surroundings transported me
back in time, allowing me to touch my
ancestry in a way that I'd never have been
able to do anywhere else. Lundi is the place
where I learned that I was bom from
Viking blood, and it is the well from which
my pride, in buckets full, flows forth. For
as long as I can recall, I've been Icelandic,
not Icelandic (hypen) Canadian - and cer-
tainly not French or French-Canadian,
although my father had been quite so. I am
an Icelander, despite not coming from
Iceland. I never knew I should consider
myself a Canadian until I learned about
that in school. Even then it didn't matter
much. My heart was already bound to my
mother and her people, a bond made even
stronger with my time spent in Riverton.
It was there that I had my first taste of
history. I read and re-read a binder full of
reminiscent stories penned by my amma
and her sisters, Begga and Hulda. I was
spellbound for days by stories of over-sea
travels, Indians, and the travails of pioneer
life. I was shocked at the description of a
beloved baby freezing to death in a house
that offered too little protection from the
icy reach of a harsh Manitoba winter. I
learned about the small pox epidemic, and
a great-great-amma whose nose bled until
she died. I read about courage, strength and
tenacity. I listened to countless stories
about our house before and after it was
moved from Nes to King Street, and of my
great-afi’s homestead, Vidivellir, where he
composed poetry, music, and entertained
honoured guests.
I heard all about how the house at
Vidivellir burned to the ground and I felt
the sorrow left in the fire's wake as tangible
as the rubble and ruins. Being at Riverton,
in a house left behind by a world moving
forward, and inundated with so many sto-
ries and anecdotes about the olden days, I
felt a part of it all, woven across time into
the fabric of the past.
I took in everything from factual reali-
ties to fanciful tales. I listened raptly to the
ghost stories whispered around crackling
backyard bonfires, burning high with
stalks of blue and petals of blazing orange.
I heard about how the house had been
moved from the old cemetery near Nes
where the Icelandic and Indian victims of
the small pox epidemic had been buried. I
shivered when told about the Indian bones,
unearthed by nature, and later re-buried. I
cringed for the hapless victim whose frost-
bitten toes had to be snapped off.
I've lost track of the multitudes of
people who claim to have seen, heard, or
felt strange things in our spooky house. My
amma was awakened once from slumber-
ing to see a beautiful Indian maiden, clear
as day, standing in the living room arch-
way. Looming above her head was a black-
ened hand, huge and larger than life. I have
gaped wide-eyed and trembling at creaking
stairs upon which no one visible was tread-
ing. Millie, the live-in nanny from my
childhood, was a very spiritual woman
from St. Thomas. When staying at our
house in Riverton, Millie slept with her
bible every night to protect her from the
spirits she called haunts. Almost everyone I
know who has visited Lundi has been
Hecla Island’s
Thora Grows Up
Sequel to: Thora’s Island Home
Snlvia Sigurdson
A GREAT CHRISTMAS GIFT!
Available at:
Solmundson Gesta Hus, Hecla
Tergesen’s, Gimli