The Things Owen Wrote

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

“I see,” Neville says.

  “So I’ve let everybody down. You. Grandma. Stephansson. Even your friend Gunnar who translated that poem.”

  Owen’s granddad puts his arm around Owen.

  “Listen to me. It was a terrible time. For all of us. Maybe especially for you. Everyone handles grief differently. It can make us do things we don’t expect. Things we might never do otherwise.”

  Owen puts his head in his hands.

  “It’s true,” Neville insists. “Why, I know of a woman back home in Red Deer whose husband died years ago. Tragic, really. Always tinkering. He fell off a ladder while cleaning out their roof gutters. Anyway, she once confessed to me that she talks to her husband as if he were alive, still puttering around the house. It makes her feel less lonely to pretend he’s there.”

  Owen says nothing.

  “Poor Marge Figgis,” Neville adds.

  Owen sits up. He remembers Marge Figgis from his grandmother’s funeral. He shakes his head.

  “Pops. I don’t think I copied because of grief. I think I copied because I thought my poem had to be perfect. I tried, but I couldn’t write a perfect poem.”

  “So now you know. Writing poetry is hard,” Neville says. “And you can’t expect to be good at everything.”

  Owen stares at his granddad.

  “I thought I was good at everything,” he says.

  “Who told you that?” Neville asks.

  “Everyone. ‘Owen does this, Owen does that.’ You all say it,” Owen says.

  “Owen. You aren’t perfect.”

  “No?”

  “No. Believe me.” Neville says, but his voice is kind, even playful.

  The words sink in. Owen is surprised that he doesn’t feel insulted. Instead, he feels grateful. Grateful and relieved.

  Owen lays his head on his granddad’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Of course you are,” Neville says.

  They stay on the bench for a bit. Eventually, Owen lifts his head.

  “I want to make this right,” he announces, plucking his notebook from the ground.

  He lays it on his lap and carefully rips out the last page. He folds the poem and stuffs it into his pocket alongside the pen from the archive.

  His granddad watches with raised eyebrows as Owen stuffs his imperfect green notebook with the missing page into his knapsack.

  Owen has been saving all of his notebooks since first grade, each one in mint condition, a perfect record.

  Until now.

  Aris returns right on schedule, and she has brought them sandwiches to eat on the way.

  They pile into her car and drive. Everyone has grown somber.

  “We’re getting close to Stephansson’s monument now,” Aris says with reverence. “This area is where his family first farmed.”

  Owen peers out his window, his forehead pressing on the fogged glass.

  It is so desolate outside. So bleak. He doesn’t even spot sheep. There are only bumpy, barren fields of black rocks and green moss. A small brook cuts a path through some rolling foothills among misty patches. Mountains loom in the distance, still capped in snow.

  Aris pulls off the road onto a small look-off point. They pile out of the car. Wordlessly, as if at a funeral service, they walk single file along a short footpath, uphill to the top where a national historic monument dedicated to Stephansson has been built. It is tall and made of local stone and concrete shaped like a steeple. There is a carved metal plaque fixed to one side that shows Stephansson composing poems at his Alberta homestead.

  Everyone separates to walk around the monument at their own pace, each taking in the spectacularly raw landscape below.

  “This must look exactly as it did when Stephansson stood on this very hill,” Neville says with awe. “Gunnar would be so pleased to know we made it here.”

  When no one is looking, Owen takes the poem out of his pocket and unfolds it. Beneath his own name he writes, Some verses were written by Stephan G. Stephansson, translated by Gunnar Ingvarsson.

  He refolds the poem.

  Tight.

  He finds a crevice between some of the stones at the base of the monument and tucks the wadded paper deep inside where it will remain protected for as long as Owen can imagine.

  He stands up. The bleak surroundings look brighter. The sun is burning through the fog patches. A great weight has been lifted. He catches his granddad’s eye and smiles.

  Aris glances at her cell phone.

  “Oh, look at the time,” she says regretfully. “I really must be off. Remember, you’ll have about thirty minutes here before my colleagues fetch you for the drive back to Reykjavík. You’ll be flying home to Canada in no time.”

  “Thank you, Aris,” Neville says. “For everything.”

  “My pleasure,” Aris says. “It was wonderful to meet you both.”

  She gives Owen’s granddad a hug.

  “Come back to the car with me,” she says to Owen. “You can help me with the luggage.”

  Owen follows her down the footpath to the car while his granddad finds a good place to sit at the base of the monument. He quietly contemplates the mountains in the distance, his white tufts of hair lifted by the wind.

  Back at the car, Aris opens the trunk. They both lift out the luggage and set it by the start of the footpath along with Owen’s knapsack and his granddad’s briefcase.

  “Owen,” Aris says, turning to him, her face suddenly serious. “I had a phone call last night. Well, rather, your grandfather had a phone call last night, but I answered.”

  “What do you mean?” Owen asks.

  “After I walked him back to your room, I returned to the TV lounge to finish watching the news. When I went to go to bed, I noticed that he had left his cell phone on the coffee table. By then, it was much too late to disturb you both, so I brought it to my room for safekeeping.”

