The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2009, Blaðsíða 40

182
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 62 #3
inspired by the house to a - feeling. To
those, like myself, whose hearts hold it
dear, the feeling is one of benevolence -
like lost ones are watching over us, as if
peeking through draperies fluttering in a
breeze. Although it's always eerie, I've
never felt malevolence, and a dream about
Riverton has always been a good omen.
Riverton is where my first tender
sprouts took root, tasting the fertile soil
that's nurtured and helped me grow. It was
at Lundi that my amma poured milk over
my cornflakes, teaching me to eat them
quickly before they turned soggy. It was
there that my twinkly-eyed prince of an afi
told me teasingly, and to my horror, that
eating corn flakes would grow hair on my
chest. My afi found a fragile seedling that,
together, we planted behind the tool shed.
He said the tree was mine and I felt so spe-
cial having my very own tree. I watched it
anchor itself into the earth and every sum-
mer when we came back to Riverton, I
would race out back to see my tree and
how much it had grown.
Riverton is where the buzz of small
planes broke into childhood dreams, send-
ing me racing out, screen door slamming,
up the backyard dike, breathlessly hoping
to catch sight of the plane landing on the
Icelandic River out back of the house. It's
there that I would play on a tree-branch-
swing for hours on end, singing myself
hoarse, day in and day out again.
The tooth fairy visited me first at
Lundi and I raced to the corner store with
the fairy-money clenched tightly in my
sweaty palm, mouth watering just thinking
of all the penny-candy I’d be able to buy.
My mother taught me to swim there, dunk-
ing underwater, sputtering and breathing in
gulps of water at nearby Hnausa Beach on
Lake Winnipeg. Riverton is where I read
aloud an entire story for the very first time;
I remember it was The Little Match Girl
from one of the many stacks of old
Reader's Digests that could be found
throughout the house.
I steered my mother's Chevrolet down
gravel roads around Riverton, so nervous I
barely dared to breathe, an iron grip upon
the wheel, trembling as I toed the gas pedal.
It's where I learned about death, by traips-
ing through graveyards, chock-full of
prickly grass and sentry-like mosquitoes
that chased us off as quickly as they could.
Reading the headstones was our way of
honouring the dead and, despite the mos-
quitoes, we’d take extra time at the unnat-
urally tiny graves of infants and children.
I imagine my blood is pumped by a
heart nestled at Lundi. It is the blood of
warriors, scholars, and princesses of days
long gone. It is the life force of Vikings,
pioneers, and survivors. It is the blood of
Icelanders, strong and tenacious. I know
not the language, nor do I carry the name.
I have not the looks of an Icelander, nor a
deep understanding of the culture, but I'm
full of pride just the same. It's a valuable
heritage, a treasure of mine, bestowed by
seasons spent in a place, time seemingly
forgot. It's where I began becoming me.
Even though our house no longer stands
today, nor do we now own the land, my
heart will always call it home.