The Work of Edie Clark

Learning Icelandic was not anything like my French or Latin classes at school. There was no text, no patient kindly instructor to assist me over the inevitable confusion of la and le, de and da. And on the farm, there were no road signs or public signs to read and learn from. I had two Icelandic language books with me, one with grammar and sentences and the other simply a small pocket dictionary, translating English words into Icelandic and vice versa. These books never seemed to help me at all, I suppose mostly because what language I used was spoken, rarely, if ever, written. But there was one great aid that came soon after my arrival. Iceland, at that time, did have television. It was on for two hours at night. Period. On the farm, we all gathered around the small set in the evening after dinner. They featured reruns of familiar American shows such as Bonanza and I Love Lucy. There were Icelandic subtitles which were a great help to me in learning certain words and expressions. (One of the many charming aspects of the Icelandic culture was that, during the month of August, the national television station, which came out of Reykjavik, was closed for the month. Everyone just went on vacation. This was true of most businesses as well -- in August, many Icelanders took off and went camping for their vacations -- but the fact that they would shut down the television station cheered me.) By the time I left, I could hold up my end of the conversation, providing it wasn't too complicated. But when I returned forty-two years later, I realized, I remembered little or nothing.

And so in the morning after my first night spent in Iceland after such a long absence, I emerged from the darkened bedroom into the broad sunlight of the endless day. Imba was already at work in the kitchen. Delicious smells filled the house. I remember being embarrassed that the Icelanders were the ones to come to me with their English, rather than me coming to them with my Icelandic. I felt it was impolite to go into a country and expect someone to communicate in my way rather than I in theirs. It was a fine hope but impractical. Most were way ahead of me, as they teach English in the schools and,in the city anyway, most people can switch back and forth between the two languages with ease. Many speak several languages. But Imba's family could not. They were of the farm and rarely ventured forth. Imba spoke a few words back then but mostly she would come to me and crook her finger deliberately, saying, "Vil pu kom?" Will you come? Of course. And I would be shown my tasks for the day in sign language. Now, she spoke well enough so that we could converse, well enough so that we could get to know each other in a new way.

"I read your book last night!" she said, with a happy smile. I was amazed. When I arrived the day before, I gave her a copy of each of my books, sure that she would not be able to read them but hoping she would like to just have these, from her friend of so long ago. I not only didn't think she could read them, I didn't think she could read it so fast, nor did I think she would be able to understand it completely. "Yes," she said. "It was easy. You write so I can understand and now it is easy for me to picture where you are, what your life is like."

I was overwhelmed to know that she had read the book. I didn't quite know what to say. It was the second time in two days that I had been stunned into silence.

The day before, we had stopped at Hvammur, Gudlaugur's old farm, where Jane and I had first arrived, soaked to the skin, strangers on the doorstep, asking for work. I knew that Gudlaugur had passed away so when Imba suggested we go in for a visit, I hesitated. I did not think the children would remember me, should they still be on the farm. But she drove in and I could see a man haying the back pasture on a blue Ford tractor. The sight of the house gave me a pang of confused emotions. This was where it all began, I thought to myself. When he saw us, he stopped the tractor, got out and strode down toward us, leaving his tractor running behind him. He was a big, handsome Viking, surely one of Gudlaugur?s sons. He was smiling broadly. This was Torvi, Imba explained, Torvi who had been four when Jane and I arrived in the pouring rain, seeking work.

"Torvi!" I said as if facing an old friend, but he was a man, not the tiny blonde elf I had known as Torvi. He had been an adorable, curious little boy who apparently followed us everywhere. I didn't quite remember it that way but when I looked in my photo album when I got home -- he was somewhere, in just about every photo.

I started to say, "You probably don't remember me?" but he countered with a look of amazement. "Of course I remember you!" he thundered, "You look same. I see it! Every year, we get out the pictures and talk about you and Jane!" It was my turn to look amazed. We went inside. I glanced quickly in every direction, taking it all in. Forty-two years and an entire generation later, everything looked much the same. The living room where we had sat and became acquainted, where Steinum had brought the miraculous tray of pastries and the unusual coffee that I later learned was chicory, the room was unchanged, spare, immaculate, the outlook on the valley. Everything was unchanged except that it was now dominated by a large-screen television set. I had spent only a couple of days in that house but it had the feeling of being a place of importance in my life. I could easily picture Gudlaugur sitting on the ottoman, opening the maps, searching for Pennsylvania and New Jersey, our home states. We were complete strangers, coming to him as we did, vagabonds or children of the world, and yet he instantly took us in, cared for us, fed us, gave us beds, wanted to come to know us, looked upon us as conduits to another place, there on this isolated farm in this isolated country at the end of the 1960s.

