The Work of Edie Clark

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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