The Icelandic Roots Writing Group has recently had a story prompt to write about “Something That is Very Icelandic”. The following is the story submitted by Brian Borgford.
By Brian Borgford
Grass widow is a term I recall from my youth, but modern times have rendered the phrase passé. She was a grass widow, as her seldom seen husband was always “away working” while the forty-something mother of six tended to maintaining the home and rearing the children. That was what a good Irish Catholic woman was supposed to do – wasn’t it? Her name was Mary – a very Irish Catholic name. Her mother wanted “Marie” but her father wouldn’t tolerate a French name – although also Catholic, the French were not good people.
Gisli, (a very Icelandic name), rescued the neglected and overworked mother. The middle-aged bachelor convinced Mary to shatter Catholic church rules - divorce her philandering husband, marry Gil, and bring her six children, whom he would nurture.
The result of this union was Mary’s seventh child, Gisli’s first - a son named Brian – me.
Gisli, Gil as he preferred, even though his family called him Gigs, was FBI – Full Blooded Icelander. Although he had participated in Icelandic rituals in his youth, he was neither proud, nor shamed by his heritage – it just was - like the beautiful black-eyed Susans that grew wild along the country roads, blissfully ignored.
I recall the term “grass widow” but I never heard any of the common Icelandic words, such as “amma” and “afi”. I never knew my Icelandic grandparents and only met my Irish Catholic grandparents in their feeble final years. I knew my mother was Irish and my father of Icelandic descent, but I would be into my seventh decade before I cared about either.
Being half Irish and half Icelandic, I identify more with my Icelandic origins than my Irish. I guess that make me more Icelandic, but perhaps not “very Icelandic”.