  Owen tosses the knapsack over his shoulder. He is surprised at how tired he suddenly feels, how heavy his knapsack has become. He is a worn-out traveler who just wants to go home.

  “The phone rang in the middle of the night,” Aris continues. “I answered it thinking it was my cell. I thought it might have something to do with Britta and I panicked. But the call wasn’t for me.”

  Aris steps closer to Owen to look him in the face.

  “It was Marge Figgis,” she says.

  “Marge Figgis?” Owen repeats.

  “Marge Figgis. A friend of your grandfather’s. Well, in fact, there were a few ladies with her. She was on speakerphone calling from your grandfather’s living room.”

  Owen feels like he is sinking. He knows who the ladies in the room with her must be. The ladies from the Red Deer River Readers Book Club. His granddad forgot to call them about the casseroles from the airport, Owen now realizes.

  “They’ve been helping out your grandfather with meals and such for some time now. They knew he was taking care of you this week, so they’ve been dropping off casseroles on your front porch. Only, the food’s been piling up at your door. Uneaten. They’re worried.”

  “What did you tell them?” Owen asks.

  “They wanted to know who I was and where you and your grandfather were,” Aris says. “They wanted to be sure you’re okay.”

  “Me? I’m fine.”

  “Still. They’re worried about you. They …” Aris stops. She sighs.

  “They what?” Owen asks.

  “They insisted on calling your parents.”

  “Oh,” Owen says.

  Owen looks away.

  “Do your parents know that you’re in Iceland?” Aris asks gently.

  “Yes,” Owen says, glancing at Aris. “Pops called them.”

  But Owen isn’t so sure now.

  After a few seconds, Owen adds truthfu
lly, “Or maybe he forgot.”

  Aris nods.

  They both turn to the hillock with the tall monument that looks like a steeple. Owen’s granddad is still sitting, still admiring the view, his back to them.

  “They insisted on calling your parents,” Aris repeats. “So I went down to the front desk and looked up the phone number you wrote on the register. “I …” she pauses again. “I gave it to them.”

  Owen realizes that he did not write his home telephone number on the register. Out of habit, he wrote down the number that he calls the most.

  “My mom’s cell phone,” Owen concludes. “She’ll have that with her in Las Vegas.”

  He sets down his knapsack on the dusty path in defeat.

  “I’m so sorry, Owen. I didn’t want to get your grandfather into trouble. I like him very much. But …”

  Aris’s voice trails.

  “But what?” Owen asks, dreading the awful truth.

  “But they claim that he has been displaying unpredictable behavior over the past few months. He’s also becoming forgetful. It’s something your parents need to know about.”

  In that moment, Owen replays all of his granddad’s slipups in rapid succession.

  The confusion on the airplane.

  The missing driver’s license.

  The muddle with the cutlery.

  The suitcase full of socks.

  “Listen,” she says kindly. “There’s a six-hour time-zone difference between Iceland and Alberta, seven hours for Las Vegas. Marge said they’d wait until the morning to call your parents.”

  Aris pulls out the cell phone that belongs to Owen’s granddad from her bag and checks the charge on it before handing it to Owen.

  “I expect they’ll call within the hour. I’m telling you now so that you can prepare, so that you can be there for your grandfather.”

  Owen reluctantly takes the cell phone.

  “I have to go,” Aris says apologetically.

  She stands awkwardly holding her car keys. They glint in a shaft of Arctic sun.

  Owen manages to give the smallest of nods.

  Aris takes a step and hugs Owen. Owen hesitates a few seconds, then hugs her back.

  “Þetta reddast,” Aris whispers, kissing him on the cheek.

  She climbs into the car and gives a wistful little wave before shutting her door. Owen watches her go until he can no longer see her car. He is surrounded by their luggage with his knapsack at his feet, his granddad’s cell phone heavy in his hand.

  He turns back to the cold gray monument. All around is forlorn and abandoned farmland. But there is something about Owen’s granddad, something about how he is now sitting while taking in the view that is not in keeping with his bleak and gloomy surroundings.

  What is he thinking?

  Owen sets the cell phone down — the cell phone that is certain to ring any minute — and silently reaches for his camera. He points it at his granddad and uses the lens to zoom in. His granddad turns his head ever so slightly, just enough that Owen sees his profile. His granddad is smiling as if he is at peace with himself, as if he has just accomplished his greatest mission, his greatest triumph.

  Owen wants more than anything to record this moment. He steadies his breath while peering through his lens. He does not rush. This time, he waits, knowing he is risking the moment, but he’s determined to take that chance. The sun burns through another fog patch. The light improves. Owen slowly pushes the button. The shutter opens for a split second and records everything.

  It is the best photograph of his granddad that Owen will ever take.

  Eleven

  MY HEART

  by Owen Sharpe

  My grandma jogged in bright red running shoes.

  She loved to breathe the early-morning air.

  Her rhubarb crisp once made the evening news,

  when she placed first at Red Deer’s county fair.

