The Work of Edie Clark

I had hitchhiked out there with Jane. We had started in Reykjavik, looking for work, but we were told there were no jobs to be found at all. The herring had gone and Iceland was in a depression as a result. My only contact, Peter Knuttson, a Brit who lived marginally in Reykjavik and somehow knew my cousin Mac, had suggested the only work available might be on farms. He gave us the name of a farmer, Gudlaugur Torfasson, out near Reyholt. It was a hard name to remember so we made up a song that ended with the refrain, Gooth-l-ow-gur Torfa-son! If we were going to keep our hope of staying in the country alive, we had little choice. So we hitched through the pouring rain – it rained most of the time that summer. We made our way to Reyholt, getting a couple of short rides but mostly walking. Through the rain, we saw a church. My heart lifted and I said, "A church is a sanctuary, let’s go in!" And we took shelter in the church, settling in the back pew. We were exhausted, soaked and hungry. Jane burrowed into her pack to find our loaf of bread. I took the wedge of cheese from my backpack and started to unwrap it when the minister walked in. That night, I wrote in my journal: "I was mortified when the minister walked in to find us opening up the cheese and tearing hunks off our loaves of bread." He was kind, though, and invited us in for tea. When we explained our mission, he said he knew Gudlaugur (at first we were amazed that the very first person we encountered knew the man we were looking for but we later learned that Iceland is a small community where everyone knows everyone) and kindly offered to drive us to his farm, about ten miles from the church. And so he did, leaving us off in the driveway, the rain still coming down in torrents.

The farm seemed alone in the vast valley, what we could see of it through the rain and fog. We went to the door and knocked. A big blonde sober-looking man opened the door to the compact farmhouse, tucked, as it was, against the big hill that rose above it. I asked if he spoke English and he said, "Yes, I love to speak English."

He was delighted to find that we were "Bandarikins" – Americans – and invited us inside with a generous gesture of his hand. Still soaked, we entered his farmhouse, warm and cozy. We set our wet backpacks down in his hallway, removed our rain jackets and boots there as well. I sat down on his comfortable couch with relief, as if I had arrived home after a long journey. His wife, Steinum, seemed to appear out of nowhere with a tray of pastries and a pot of hot coffee as we explained to Gudlaugur that we were looking for work. He listened carefully. He had the demeanor of a professor, completely in command and yet curious and open to new information. He told us that we were the first Americans he had ever met. He got out the map and showed his children the distance we had traveled. (He neglected to mention that the longest distance we had traveled to date was from Reykjavik to his farm.) "I have five children," he said, "so I don't need any help here but maybe one of my neighbors might. If you will stay here and teach my children some English words, I will go see if I can find work for you."

The children were shyly peeking from around the corners. Smiles seemed to be part of their natural demeanor. We happily agreed to his proposition. The oldest were daughters who, as I recall were 10 and 12. The youngest, Torvi, a little elf of a towhead, was four. In time, Gudlaugur started up his Land Rover (one of the most common cars in Iceland at that time) and rumbled out into the rain and down the rough lava road. He was gone for hours. It was June, when day never turns to night, rendering time irrelevant, so I don't remember how long he was gone but for some reason eighteen hours sticks in my mind. We stayed and helped with the children and with the chores on the farm, of which there was never a shortage. Steinum kept the meals coming and the house immaculate. She proudly showed us her modern kitchen, which, to our surprise, was every bit as up to date as any American kitchen and nicer than many. Her pride and joy was her Kitchen-Aid dishwasher.

We explored the farm with the children and they showed us how to milk the cows. We traded words with sign language, pointing to the cow, "cow" and then to us came back the word, "kyr." Milk; "mjolk." And so on. (Unfortunately, Icelandic is hardly that simple. But it was a start.)

