Stefan Jonasson

I’ve never been known for arriving on time. I can do it when it’s essential, but more often than not, I arrive fashionably late. I’m not very good at partings, either, often lingering long after an event is over. Indeed, I’m often the last to leave a party, other than the host.

Now here I am at the end of my tenure as editor of Lögberg-Heimskringla and I find myself lingering, not in an effort to delay the transition to a new editor or cling to a position I’ve enjoyed, but out of a desire to savour the last few hours before turning the page and moving on.

Ellen Paulley, Winnipeg, MB

At least one member of my family visited Iceland in seven of the years from 2007 to 2017. Each time, the lovely Icelandic wool played a significant part in the trip.

My dad was the first one to make the trek, travelling from Winnipeg to Reykjavík on Icelandair. As long-time, avid knitters, my mom and I were keen to have him pick up some Icelandic wool for us to create with. After that first trip and batch of wool, the amounts of yarn we “ordered” for personal delivery kept increasing.

Anyone who has worked with any of the Álafoss yarns will know they make warm and cozy garments. With only select colour ways and amounts available in Winnipeg, my mom and I took full advantage of sending my dad with lists of wool colours and quantities, carefully selected after poring over the website. Matching quantities to patterns for two knitters who delighted in working with Icelandic wool meant that, on one trip, my dad wore his winter boots on the seven-hour plane ride so he could fit more yarn in his suitcase.

Indiana Humniski

Gimli, MB

Sliver by sliver, flakes from Margit’s wedding chest fell. Oaken shavings spun like ballerinas in the springtime air, catching on the fibers of her rough-cloth skirt as they tumbled out of their troupe one-by-one. Little by little, she carved. The broad arcs of her first initial, an “M,” took time. Her thin wrist twisted the same way that a man’s would … if there was a man around to complete this age-old task. Carving a new bride’s name on the lid of a wedding chest had always been a man’s job. Indeed, a woman was not to raise a chisel in most circumstances; it was an object that wavered a little too close to violence. It was thought to be a sign of resistance, a marker of rage withheld. Carving was an arduous task that was an older brother’s duty – a father’s duty – but these titles meant precious little in the Hungarian hovel where Margit and her mother, Old Lady Erzsébet, spent their days.