  One time, my granddad rented her a boat;

  the parts of it and sailing terms he taught her.

  But she said no, she’d really rather float,

  and overboard she jumped into the water.

  My attic room she painted mossy green;

  from there she read to me in bed each night.

  She tucked me into sheets so crisp and clean.

  Outside the stars would shine so true and bright.

  Together we bought jars of fish-food flakes,

  a glass bowl and a pretty goldfish, too,

  whose brilliant color sings, and my heart aches

  to see her shimmering carrot-orange hue.

  My grandma showed how tough it was to fight

  when she got sick and tired of facing cancer.

  She took it all with dignity and might

  and the hidden strength of a ballet dancer.

  And we who grieve are reconciled to see

  that vengeance for her loss can be forsaken,

  that goodness had no fault to find with she

  and had no cause for her for being taken.

  Red Deer’s river now slides by so silently,

  past rows of markers where my grandma sleeps.

  And my empty attic room stands valiantly

  where my broken heart is locked inside for keeps.

  Her honest kindness cannot ever fade,

  will be as years go by my guide and treasure,

  though hope has gone for any plans we made

  yet I’ve this gift she gave in generous measure.

  GESTUR

  by Stephan G. Stephansson

  Translated by Paul Sigurdson

  The law which cuts life’s thinly ravelled thread,

  Gave little time for dread or hope or sadness.

  It flung a bolt from heaven overhead

  And felled my cherished son in its blind madness.

  Yet ’tis some comfort, since it had to be,

  It caused no previous suffering to me.

  And it’s some comfort and some good to know,

  It was a senseless force that made your ending,

  No willful evil thing that struck you so,

  But accident, its random strike descending.

  It is man’s cruelty, where’er it be,

  Which cuts the heart with keenest agony.

  And those who grieve are reconciled to see

  That vengeance for this loss can be forsaken,

  That goodness had no fault to find with thee

  And had no cause for you for being taken,

  For it could never be so mean and cold

  To those who mourn your passing from the fold.

  And evil cannot rule the good and right.

  It matters not what life and death are boding;

  It cannot touch you for it lacks the might.

  The shaft of lightning from the sky exploding

  Was innocent of any willful wrath

  As even you who happened in its path.

  So now I sing for you my poignant lay

  On phrases sweetly blending with my sadness.

  Among the blessed angels you will stay,

  Forever comforted by joy and gladness.

  And thus consoled I soothe the grief that sears,

  And bless your name ’mid thankfulness and tears.

  I am consoled, but yet I feel the pain

  For those who grieve their every hour waking,

  That I can bear no fragment of their strain

  When I the greater part should now be taking,

  But you’ll be with me ’til life’s ending day,

  Blent with my every task, my every day.

  Your honest kindness cannot ever fade,

  Will be as years go by my guide and treasure,

&n
bsp; Though hope has gone for any plans we made

  Yet I’ve this gift you gave in generous measure.

  When my last song is sung and I find rest

  Life will keep kindness in its tender breast.

  Oh dearest child! A cheerful willing boy,

  A strength to guide and help me in my ageing,

  That in my weariness I’d find some joy,

  In recomposing half-forgotten pages.

  But I’d forsake that gift with joyous tears,

  If I could grant you life for added years.

  You’ll be remembered in my sweetest lays,

  Until the sun has dimmed my golden hours,

  Until the world has turned my final days,

  Until your grave is overgrown with flowers,

  And hallowed to thy grave my way shall be

  As my last poem to your memory.

  AFTERWORD

  STEPHAN G. STEPHANSSON

  Stephan was an Icelandic Canadian poet, often referred to as the Poet of the Rocky Mountains. He was self-educated and worked as a farmer all his life, providing for his wife and eight children. Eventually, he settled in Alberta where, being an insomniac, he often wrote till dawn after farming all day. Stephansson wrote only in Icelandic, leaving his work to the skills of his translators. He is considered by Iceland to be one of their best poets since the thirteenth century. His literary topics included the immigrant experience, landscape, community, human ambition and progress, and equal rights for men and women.

  Stephan G. Stephansson was born Stefán Guðmundur Guðmundsson on October 3, 1853, in the Skagafjörður district of North Iceland, and died on August 10, 1927, near Markerville, Alberta. His homestead near Markerville is now an Alberta Provincial Historic Site and has been open to the public since 1982.

  THE ORDER OF THE FALCON

  The president of Iceland presents the Order of the Falcon to worthy individuals twice each year. The Order of the Falcon harkens back to the Icelandic Vikings, who gave two traditional gifts to exceptional people they met on their travels: poetry and live Icelandic falcons. Today, the medal is given in gratitude on behalf of the people of Iceland to those who demonstrate dedication, loyalty and leadership in preserving Icelandic culture. The medal is retained during the recipient’s lifetime, but it is supposed to be returned to the Icelandic government upon his or her death. Stephansson’s wife, Helga Sigríður Jónsdóttir, was awarded the medal in recognition of her distinguished husband after Stephansson died. Helga died in 1940. The whereabouts of her medal are unknown.