And so it was, that short visit to Hvammur, bringing Torvi off his tractor on that fair day in June in 2010 brought to conclusion many questions I have had over the years. I had not, ever, until that moment, imagined what it was like for them to receive us. I was young, a bit confused but eager to explore the world beyond the confines of the New Jersey suburb where I had grown up and Gudlaugur and his beautiful farm, Hvammur, had connected with that past. Being that so young and self-absorbed, I had never once thought what it must have been like for that family, living their quiet lives in that broad, beautiful, but isolated valley, to swing open their front door and have a link to America walk in. (We were told by Gudlaugur and many others subsequently that we were the first Americans they had ever met. This had seemed like quite a responsibility to me at that time.) I never thought what it might have been like from their point of view. Thinking about it now, I can easily imagine that we made a memorable impression on many in that valley at that time. And so, after thinking it over in that light, I'm not surprised Torvi remembered me, even though he was just four at that time.

At the time, I had written in my journal my concerns about the future of Iceland's farms, mostly because the children, I was told, did not want to stay on the farms but many of them not only left and went to Reykjavik but, further, they went abroad. Thus Iceland experienced a decline in the population, which, at the time of my visit was 250,000 -- in the whole country. And now? 350,000. But right there, on that farm and at Imba's, I had the answer to my question of so long. Both Imba and Torvi are the youngest in their families and both of them are now running their family farms, both of them proud and happy in their work. So, at least two of the farms were still in the same family. Beyond that, I don't know -- I'm sure I can find that out, at another time. I have many unresolved questions, for another time, another visit. Meanwhile, I know that both Daniel and Gudlaugur must be happily at rest, knowing their farms live on.

I would love to have talked with them now. Imba, by contrast, was more about now than then. She was living in her updated present, and happily so. She had always had a bright smile and it had not faded with the world. In winter, for many years, she has been a schoolteacher to the younger students at the local boarding school, Varmalandskola. It is where I addressed my letters to her for years. (Gudlaugur taught history there, at that same school.} She must be a wonderful teacher. Even at fifteen, she was confident and capable. She could mend a fence or ride her beloved horses bareback at high speed. But she was never boastful. Just extremely capable. And happy. And kind. Her white-blonde hair was gray now, and cut short but her beauty shown like a diamond.

The fragrance of pancakes and the hot griddle filled her new kitchen. She worked swiftly, stacking the cakes on a plate as she went. She asked questions as she worked. I had brought her a photocopy of my Iceland album, all the photos of my time spent here. When I was getting ready to come, I realized that, of course, she had never seen these photos of long ago. I made it into a scrapbook and included photos of my home. I had also brought Hershey bars and Vermont cheddar. And my books and a Yankee magazine. I remembered how they loved American things. She had mentioned the day before that she had traveled to Cuba and to Africa, two very interesting choices in my opinion. In the 1970s, I had tried to convince her to come to visit me. I even once offered to pay her way, though I didn't really have the money for that but I really wanted to have her come. Now she chose Cuba and Africa, two hot places. I asked why. Cuba, she said, sounded warm and interesting and she had had a lovely time, enjoyed it very much. Africa? She has a friend who speaks Swahili (there are so many surprises in Iceland!) who invited her to go with her to Kenya. "I thought if I were going to go, I should go with someone who spoke the language," she explained. "I would get so much more out of it."

I wondered if her experience living with me had any influence on that observation. She was finishing the pancakes. My friends had not yet arrived from their night's lodging. She came over to the table and sat down with me.

"Tell me, what is slavery?" she asked.

Certainly not a question I had ever been asked before. Certainly not a question that I welcomed. I told her about the cotton mills and the large plantations and the need for labor inside and outside the house. As I spoke, I realized, for the first time, that there are countries where one does not have to explain the reason for the existence of something called slavery. There are countries that don't even know the word. But Imba had visited places in Africa where she had been shown places where children were taken on ships to America. Nothing like that had ever come ashore in Iceland. Labor here, now and in the past, was done by the people of Iceland or not done at all. I explained that it was tied to the system of capitalism, the need to make a profit, keeping production costs low. I felt like I was digging a ditch into which I would have liked to disappear.

