The Icelandic connection - 01.09.2010, Blaðsíða 35

Vol. 63 #2
ICELANDIC CONNECTION
85
Arinbjorn “the Strong”
by Audrhea Lande
He has a Viking name and a Viking
heart. My nephew Arinbjorn was born a
big baby and his consuming interest has
always been all things large and strong.
He learned early of his Icelandic heritage,
and he loved to don his armour and hel-
met, broadsword too heavy for his three-
year-old arm to brandish in the desired
manner. The suit of armour was one of his
many “tepections” , along with motorcy-
cle helmets, hockey shin pads, goalie
gloves. When he started playing hockey,
we felt that he loved it most the protective
equipment - it made him look so big. We
never had to coax him to don all the stuff
- he did it voluntarily, frequently wander-
ing around the house with the shin pads
on, banging himself to show how tough
he was.
We’d play imaginary games when I
visited. One of his favourites we called
“Jumping from Island to Island”.
Cushions, chairs, the sofa back, all
became islands of safety in a dangerous
sea, where lurked the Giant Squid and the
Great Blue Whale. As we leapt from one
safe haven to another, his concern was for
the size of the underwater threats. “How
big is the giant squid, Auntie Audrhea? Is
it bigger than this house?” “Oh, much
bigger!” I’d say. “As big as this whole
town?” “Maybe not that big. but close.”
His blue eyes would sparkle, his jumps
become even more energetic.
My tall young stepson would occa-
sionally come along on my visits, much
to Arinbjorn’s delight. Once, playing in
the backyard with Joel, he called over the
fence to his little friend next door, not to
join them in play, but to marvel. “Jeremy,
come here! Look at Dzole! Look how big
he is!” Once, walking with him down the
treed lane at our cottage, going down to
throw stones into the lake, he looked up at
the huge 200-foot spruce tree by the road-
way, asking “Auntie Audrhea, do you
think this tree is as tall as my Pabbi?”
Clearly, his Icelandic father stood tall in
Arinbjorn’s three-year-old eyes.
At the Icelandic Festival, he was
thrilled by the Strongman competition.
How big and tough those guys were! How
massive the boulders they could move!
His hero was the winner of the competi-
tion, Magnus Ver Magnusson. We heard
that name endlessly from his adoring lips:
Magnus Ver Magnusson could move that
truck with one push! Magnus Ver
Magnusson could lift that stuck car out of
the snowbank all by himself!
When his little sister. Sola, came
along, Arinbjorn took to the role of big-
brother-as-pest with vigor. One hot sum-
mer day when I was babysitting them, we
were in the backyard kiddie pool, playing
and splashing. Sola was getting the worst
of it. Finally exasperated, I hauled
Arinbjorn out of the pool, clutching his
wet slippery hand, heading for the house.
“Time out for you, young man!” As we
marched up the steps, going inside, he
turned to me, blue eyes snapping. “How
strong do you think you are?” he asked,
equal parts outrage and awe. “Do you
think you’re as strong as Magnus Ver
Magnusson?”
O Viking heart, nine-tenths curiosity
and imagination, your forebears are smil-
ing in Valhalla, while I bite my lip and
mutter “Close!”