In Part Four, you learned that my grandparents moved from Manitoba to BC, after WWII. This Sunday?
Where was my dad during World War II? How did he meet my mom? Did he follow his parents to BC or stay in Manitoba? And exactly when did I show up?
Rural Manitoba Memories
Dad: In June 1940 I joined the army, The Queens Own Cameron Highlanders. In 1941 I transferred to the Air Force and spent the next four years on radar stations on the east coast of Canada and Newfoundland, which at the time was a foreign country.
In spring 1945 while home on leave I met Olavia (Ollie) Olafson from Lundar.
When Ollie Meet Jim
Leanne
Perhaps, Mom was making supper. Maybe I was writing a story. I was seldom without a pen.
I asked, “How did you meet Dad?” I was a teenager yearning for romance.
“I don’t remember,” she told me. “The first time I saw him was in the Orange Hall. I was trying to watch a movie. A tall man, a few rows ahead, had his hat on. He was a wall without a window.”
“Did Dad ask him to take his hat off?”
“Your father was the tall man with the hat.”
Dad? The guy who held the door open for everyone? “But how did you meet?”
Once again she told me that she didn’t remember.
“Really? You can’t remember? When I meet the man I love that story will remain in my heart until the end of my days.”
“That’s nice,” she threw off.
Mom went back to making supper, while I watched my muse dance. And eventually I told Mom...
You were working as a nurse’s aide when they rushed in a hockey player—a goalie. He’d been hit in the head with a puck—just above the eye.
Would he lose vision in that eye? They needed to act fast.
As the stretcher sped past the pretty nurse’s aide, the hockey player stretched out his hand and caught her wrist. “Do you think me brave?” His face was covered in blood.
“Brave? I think you’re stupid. You could lose that eye. Imagine stopping a puck with your face.” But as she looked into that one blue eye, her heart told a different story.
No doubt Mom heaped praise on my story. She always encouraged my writing. But she no doubt also told me, “Your dad suffered that injury when he was a teenager. I worked as a nurse’s aide years later, during the war. I think that’s when we met—when he was on leave.”
“On leave? So how did you date?”
“We sent letters back and forth.”
“Letters?” My tongue tasted the word--sweet like honey to a young writer. “Where are they?”
“I burnt them years ago.”
“You burnt them. How could you burn them? Why…?”
Dad: Upon receiving my discharge in August 1945, I returned to Eriksdale and got a job on a Manitoba government survey crew. Ollie and I became engaged the following spring.
Uncle Jim: When Kay and I got married in the spring of ‘46, Ollie and Jim were our Bridesmaid and Best Man. One Christmas Eve before that I was sitting in the hospital kitchen at 4:00 am, when Jim walked in. He had been to Lundar to see Ollie and the bus had left early so he walked all the way from Lundar down the railway track. It was -35 below too.
Dad: In May I left for British Columbia, where my dad and I purchased a store in Lynn Valley. I returned to Manitoba. Ollie and I were married in September 1946.
Olafsons from Lundar
Leanne
A sturdy square oak rocking chair with a padded seat and back took pride of place in my grandparents' living room. The plaque, engraved in Icelandic, held words of thanks from a grateful community to its midwife—Helga Bjarnson, my maternal great-grandmother.
Helga was born and raised in a rural community in northern Iceland. I was told that she read her Bible every day. Was it her devotion to the Lutheran church that caught the eye of the local pastor? Something did, for he hand-picked Helga to study midwifery under a doctor in Akureyri—a seaside city in northern Iceland. After she had completed her studies, Helga was squeezed aboard a ship that set sail for Canada.
All of my Icelandic great-grandparents left Iceland in the late 1800s. In fact, due to inclimate weather and poverty, half the population was forced to leave the island they loved. They left knowing that they would never return. As there was little room on board the ship, possessions were restricted. However, they were advised to take as many books as they could. Iceland has long been a literary nation.
Grandma Olafson: My mother told me that she was surprised to see that a crowd had gathered around the Winnipeg train station. She wondered if it was a warm Canadian welcome. As she left the train, she overheard some people in the crowd talking. “We came to see the ice-land-ers—the people made of ice. But all that came off that train were all those blonds.”
Leanne: In Manitoba, they settled in an area called New Iceland. Today we can identify the area by the towns’ Icelandic names—Gimli and Arborg and Hecla and Vogar and Lundar and…
My great-grandparents were grateful for the land they were given. I don’t believe they realized that they were moved onto that land strategically. They were pawns in the Chess game the Canadian government was playing against the Indigenous Peoples.
Mom’s family had lived in Lundar since the late 1800s. When Mom married Dad she moved from Lundar to Eriksdale. She was the first person in her family to make this move but not the last. She opened the floodgates and two sisters followed—both marrying Eriksdale men. Grandpa and Grandma Olafson eventually moved to Eriksdale—thirty years later. Before, during and possibly after, Mom's oldest sister moved to BC and her two brothers moved to Winnipeg. (There's more story there. A memoirist's job is never done)
Dad: [In] 1950...I became post master.
Lorna Anderson, my assistant, and I worked well together until I retired in July 1981.
A first class letter went for four cents and Christmas cards, unsealed, were two cents. We sold a lot of two cent stamps!
At this time mail order shipping was the order of the day, with Eaton's of Winnipeg and Simpson's of Regina being the giants of the mail order.
That first Christmas we received sixty-five bags of parcels off the train one night. We had quite a time finding room for all the mail.
The main source of revenue was stamps and money orders, but the Post Office offered other services as well: there was a Savings Bank, we sold radio licenses and unemployment stamps.
Birth Order
One day, in 1949, my grandpa—who was never afraid to say anything to anyone—asked my parents, “So you’ve been married for three years. Time’s a ticking. When can we expect a grandchild?”
My mom, Olavia, looked her dad dead in the eye, “Oh, I don’t know… How about in five months?”
And much merriment ensued.
In June 1949, my oldest brother Rick was born. Three years later, in March 1952, my brother Randy arrived. Another three years, another brother, Keith in December 1955.
Three boys in six years. Both of my parents liked math. But no one was counting on me. I showed up in 1962--a little late to the party, but I made it.
I'm blessed to come from a family of writers. People who wrote for fun and to build community. Their writing built this memoir.
Last week, my husband and I celebrated a significant milestone...