She followed this up with a question about the Indians, delivered in the same earnestly curious way. Who were these people who once lived on our land and now were gone? Where did they go? And were they really bad people? I remembered that some of the television shows we once watched together so long ago had stories of cowboys and Indians. And the Indians were not portrayed very favorably. Oh, how tied we all are to our past, even if it is not our own or the result of our intentions. This is our national heritage. It reminded me of the black man who had wanted to sue us all for having owned slaves, even if we or any of our ancestors had never owned one. But we are all responsible for that past, in some unnameable way. Now Imba was gently seeking answers to these simple questions. And I had none. Only to say that the Indians, for the most part, were good people, peaceful souls who were only defending their own territory, which any one of us would have done. And in so doing, acquiring a reputation for being savages.

And what about these places called reservations, she wanted to know. They were not on good land, she said, why did they do that? I could see she was not going to allow me to escape. I had never before been asked to account for the ways of my country in quite this way. Just then Gretchen and Tom and Enid drove in.

Imba put everything I loved for breakfast on the table. Could she possibly remember? The custard made from the milk of a cow that had just given birth, which has an indescribable flavor. Unnur often made it for me, with a special smile. Hard boiled eggs. A brown bread unique to Iceland. A big wedge of cheese. So much it was hard to choose what to eat. We ate until we were satisfied.

We had only been in the country for two days and already I had seen and heard all that I had hoped for. *Frodastadir. Imba. Torvi. Hvammur. Hvitarsidu.* More than I had hoped for. And I had tasted the custard, the lamb, the red cabbage, the potatoes. But this was just the beginning of the trip and we had 800 miles to cover before flying home again. My friends were anxious to set forth. I would have been happy to stay there with Imba for the duration, even if it meant explaining why America had slaves and what on earth they did to the Indians.
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."

To be continued...
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On June 15, 2010, at 6 a.m., our Boeing 757 touched down on a long runway and taxied toward what I could see was an elegant new airport. Same place, different building. I had, of course, expected the airport to be modern and updated. The rocks were still there but now covered with a deep layer of light green moss, giving a puffy, unearthly appearance, like a landscape from a sci-fi movie. No longer that forlorn and desolate place of endless rocks, Iceland was a busy place. Would there be Walmart’s? Would there be McDonald’s? I was praying against hope that there would not be. More than anything, I wanted Iceland to still be Iceland.

My traveling companions, Gretchen, Tom, and Enid, did not have a frame of reference. For them, Iceland was a mysterious place about which they had read a few things, seen photos, especially recently since the volcanic eruption in the south of the country. Gretchen had brought face masks in case we ran into clouds of ash. Overall, they were anxious to see a new place.

Our bags packed into the back of our rented Ford Focus station wagon, we set forth, on a road that was smoothly paved and well marked. New roads, roundabouts, bright yellow directional signs led us north, toward Frodastodir. The road passed by shops and mini-malls, the kind of commerce seen worldwide. Once, I spotted the familiar KFC sign and my heart sank. I couldn’t help but think about the lonely lava road of the not-so-distant past, the way the little city of Reykjavik released so suddenly and completely to the farmland and steep green hills that comprised the rest of the country. Soon, we descended into a five-mile-long, beautifully constructed two-lane tunnel. A completely different route, now called the Ring Road, the old lightly traveled lava road had been paved and re-routed beneath a wide fjord. Traffic moved along just as it would in New Hampshire or Vermont. I later learned that the tunnel through which we were passing, carved out of bedrock, had been constructed in three years’ time. I thought about Boston’s eternal project called the Big Dig. We passed by towns I had never seen or remembered, all of them grown up and prosperous looking. Though I had expected change, it was hard to believe this was the same place.

Before long, we were driving through the wide and beautiful Hvitarsidu valley, to which I have often returned in my dreams. Here, little seemed changed. When we reached the simple white church at the end of the road, its stark steeple reaching up into the milky Icelandic sky, I knew I was home. Frodastadir is within sight of the church, where Unnur used to take me to services on Sunday. As we turned up the long driveway, I saw the old farmhouse, just as it always had been, but beside it was a new building and from an elegant modern glass door, Imba emerged, waving, smiling. It was almost an out-of-body experience, to be there, after all that time, to see Imba, all grown up and at the helm now of this dear farm. Daniel and Unnur have passed away and Imba runs the farm with her husband, Steini. They have two daughters who are grown up and on their own. She welcomed us inside for a tour and explanations. Five years ago, Imba and Steini built this new house, next to the old farmhouse where I had lived with them in 1969.

