On Saturday, September 2, I was pleased to accept my friend Author Pam Withers's invitation to read a story at Mayne Island's International Festival. The festival invited islanders to celebrate their cultural background through food shared, music played, jokes told, and stories read. This is what I read...
Hello, I'm Leanne Dyck, and I'm Canadian. I'm Icelandic-Canadian thanks to my mom.
My maternal great-grandparents immigrated from northern Iceland to North America in the late 1800s. They didn't come alone. There are more Icelanders in Canada than anywhere else outside of Iceland. Almost immediately, these new Icelandic-Canadians established a newspaper and a library.
In 2007, thanks to my husband, I fulfilled a lifelong dream to travel to Iceland. Iceland is an island in the North Atlantic Ocean with a population roughly equal to the city of Victoria (on Vancouver Island), and every tenth person is an author.
There I met distant relatives who went out of their way to make me feel at home. They provided cozy accommodations and served me delicious meals. I globbed ponnukokur (a thin, rolled pancake served with brown sugar and jam), skyr (similar to yogurt), hard fish (buttered dried fish eaten like crackers), and boiled dinner (boiled potatoes, boiled fish, and butter). I ate too much fermented shark (an Icelandic delicacy) and drank too much Brennivin. Enough about that... And they gave me this...
Ta-da!
This Icelandic flag was made in their flag factory.
While in Iceland, I stayed in Hofsos—a picturesque seaside village. The Hofsos Emigration Centre commemorates Iceland's emigration to North America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and promotes the connection between the people of Iceland and their descendants. (Hofsos Emigration Centre) I was able to trace my lineage back to 900. I descend from a long line of shepherds and sheep farmers.
While in Hofsos, I was inspired to write a poem. I've continued to work on it off and on ever since. This is what I have so far...
I set sail for a distant land in pursuit of buried treasure.
My ship docked and I set to work.
The frozen ground broke my axe. The molten lava melted my shovel.
I roared at the mountains, "The land I walk is foreign land. The
sounds I hear are foreign sounds. The air I breathe is foreign air."
I thundered at the sea, "This land of fire and ice is not a part of me."
Exhausted, I fell to my knees.
A distant, muted voice sang in a thick accent from deep within the
earth. "Keep digging, Elskan. We wait."
Elksan means "beloved" or "dear one" in Icelandic.
Icelanders seek connection with one another and to retain the Icelandic culture through the Iceland-based Snorri programs and through the ethnic festival Íslendingadagurinn, which is held every August in Gimli, Manitoba.
Incidentally, the Snorri programs were named in honour of Snorri Thorfinnson, the first settler born in North America. His parents were Icelandic.
'In Icelandic' is a short story inspired by something my Grandma Olafson overheard...
(Please click the link to listen to me read In Icelandic)
The white-haired women were already seated when the young man climbed onto the bus. The minute he sat down, they started talking—in Icelandic.
"He's so handsome," said one of the women.
"Yes," the other agreed. "I wonder if he's married."
Her friend nudged her arm. "Oh, go on. You're much too old."
"Not for me—for my granddaughter. But if I were forty years younger."
They shared a giggle.
The subject of their attention pulled the cord, requesting the bus to stop. The young man offered them a smile as he passed their bench. "Have a good day, ladies," he said—in Icelandic.
Thank you for listening, and thanks to the organizers for this evening of cultural sharing. By sharing our cultures, we all grow richer.
You: So, Leanne, you haven't been on stage to give an author reading for at least two, maybe three years. How did it go?
Me: Well...
