The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2001, Side 29

Vol. 56 #3
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
155
Home
by Sara Arnason
We drive past the prairies made yellow
and purple by the flax and mustard in full
bloom. In the distance I spot the old grain
elevator, letting me know that we are
almost there. My uncle's van finally turns
the corner onto Centre Street, the hub of
Gimli, Manitoba. I am home.
In the late 1800's my ancestors on my
father's side began to settle in North
America. One of the first places my
Icelandic relatives came ashore was at the
White Rock. Little did they know at the
time, this historic site was just a few miles
down the road from the future location of
the small fishing village, soon to become
tourist attraction, suitably named Gimli,
"home of the gods." Since then, Gimli has
become the cente of Icelandic culture in
North America. For one weekend every
year, this tiny town of only one mile
squared draws thousands of people from all
across Canada, North Dakota, and
Minnesota. During these few days in
August this sleepy little town, normally
inhabited by retirees, magically comes to
life.
Each year, as my father and I drive into
Gimli from the Winnipeg airport, I feel this
great sense of pride swelling in my chest. I
can't help but think that I must be one of
the luckiest people alive. Once a year I get
to rediscover my heritage and my roots,
which means more to me than anything in
the world. Though the weekend generally
holds the usual events that I have been par-
ticipating in for almost eighteen years now,
as the years pass, I seem to realize a new
meaning in every moment. When I recall
past Islendingadagurinns (the proper name
for the Icelandic Festival) I can't help but
think of all the cultural events I have
attended. I have seen slide shows and
countless documentaries telling the stories
of my ancestors’ struggles. There have been
plays written by Icelanders produce in the
Aspire Theatre/Gimli Unitarian
Universalist Church and sermons preached
in the same building by proud Icelandic
Canadians. I have heard the Reykjavik
Choir, witnessed traditional Glima
Wrestling and visited a recreated
Scandinavian village. I have even made
ponnukokkur, an Icelandic dainty, taken
pictures with the President of Iceland, and
presented flowers to the Fjallkona, symbol
of the festival, while dressed in traditional
Icelandic costume, all in one day! What I
have realized from this reminiscing, how-
ever, is that it is not the cultural events of
the festival that make these weekends so
magical or informative. It is simply the
quality time that I get to spend with my
ever growing extended family that has
taught me the most about who I truly am
and where I have come from.
I think first about my Amma amma—
my great-grandmother. Just three years old
when she came to Canada, little Gudrun
was raised according the rules and ethics of
hard labour. Tier family had brought her
into a country that was newly settled and
still needed much work. She grew up
strong and healthy, married Johann
Vilhjalmur Arnason, and soon had the full
time job of raising nine children. Gudrun
Arnason's hardworking life style paid off
immensely. My Amma amma got to see
four more generations come along before
she died at the age of 109, holding the title
of the oldest living Icelander in the world at
the time of her death. I remember singing
and acting out the children's song " On Top
of Spaghetti "in her nursing home room
when I was small. In return she would ser-
enade us with an old Icelandic folk song.
She had a wonderful sense of humour and a
personality that would light up any room.
The most important lesson I feel I have