Walking into this beautiful modern home, all on one floor, I felt disoriented and yet thrilled. Big plate glass windows looked out on the vast green valley. In the kitchen, everything was as beautiful and modern as the finest of homes. I thought of Unnur, who was so hardworking and capable. She loved to learn new English words and that summer, she learned from me the word “refrigerator” – in the morning, she would point to the ice box and ask me to say the word, and then she would repeat it, in excruciatingly slow and difficult syllables and then smile and laugh – we all joined her! After my time there, when I was preparing to leave for home, I asked what I could send them. And Unnur said, “Refrigerator!” I was a little shocked, trying to imagine how I could ship that to her. I said I didn’t think I could do that, so then she said, “Maybe dishwasher?” These kinds of things were of great interest to the Icelanders who, in general, were much more advanced than I would have imagined. Frodastodir was not as up to date but many of the others farmers had dishwashers and other gadgets in their homes. I imagined that this kitchen of Imba’s would have been a dream come true for Unnur. I can just see her eyes light up.

Beyond the kitchen, there were beautiful bedrooms. The bathroom had heated tile floors, a beautifully appointed shower stall and a door that led out to their porch where they had a hot tub filled with water from hot springs. The walls were decorated with oil paintings, many of them by Steini’s brother Pall, who she told us, has art and stone carvings on display in Reykjavik. A feeling of enlightenment, beauty, and tranquility ran through the house like the cool breezes blowing in through the open kitchen windows. Right next to the new house was the old house. A modest Cape with a red corrugated metal roof and siding of the same material, painted light yellow, it looked the same as when I was there. Imba explained that a farm hand lives in the old house now. I wanted to go in but Imba cautioned it is “messy” so I decided that my memory of it was all I needed.

At first, I saw all the newness but then there was recognition. I saw that the treasures from the old house had been brought to the new house and were displayed as if in a museum. In the living room, Imba had the oak breakfront that I remembered from their old living room as well as the beautiful antique chairs with the needlepoint seats, back and arms, all hand done by Unnur. On the floor beside the breakfront was the spinning wheel that Unnur used when I was there. I sometimes sat with her in the living room in the evenings and wound skeins while she spun. Those were the times that were most pleasant to me. There was always a feeling of harmony and tranquility at Frodastodir, a feeling of love and the acceptance of harsh realities. On the walls, in an alcove, old tools and horse shoes, an intricately woven saddle cinch, a miniature saddle with a handwritten inscription that I remembered had hung near the telephone, old tools – all proudly covered the walls.

Aside from its white, Scandinavian beauty, the new farmhouse seemed almost a shrine to Daniel. Outside the front door, Pall, Steini’s artist brother, had carved a life-sized likeness of Daniel’s head into a beautiful red stone. The carving is affixed onto another, monument-sized stone which stands up against the stark landscape. As well, inside the house were hanging two dramatic portraits Pall had painted of Daniel, of whom I was so fond. I remember thinking when I was living there that Daniel was very old but I now calculate that he was 58 – younger than I am now. I was astonished to realize that. It is a unique experience in my life to be with people I loved and yet with whom I never really had a conversation. Because of the language, or lack of it, there was a huge gap between us. Their kindnesses to me were in their eyes and their gestures as well as my own observations of their interactions with each other and with their animals. Daniel appeared gruff and did not smile that often. It was harder to warm to him than to Unnur, who had immediately embraced me on my arrival. At first, he and I rarely interacted – Unnur assigned me tasks and Imba often showed me what to do as well, sign language in full force.

I was not very good at milking the cows, as I recall, and I think Daniel was sometimes impatient with me (with good reason). Or maybe it was his countenance: he had big bushy eyebrows that shielded his eyes. His denim jacket was tattered at the cuffs and, in general, he was all about the work on the farm. He was stern but not unkind. I especially liked the way he and Imba lingered at the table after the meal was over, talking about things that needed doing on the farm. Even though I didn’t speak the language, it was clear to me that he was teaching her and she was his eager student. But with me, he remained aloof but then one day after I’d been on the farm a while, I wrote this in my journal: “I’ve decided I really like Daniel. This afternoon, when we were trying to get one of the cows across the bridge, he was so gentle with her, it was really neat to watch. She was scared – cows don’t like bridges and I’ve seen farmers in the past speak harshly, slap them and push them around to get them to go through gates or over bridges, but he was so nice to this cow. At dinner tonight he said his first words to me. He asked me if I would like some mysingur on my cheese. He thinks it’s pretty funny that I put the rhubarb on the cheese with my bread in the morning. He even tries to say a few English words to me now and then, with a little smile.”