My earliest impressions of the Icelandic people were formed on this farm as I observed these children so happy in their tasks. They didn't have toys. They worked on the farm along with everyone else, milking the cows and herding sheep, cleaning up, and taking care of what needed to be done. I remember especially the two youngest were set to work on the task of taking apart wooden crates. I watched them remove the nails from each corner and then, using the hammer quite skillfully, even the four-year-old, straightened the nails and set them in a small pile. I was amazed at their strength and dexterity. The wood, of course, was precious -- Iceland at that time had no trees, hardly a one. So each panel of wood was stacked carefully and it would be reused creatively. The straightened nails were similarly safeguarded. As these children worked, they talked happily and laughed. This was my introduction to the Icelandic work ethic, cheerful, exacting, and ongoing, even in the children.

Although I grew up in an affluent suburb of New York City, I did have some background for my work in Iceland. One summer, I had worked on a farm which gave me a bit of a head start on some of the work I’d be doing in the coming months. I knew how to milk a cow and shoveling manure was old hat as I had had a donkey while growing up and cleaning the stable was a weekly chore. I had cared for many children all through my teenage years. I'd started out at the age of eleven, taking care of two very young and very mischievous boys. They were always into something, including running naked through the neighborhood. In fact, babysitting was what I'd done almost fulltime, to earn money, so I could go to Iceland. So I was familiar with how children were, or so I thought. Children, I'd come to see, needed to be entertained, especially in an educational way. My task as a babysitter was to steer them in a good direction but overall, to keep them happy. That seemed to be what most of the mothers I worked for wanted of me. Keep them content and relatively quiet, play games with them, take them places, give them the attention and care that they needed in the absence of their parents.

These Icelandic children seemed to need no such direction. They were apparently born launched in that direction and found the humblest of tasks satisfying. Disobedience or naughtiness seemed not to have reached these arctic shores as yet. In addition, they roamed about the farm at will, there didn't seem to be any anxiety about their safety, much like the herds of sheep kept by each farm – there were no fences. The sheep were branded and grazed across the vast countryside until it was time to bring them in to be clipped, which was to be one of the more exciting parts of my adventure. But I wasn't there yet. I was still here, on Gudlaugur's farm, waiting to know if there would be work or if, in disappointment, I would have to return to the United States, for lack of work.

When he returned from his long visits with all of his, I believe, fourteen farming neighbors, which I know now, were scattered around this wide and vast Hvitarsidu valley, he had news. He had work found just one job. It was up to us to decide which one of us would take the job. We deliberated and eventually decided I would take the job. Jane would stay on with Gudlaugur and perhaps another job would open up in the valley. He said that, in the morning, he would take me to my farm. That night, after a beautiful meal provided by Steinum, we talked about "Bandariki." He brought out a map of the United States, which was, he explained, the literal translation for "Bandariki," or "band of states." He listened eagerly to our stories of home. The children sat by, listening, though I can only assume they understood nothing of what we were saying. Our surprise visit was apparently of keen interest even without the narrative.

I learned years later that Gudlaugur was a schoolteacher -- he taught history in the local school. Knowing that, I understood even better his generous welcome to these two American vagabonds. He made up for our discouraging entry into the country, being informed on our arrival in Reykjavik that the herring had "gone away" and that subsequently, Iceland had sunk into a depression. There were no jobs available, unless we could find work on a farm. The prospect of having to return home after all this preparation wasn't something I'd even considered. Gudlaugur Torfasson opened the door to this world, and helped us over the threshold.

And so in the morning, another cold and rainy day, I hefted my backpack into the back of his Land Rover, said goodbye to all, including my friend Jane, and left for Frodastadir (Froe-tha-stah-theer), a farm a couple of miles down the rough, rutted road. They were there waiting for me, it seemed, with anticipation. Unnur was a slight but beautiful older woman, her straight gray hair caught girlishly back in barrettes. She welcomed me as warmly as she could as did Daniel, who was rugged with bushy grey eyebrows overhanging his penetrating blue eyes. He reached out his big rough, working hands and clasped mine in welcome. Ingibjorg (Imba, pronounced Impa) lingered behind them. She was fifteen, strong, blonde, and with a happy smile. She was the only child left on the farm. Hence their need for my help. There was one thing Gudlaugur had failed to tell me: no one on this farm spoke a word of English. My Icelandic was limited to a few necessary words that I had picked up since my arrival, words mostly from reading public signs: snyrtting (toilet), simi (telephone), brod (bread), and, of course, godin dag (good day)and goda not (good night). As I stood there in the hallway of their little house, the reality of this hard-to-fathom fact sank to the pit of my stomach.

