I’ve been able to pronounce that for 82 years. It was a while before I could spell it.
I spent every summer of my childhood in Gimli, Manitoba, in a cottage one door away from my immigrant Icelandic grandparents’ big home on Third Avenue. So you could say that I know all about Icelandic Celebration Day or the ICELANDIC FESTIVAL. Wrong. I was an eight-year-old kid, and all I remember is that some time back then I ran in a three-legged race, lost, and never did it again.
My cousin Lorna (Tergesen, née Stefanson) grew up in Gimli and, though she is younger than I am, she remembers a time when the Gimli park was surrounded by a fence and people were charged admission to enter. We both remember the stone pillars at the entrance and a plaque commemorating a royal visit, but disagree on whose visit. She thinks it was the Earl of Athlone and I think it was King George VI and Queen Elizabeth in 1939.
By that time the Icelandic Festival had been celebrated on random dates, beginning in 1893, and at various venues in Winnipeg—River Park, Elm Park, the Exposition grounds—but as housing development took over the other land, River Park was the (only) favourite by 1920.The event moved to Gimli in 1932, the year after I was born. We’re both still here.
Astonishing, really, that the town of Gimli, population 2,246 (2016 Census) should continue to host some 40,000 people who attend Islendingadagurinn annually, until Covid19 raised its ugly head. We live in hope.
Initially the old-timers, i.e., the original immigrants, did the organizing and the work but as time went on, new, younger volunteers backed away because they couldn’t speak Icelandic. The help became available when translation was no longer required. The actual events (speeches, poetry, toasts, etc.) were still in Icelandic. That, too, would change.
By the time I was invited to give the Toast to Iceland I was grown-up but I couldn’t speak Icelandic—one of the biggest regrets of my life. Like many first- generation children of immigrants, my mother didn’t encourage me to learn the language. She wanted me to assimilate. She also wanted to be able to gossip with her friends and family without my understanding. I heard the voices and my accent was perfect, but understanding eluded me. I learned the food, though.
All of us kids appreciated the food. What’s a celebration without food? Most of the INL chapters in North America celebrate Thorrablót, what I fondly call an Icelandic pig-out, but that midwinter event cannot compete with Islendingadagurinn and all the food, glorious food. That I remember clearly. (Another discussion?)
Other memorable cultural events surround this weekend-long fête: a Film Festival (on the beach); an annual Prose and Poetry contest (consult the website); plus various sporting competitions.
My favourite involves two contestants struggling to remain on a log bridge suspended over water (at the end of Gimli Harbour). It’s called IslendingaDUNK.
Very Icelandic.