One of the two portraits of Daniel hanging now on Imba’s walls is just his face, a flowing beard, eyes downcast but, more than anything else, the portrait is one of kindness. The other is almost life-size, probably six feet or more, monopolizing one entire wall. There is Daniel in actual old age (as opposed to the old age I had given him at his relatively young age of 58!). He has a long, full white beard like Methuselah, and his white hair is like a mane. Imba explained that he had Parkinson’s and his hands were no longer steady enough to hold the razor so he just stopped shaving and the beard grew the full, luxuriant length. His eyebrows were longer, bushier, and grayer than ever. It was wonderful to reacquaint myself with him at that time. Imba and I stood together and looked at the portrait. “I think I see fear in his eyes,” she said. “Like he is afraid. He died soon after this.”

I felt so badly I had never seen him again, never visited again until now. I wished for a portrait of Unnur as well but I could understand how the artist was drawn to Daniel's mysterious presence. There were photos, of course, hanging on the walls. I had not forgotten how they looked, in any case. I brought with me a copy of my own album, remade into an album for Imba, for her to keep. In the intervening years, she had never seen the photos I had taken so long ago, the photos to which I sometimes returned. One, of Daniel and Unnur working together up in the hayloft was among my favorites. How very much I would have enjoyed seeing both him and Unnur once more – although our considerable language barrier would likely have been greater than ever. Still, in the interim, Imba’s English had improved greatly and I was amazed that we could actually have a conversation and ask each other the questions that we had wanted to ask for so long.
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In June of 1969, when I was twenty years old, I traveled to Iceland and found work on a farm called Frodastadir (Froe-tha-stah-theer) herding sheep on horseback, milking cows, shoveling manure, scrubbing floors, bringing in the hay, painting the silo, whatever needed doing. I traded my work for room and board, a room in the dormer of the farmhouse, looking out on the wide and green Hvitarsidu (Kvee-tar-see-thu) valley, divided by the Hvita (Hvita means white in Icelandic) River, a glacial river that ran off from Langjokull, Iceland’s second largest glacier. On rare clear days, I would pause in the driveway on my way from the house to the barn, to admire the glacier, a long white line that rose with a slight crest above the horizon. Meals were taken in the narrow dining room, just big enough to fit a table and benches – enough to accommodate a big family or many farmhands but at that point in the farm’s long history, it was just the four of us. We ate mostly fish (pulled from the Hvita – it was called white because of the run-off from the glacier, which gave it a milky look) and potatoes and rhubarb, the two crops grown in the garden that grew beneath my window. At each meal, mysterious things such as blood pudding and mysingur appeared on the table.
Conditions were simple: no bathtub or shower, I bathed with a washcloth at the tiny bathroom sink. We flushed the toilet with a bucket. I washed the dishes in cold water, swishing a scrap of bar soap housed in a small screened basket to provide suds. Each day, I wrote in my journal and at the end of each entry, I recorded the temperature and conditions. Many of my entries ended with “40 degrees F. Rain.” Twice during that summer, I was blown over by the wind, which hardly ever stopped. In spite of these conditions, I loved it there and did not want to go home. I stayed until October, when I decided to return home and finish college. My plan then was to return to Iceland right after graduation, get an apartment in Reykjavik, and write a book about this harsh yet fascinating country. Life, as they say, got in the way of that plan. But I have never stopped wanting to return to Iceland.
Last March, I was sitting at my desk, writing, when, out of the blue, friends called to say they were planning a trip to Iceland in June and wondered if I would like to go too. I didn’t even stop to think, I simply said “Yes!” I thought of the green cliffs, the black sand beaches, the shaggy sheep that roamed at will, the glaciers flowing through the valleys and the steep headlands that rose up off the flatness of vast deserts. And the people from whom I’d been separated for so long.
We booked our flight and soon after I wrote to Imba, who had been 15 when I lived with her and her parents, Unnur and Daniel at Frodastadir, to tell her I was coming. We had kept in touch, loosely, all these years, Christmas cards, occasional letters and now, even more randomly, e-mail. I was always promising to come back. The closest I came was in 1986 when my husband, Paul, and I decided to go together. He came from a farming family and was intrigued to experience this country I spoke about so often. I asked for and received a two-month leave of absence from Yankee and we bought our tickets, for June, for the solstice. We outfitted ourselves and read guide books. However, in April of that year, Paul was diagnosed with cancer and all plans were scrapped. The next four years were spent on a completely different journey. And, further, his resultant death sent me on what became a relentless quest to earn a living, one which became harder rather than easier as I aged. This trip was to last only eight days, not the return I had dreamed of for so long but it was a return, nonetheless.