To be continued....
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Returning after so long, I found that life on the farm had changed dramatically and yet it is the same. Imba and Steini no longer keep cows (I discovered this is true of many farms) but they still have sheep and also she has many more horses than before. She has always loved the horses. I recall there were four or five on the farm back in 1969. Now she has about fifteen of them. Some, she says, are for meat. "But these ones, I don't get to know them," she told me, meaning, I'm sure, that they are the young ones, sent off to slaughter after six or eight months. That she would eat her horses surprised me but I had heard that horse meat was now somewhat common in Iceland, like beef, which is rare. Horses are simply what they have, which counts for a lot in this island nation, so dependent on imports. And on the farm, they will do most anything to stay profitable. Frodastadir has been in their family for many generations.

Just like farms in the U.S., and probably all over the world, they are doing what they can to subsidize their existence. One of the new enterprises there was the growth and sale of sod. Steini was out in the field cutting sod when we arrived. This must have been quite profitable when the economy was booming and there were so many wealthy residents of Reykjavik, building lovely homes at the edge of town. I don't know but assume that, since the economic downturn, the need for this ready-made lawn has plummeted. Another, perhaps more resilient, effort is hosting tourists. Many farms have built what amounts to motels on their farms and provide lodging and breakfast -- some even provide dinner. Undoubtedly, during these lovely summer months, this provides new and necessary income, especially in these troubled economic times. We stayed at several of these farms and found them superior. In any case, the effort here to keep these small family farms afloat seemed quite creative.

The only car on the farm when I was there in 1969 was an old Russian jeep, open in the back. Daniel and Unnar sometimes took me with them to Borgannes, a coastal town about thirty miles west of the farm, to shop for groceries. It was a day-long excursion, across rough, rutted roads. I loved the chance to get out and see other places but it was cold, riding in the open back of the jeep. Now, we all piled into Imba's relatively new Toyota Land Cruiser and she took us on a tour of the valley, which I was so looking forward to. The valley, when I was there, felt like a great range, a place that was the only place, so far from anything else. The farms were widely spaced and the valley was divided by the river. I don't remember any bridges but I do remember the horses that ran free on the other side.

Our first stop was the church at the end of the road. Imba wanted to show me Unnur and Daniel's graves. We walked together to the corner of the churchyard and together looked down at her parents' place, what looked like a single wide grave, with a single wooden cross to mark both graves, even though they died many years apart. I studied the brass marker and realized that Daniel was born in the same year as my father and he died in 1994, the same year both my parents died. When I looked a little closer, I noticed that Daniel and I had the same birthday. I wish I had known that years ago.

I remember the inside of the church was bright and colorful, unlike any church I had ever been in. The pews, like benches, are wooden, painted a soft pink. All the churches in Iceland are Lutheran -- at least they were at the time that I was there and now, they tell me, it is about 90% Lutheran. This church, of course, was no exception. From a distance, it looks like a church on the prairie and on the inside, the sternness made me think of the work of Grant Wood. I could picture the people he would paint in here, hardworking, sinewy, sober. Mainstays.

From there, we went to a boiling spring which she told us was the largest spring in the world -- like many such Icelandic attractions, there was barely a sign at the entrance and, as a safeguard, only a low wooden fence between these bubbling waters and ourselves. The spring was more like a brook, the surface of the running water leaping up with the explosion of heat. In some places, the waters burst three or more feet into the air. The waters steamed like any boiling pot would. We stood in the steam and took photos of each other beside this natural wonder. Nearby, there was a pipeline, stout like the Alaska oil pipeline, which carried the hot water into Akranes, for their heating purposes. It was as simple as that. No oil rigs. No wars.

