The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.2003, Page 38

174
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 57 #4
cups of coffee and seven bowls of Cap’n
Crunch (he even almost ate the prize). My
mother was amazed, and I wondered if I
would grow as big as he had if I could eat
that much.
It had finally stopped snowing. Brian
and I trooped outside to clear the drive-
way, and despite my mother’s protests, the
man followed us out in his bathrobe. Brian
already had a shovel in hand, because it
looked as if our father was having trouble
getting our new investment, the snow-
blower, to work. The man seemed interest-
ed, and he rushed back into the house,
returning shortly in his own clothing. My
mother had washed it all (even polishing
his boots), except for the gloves, which I
had overheard her tell my father were as
heavy as lead. He had a big wool sweater
and a linen undershirt, as well as a large belt
around his waist. He also had trousers and
a warm wool cloak.
He strode through the snow towards
Brian, who was about to start shovelling
the driveway. Our driveway was about
twenty metres long, and I have always felt
that clearing all the snow off it ought to
have been one of the Twelve Tasks of
Hercules. Well, Brian was only too happy
to let the man have the shovel, and our
guest set right to work. My father, Brian,
and I stared in dumbstruck amazement as
he shovelled the entire driveway in just
under five minutes. He was about to start
on the road when my father called after
him to stop. He was afraid that the man
would overexert himself and faint, but it
looked to me as if he had hardly worked up
a sweat. So, seeing that the bandage around
his head was still in place, my father let him
have his way, and we went inside for some
hot chocolate.
Over steaming mugs, we discussed the
possible origins of the man. No-one knew
what language it was that he spoke, but
everyone had a theory. Brian thought he
was from Quebec, because as far as he was
concerned, anything that wasn’t English
had to be French, and therefore stupid. My
mother thought he might be Ukrainian.
She said that when she had commented on
his sweater, he had seemed to mention
something about having been in Gimli.
Lisa said that he was probably a lonely
castaway who had lost his memory (despite
the fact that one doesn’t see many cast-
aways in the middle of the Prairies). Tammi
murmured that perhaps the man had fallen
out of the sky with the shooting star, a the-
ory which I thought held some water, but
my father quickly shushed her. He never
let the conversation about our strange guest
run to such wild flights of fancy, even in
later years; I suspect he worried that if a
rumour like that go out, we would be
swarmed by reporters from the supermar-
ket tabloids, such as the “National
Enquirer,” the “Daily Star,” or worse,
“The Winnipeg Sun. ”
At that point, the man returned, cov-
ered in snow and ready for lunch. We
broke off our conversation and gaped in
astonishment as he polished off five ham
sandwiches, four bowls of soup, a chicken,
three bags of tacos, two containers of pota-
to salad, and a dozen ginger snaps. He still
looked hungry, and my mother looked
stressed. We discovered later that he had

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