Because I knew the country and had contacts there, I was given the task of mapping out our journey and booking the accommodations. We wanted to drive the circumference of Iceland, which I knew was do-able but I was uncertain about much of the rest. When I was there, the only pavement in the entire country was in Reykjavik. At the city limits, the tar road ended, making for a rough transition onto a lava road, which ringed the country. Well, almost. In order to complete the circle, you had to pass beneath the glacier. The area below Vatnajokull, the biggest glacier in all of Europe, was striated with multiple streams and rivers running through the sands of past eruptions. In the time I had spent in Iceland I had also worked for a while at the Hotel Kirkjubaejarklaustur, which mostly accommodated climbers who were either waiting to go up onto the glacier or those who had just returned from expeditions. I had hitchhiked to the hotel and wished dearly to continue on to the east side of the country but there was no road through that area under the glacier, notorious for quicksand. Only skilled horsemen could navigate these treacherous sands. If you wanted to go from, say, Kirkjubaejarklaustur to Hofn, which is about ninety miles east, you had to reverse direction and go hundreds of miles, all the way round the entire country, to get back to that near point. I had heard the road, known as the “ring road,” had been paved. And that a bridge had been built over the quicksand. Other than that, I didn’t know what conditions were like. I remembered only the dirt (lava) roads which were sometimes death-defying in the way in which they wrapped themselves around mountains and crossed raging rivers, sans guard rails. The only gas stations I remembered were in Reykjavik and Akureyri. And would there be any rest stops? In the treeless landscape of 1969, it seemed immodest to simply squat on the roadside but there was so little traffic and so little alternative, this was how it went. But now, surely there was more traffic. As I planned our route, these were some of the things I worried about.
More than that, I realized, I worried about returning. Forty-one years is a long time, a time during which memories can be reshaped into fantasy. I recall that when I left Iceland, I regarded the place as something of a utopia, where houses are heated with the hot springs that run beneath the ground; where there was so little crime, the only prison in the country sat empty; where a kind of socialism existed that meant that neighbors helped neighbors, with an eye on the overall welfare of the whole, rather than the bottom line for the individual; where residents enjoyed the highest standard of living in the world and where, as well, literacy was the highest in the world; and, finally, a place with a well-functioning democracy, the oldest in the world, where women were equal to men.
During the 1970s, my first husband and I lived back to the land and I often proselytized about Iceland, suggesting not only to my husband but to our neighbors that this would be the most logical place to buy a farm and live. Yes, it was a cold climate with long dark winters but, aside from all the assets already listed, Iceland did not have an army and did not engage in warfare, with anyone. Taxes went not to support wars but to schools, social security, and the roads and bridges, the infrastructure of the country as a whole. In my view, this beat Canada as the alternative.
But now, as I researched hotels and routes, I realized I had spent so much time in my past heralding Iceland’s virtues, I suspected I was sadly out of touch with its reality. I had seen a few movies recently (“101 Reykjavik,” and “Reykjavik-Rotterdam”) which gave me pause. And there was this economic backslide they’d been plunged into. I didn’t know what was what, had no way of really knowing but, right or wrong, I was convinced that Icelanders, relative newcomers to the world of finance, had been caught in the trap of wily investors who drained them. I read an article in Vanity Fair wherein the author noted that, since the crash, many of the nouveau riche in Reykjavik had driven their expensive Range Rovers out onto the tundra and blown them up, unable to make payments or restitution. This filled me with sadness. Maybe the updated Iceland was not something I wanted to encounter, perhaps I was better off with my memories.
As March turned to April, there was something else: Eyafjallajokull, the word no broadcast announcer seemed able to pronounce but the consequences of which soon enough brought all of Europe and beyond to a sudden standstill. My response, when I first heard about this volcanic eruption heard round the world was: “They heard I was coming!” It seemed funny to me, and, beyond, profound, that little Iceland, a place I knew very well was much more sophisticated than the world leaders appeared to understand, was able to bring the world to a halt. Surely the great writers of the Icelandic sagas, and, especially, the great Icelandic novelist, Halldor Laxness, would have made hay from this truly earth-shattering event. My traveling companions got cold feet and suggested perhaps we should travel to Iceland another time. I told them that my friends in Iceland had assured me that Iceland was not affected, only European air traffic. They had misgivings but time marched on, the flight had been booked and I had already secured several of our overnight accommodations. June loomed.
In June of 1969, the Icelandic Airlines prop jet droned its way across the North Atlantic all night long. Shortly after take-off from New York at midnight, the stewardesses served us an elegant Icelandic meal of salmon, potatoes, and peas, accompanied by a small bottle of wine. I savored what I expected might be the last bit of civilization. Most everyone on board was on their way to Luxembourg. Back then Icelandic had the cheapest flights to Europe. They stopped in Iceland to refuel and passengers were free to get off and stay a day or two in Reykjavik before continuing on. If anyone had ever been to Iceland, that was how. Even the ticket agents had expressed surprise when I told them my final destination was Iceland.