In the little dirt parking lot, a woman, a friend of Imba's, had parked a big old city bus which she had converted into a shop. Board the bus and there were her wares, hand-knitted sweaters, hats, small trinkets, and in the back, used paperbacks. Outside, she had a table loaded with fresh produce for sale, including red tomatoes. Forty years ago, you could not have paid enough to get a fresh tomato at this time of year. None grew and no one could afford what it would cost to import them. This woman had a greenhouse and was growing good produce inside the glass enclosed space, heated with the water from the hot springs that bubbled up from underground. I bought a hat from her for 4,000 kronur--that's about $30. A bit pricey, but I would pay that in a store after it had changed from many hands so I might as well pay this lovely, enterprising woman directly. She had knit it herself, out of the wool of the Icelandic sheep and knitted into the pattern, across the front, was the word, Island, in a beautiful blue -- Island, pronounced *eeslant*, is the Icelandic word for Iceland, possibly where the original word for island originated. And possibly responsible for the confusing fact that Iceland is not a land of ice but a land of green and surprisingly moderate temperatures. They may never live down this unfortunate name.

Imba then took us to some amazing waterfalls, which emerged from a field of lava and included a frightening story about lost children. (In Iceland, there is always a story, often a frightening one.) This was so much like the little tours I remember from my time there in 1969. When work on the farm slowed, they would take me to a fantastic waterfall or lava caves or a geyser, nothing marking the attraction, no one else there, just an amazing natural wonder out there for God to see and maybe someone passing by.

When we returned to the house, the aroma of the roasting lamb filled the house. Imba pulled the oven door open and the big leg crackled and spat. Steini joined us for dinner. He speaks not a word of English and so he sat silently at the table, big Viking head, hair gone white from the earlier photos I had seen, short soft feathery beard, white also. Watching him watch us, I remembered so well sitting at the table with the family, not understanding anything that they were saying, just a kind of music going on all around me. When I thought of it as music, I was in a happy place. Otherwise it was the most intensely isolated feeling I had ever had. With the platter of lamb were potatoes, of course, and salad and the amazing red cabbage slaw that I recalled with great pleasure when I sampled it. Sweet, just pickled red cabbage, jarred. I recall that we had that sometimes at the table. "Unnur's recipe?" I asked Imba. I don't think she understood the word 'recipe.' She just smiled. I almost ate the whole jar. She put the platter with the partially consumed lamb leg on the table and, as we scraped our plates, we all picked over the bone like little savages, cutting off hunks at a time.

My companions decided it was time to go to their accommodations, a place about ten miles down the road. Imba and I led them there, to what turned out to be a little cottage off by itself in the tundra. We left them there and headed back to Frodastadir. The valley was so familiar, Imba and I talked about the times we would ride out to meet her friends for a Sunday ride, or sometimes we'd race our horses along the river, which usually turned my blood to ice. Once, I just deliberately fell off Blessa as she was going way too fast for me and I was hanging onto her mane as hard as I could but was slipping anyway. I didn't quite know what else to do. The Icelandic earth is soft and the ponies were low to the ground so I just eased myself off and rolled, walking home a bit sheepishly. "But Bless was winning!" Imba said, clearly, even all these years later, confused as to why I had chosen to do that.

Another time, riding on the road, an enormous Mercedes truck came barreling at us. Blessa reared up and tossed me into the gutter and ran home. Another sheepish walk back to the farm. Imba remembered it all as well.

As we drove, she slowed and pointed to farms that I had known or visited. They looked remarkably the same, though some had a new house near the old one, like Imba's. At Hvammur, she slowed, "Do you want to go in?" This was the first farm we had gone to, looking for work. I had hitchhiked out there with Jane. For me, it was a very special place. It was, in a sense, where it all began. I knew that Gudlaugur had passed away and wasn't sure that any of the children would remember me. They were very young then and many years had passed. With a bit of hesitation, I said, "Yes, yes, let's go in."

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