I have never been able to come up with a very good answer to the question people still ask me: Why Iceland? I was finishing my junior year in college and was going through an extended period of confusion. I felt like there must be more to be experienced than the staid all-girls college where I was enrolled. My cousin Mac had served six years in the Peace Corps in Nepal. I posed the question to him: where would be a good place to go, if I could? He suggested Iceland. I had hardly heard of it and thought perhaps he was joking with me. But he explained that it was a beautiful country, green pastures and fine people. “You could get a job in Reykjavik,” he assured me. “Everyone in Reykjavik speaks English so you wouldn’t have to worry about the language.” I followed that up with some research of my own, mostly how much the plane would cost. I would have to earn enough money not only for the plane fare but for whatever needs I might have once I got there. Once I settled on Iceland, I suggested to a college friend, Jane, that she might like to come with me. She did not immediately embrace the idea. I didn’t want to push too hard because I didn’t really know what I was selling but I did want to have a traveling companion. She eventually decided to come, though we left at different times, on different flights.
My parents had driven me to the new airport, JFK, on Long Island for the flight. They were apprehensive about my trip, to say the least. I was wearing a dark blue dress that my sister had made for me for the trip, stockings, and low heeled pumps. I had no idea, really, what my circumstances would be once I got there. But I was prepared, or so I thought.
In the cargo hold was my new frame backpack, which I had purchased again on the advice of my Peace Corps-seasoned cousin. The pack was carefully layered with what I thought I might need: two pairs of jeans, two sweaters, two t-shirts, socks, three pairs of underwear, a Primus (a tiny gasoline campstove), a folding cup, a folding fry pan that could also serve as a plate, utensils, and a jackknife. In my toiletries kit, aside from toothbrush and paste, I had a small sewing kit and all-purpose remedies such as aspirin, antibiotics, antacids, moleskin (to cushion blisters), and alcohol. In the bottom of the bag were matches, six packs of cigarettes (I was a smoker in college and brought a week’s supply, assuming of course there would be cigarettes to be purchased once I arrived, one more thing about which I was wrong), a black, nicely bound blank book that I would use for a journal, writing paper, airmail envelopes, and several pens. In the side pocket, I had a Brownie camera and three rolls of film, one color and two black and white. On top, I had stuffed a brand new, ripstop nylon sleeping bag filled with 3 pounds of goose down, which would keep me warm even in temps of 20 below zero. After much research, I’d purchased this from a little place in Seattle called Eddie Bauer, a boutique that catered to mountaineers. This item was recommended to me by Bob Bates, an early mountaineer, cold weather outfitter, and friend of Mac’s from Nepal. (He had also asked me to bring him an Icelandic hat, which he claimed were “the best.”) I was not expecting to climb any mountains but the question of staying warm was one that was much discussed. The dress I was wearing pleased my mother and seemed proper to wear aboard a plane. It also might be handy for any occasions where jeans might not be suitable. I was also carrying, in a special money belt, $450 in cash and, since I was expecting to find work right away, I hoped, very much, that I would return home with most, if not all, of that amount. I turned out that two of the most important items I would need were not on my list: rain slicker and hiking boots. These had to be purchased very soon after my arrival. Onto the front flap of the olive drab backpack, I had stitched an American flag.
The plane set down on the rough runway to the Keflavik military base. It was eight o’clock in the morning and rain was falling. With the exception of the runway, everything I could see, near and far, was just a big pile of rocks. I had been told Iceland was green and beautiful. This looked anything but. “What have I done?” I thought. We deplaned onto the tarmac and, shouldering my forty pounds of self-sufficiency, I walked into the Quonset hut that served as an airport. A polite Icelandic officer, dressed in a crisp uniform, greeted me: “Welcome to Iceland,” he said, as I handed him my passport
(to be continued)
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In June, I am heading to Iceland, a long awaited return to a country that I love. I spent part of one year living there in 1969 while trying to figure out what life was all about. College was making me restless, a bit bored. I wanted to experience something more so I went to Iceland where I worked on a sheep farm. I did such exciting things as herding sheep on horseback and such drudgery as scrubbing floors and painting the inside of the silo. Farm work, all of it. We even picked up dried cow flops that were to be used as fuel in their stove. From my bedroom window, I could see the distant shape of Langjokull, the second largest glacier in Iceland and on days off I was sometimes taken to see the geysirs surge up out of the earth or to explore deep lava caves, created by ancient volcanoes. Among many other things, I learned that Iceland was a powerhouse, maybe even a powder keg. When I left to finish to college, I vowed I would return right after graduation. I had a plan to rent an apartment in Reykjavik and write the Great American Novel. But life got in the way and I have never returned. Until now. Forty-one years is a long time. About two days after I bought my ticket, the volcano blew up. "They heard I was coming!" I thought to myself.

To me, it did not seem so worrisome, as Iceland is a voluble country with lots of geophysical phenomenons. But soon the little Eyjafjallajokul was stirring up trouble all over Europe. I laughed at first, thinking that tiny Iceland could shut down the world, preventing queens and prime ministers from attending the Polish president's funeral. Even a terrorist has not managed to do that. As the problem grew, I smiled at the strange recognition Iceland was getting and smiled to hear announcers trying to pronounce the volcano's name. I will not be smiling if the ash cloud prevents us from arriving there on this long desired journey. There are still three weeks to go before we leave. It is a gamble, but so is most of life. We like to think otherwise but nature gets her way, one way or the other.

This morning while I was sitting outside on the lawn, eating my cereal, thinking about all of this, I was distracted by the sight of the bobolinks building nests in the field. It was a perfect morning, blue sky, thin clouds, slight breeze stirring the new leaves on the big maple, and the mountain turning that hopeful shade of spring green. Paradise. The bobolinks were making a lot of noise as they flitted all around, building their nests in the field. The grasses are about knee high now, with lots to go before they can be cut for hay. I was enjoying listening to their talk. I had heard recently that these beautiful black and yellow avians are in trouble, their numbers in decline. I wondered why they insist on making their homes on the ground, vulnerable to so many predators. We have foxes and coyotes here, for starters. Most birds take advantage of their ability to go high, out of reach. And I always worry about the bobolinks when the time comes to hay the fields. By that time, for the most part, the eggs have hatched and the little ones are out on their own. But there is no steady time schedule for the haying season. The farmer comes when the hay is ready, his mower blades whirling, sharp enough to cut off a man's arm in addition to all those thin stalks of grass. Among the many critters that get whirled up by the blades and then compressed into those bales are the bobolink nests. This morning, I was thinking that I might ask him sometime if he ever gives the bobolinks any consideration. I was thinking this because this year we are about three weeks ahead of our usual growing schedule and he might be haying even earlier than usual, maybe before the bobolinks are up and out of the danger zone. But it was time to go to work, which I did.

About three hours later, I was working at the kitchen table, still able to enjoy the big view of the fields and of the mountain when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a big bird gliding across the field, almost touching the tops of the grasses. I went to the window. The bird appeared to be golden and very big. I watched him (or her) glide at low altitude toward the lower field where he disappeared into the grasses. I kept watch. He rose up and came back up toward the house, still low like an aircraft about to touch down. He swooped and arced and then doubled back. His wing span had to have been four or five feet. I'm pretty sure it was a red-tailed hawk, I can tell by the tail, which is russet, not really red but a shade deeper. He went right for the spot where I had been watching the bobolinks this morning! I felt helpless. Paradise lost. I suppose it's rare that this kind of raid is observed by humans. It usually just happens, like that tree that falls in the woods. If we aren't there, did it really happen? In fact, if I hadn't known what he was doing, I would have thought it a majestic sight, a beautiful act of nature.

I guess there are lots of reasons why the bobolinks are vanishing, not just the farmer's blades, just as there are lots of reasons why something like the ash cloud spewing from a little island nation can bring the world to a halt. You could say it's an act of God, which is better than what we can say about Times Square bombers or broken oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico. Even so, they are still things that affect our world and the lives that we live. You could say of the hawk or of the volcano or even of the bombers, nature gets its way, because we are all part of nature, something so mighty as a volcano, so slight as the tiny bobolink.
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