The Angel’s Cat

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

We were living on the fringes of an industrial zone—near downtown Minneapolis in the mid nineteen-seventies.

Rent was cheap but the neighbors weren’t exactly the best: a gang of rowdies with a penchant for settling their internal disputes with handguns.

They had a cat, José. I’ve mentioned him before, one of the more memorable cats of my acquaintance. He was just an ordinary Tom, orange-y fur, a little long and shaggy, not the best groomed feline, just a regular city cat. You'd see him around, crawling under the fences of the junkyards, keeping the vermin from over-running the area.

It so happened that one night José’s ‘owner’ was shot, seriously, but not killed. The gang broke up and left the house. José stayed. A part-time trucker moved in. He didn’t really have any furniture, so he just used the stuff that was left behind. One of the chairs had blood-stains on it. Jose always slept on that chair.

The angel?

One of Hell’s.

Memphis Train

Iceland’s only locomotive ever, nothing to do with Memphis trains.

Another song from The Explodo Boys, this time an Otis Redding cover (live performance 2001), Dan Rowles keyboard and lead vocal, Chris Harwood bass and harmony vocal, Gerry Kruger, guitar, George Kuczek, drums:

Hafmey

Guðmundur Einarsson

Guðmundur Einarsson from Miðdalur in Mosfellssveit (1895-1963) was an Icelandic artist who was a draftsman, graphic artist, painter, sculptor, filmmaker, writer, and mountaineer. He was most often called Guðmundur from Miðdalur and is considered one of the most important artists in Iceland. In 1926 he moved to Iceland from Germany with his first wife Therese Zeitner, a model and artist. Therese was seven years older than Guðmundur. She had one daughter with the chemist Paul Sternberg in Munich in 1911, but they had never gotten married. Three years after the couple arrived in Iceland Therese's daughter Lydia, who had just completed her studies in pottery, moved to Iceland to live with her mother and Guðmundur. Shortly after, Lydia and Guðmundur began a romantic relationship. Guðmundur and Theresa eventually divorced, but she lived more or less with Guðmundur and Lydia until her death. Guðmundur and Lydia later married and had four children; their love affair was controversial but lasted until the end of his life. Guðmundur legacy includes thousands of works: oil paintings, sculptures, glass works, watercolors, graphics, ceramics (in which he was a pioneer), drawings, furniture (that he designed), jewelry, copper and silver objects, gardens, houses, wall decorations, books, photographs and films. He was a pioneer of mountaineering, an explorer, an active conservationist and a forester.

My interest in this fascinating artist was kindled when I saw, on the grounds of Vesturbæjarlaug, a statue of a woman embracing a fish (shown below). It isn’t featured on most maps of public sculpture in Reykjavík, perhaps the erotic nature of the piece (along with Guðmundur’s notorious reputation) has led to its current exile in the residential district of Melar. His smaller ceramic pieces are popular with collectors, he and Lydia were instrumental in promoting ceramic arts in Iceland, Listvinahúsið is descended from a gallery established there in the 1930s.

Biography source
Portrait by Willem van de Poll, 1934

700 Year Old Disclaimer

20 Years Ago on FITK

I've struggled a bit at times with the meaning and importance of this humble venue.

I think most of us who write regularly wonder at times if any of it is worthwhile. Comments help justify it, and those threads we can spin between disparate people (many of whom otherwise have little in common) is always encouraging.

Still, there is always that nagging little demon that pipes up (usually at 4 a.m.!) and says: “Who do you think you are? Writing such fluff?”

I found this quote from the fourteenth century that puts it all in perspective:

Since this tale nor anything else can be made to please everyone, nobody need believe any more of it than he wants to believe. All the same the best and most profitable thing is to listen while a story is being told, to enjoy it and not be gloomy; for the fact is that as long as people are enjoying the entertainment they won't be thinking evil thoughts. Nor is it a good thing when people find fault with a story just because it happens to be uninformative or clumsily told. Nothing so unimportant is ever done perfectly.
-the narrator of Göngu-Hrolf's Saga

I would have never thought that I’d find such solace from so far away and long ago… that nameless scribe concludes with:

I'd like to thank those that have listened and enjoyed the story, and since those that don’t like it won’t ever be satisfied, let them enjoy their own misery. AMEN

Walking After Midnight

Almost everyone wakes up in the night, sometimes for a minute, other times for much longer.

I’ve found that if I can imagine myself walking I can usually drift off again without trouble.

“Lucid Dreaming” is what this process has sometimes been called. I’ve used mental images of

my daily walks to Verturbæjarlaug (a neighborhood swimming pool in Reykjavík.) I find that I can often not get even half-way to the pool before falling back into slumber.

Make sure you are physically comfortable before starting this, get up to pee first if needs be.

Go into step-by-step detail, i.e., donning shoes, putting on your jacket, opening the door, etc. If you find your thoughts wandering don't worry, that’s a good sign, just go back to the walk.

A few times I have made it all the way to the pool so I continue the “dream” there: getting undressed, showering, even taking some laps. Repetitive behaviors are good for this trick.

Although I ‘discovered’ this on my own, there are others who espouse similar ideas.

Click on images to embiggen

The Quiet Mother

A Detective Konrad Novel
By Arnaldur Indriðason
Translated by Philip Roughton

I got my start in reading Icelandic Mysteries at just about the same time I started this blog. Jar City was the first, and the first title in English by Arnaldur as well. 12 million copies later, this book came out. A pre-Covid novel, it was first published in Icelandic in 2019 and only released in English in 2025.

Dectective Konrad is retired from the Reykjavík police force yet still receives request for assistance, in this case from Valborg, a woman who is looking for a chld she gave up for adoption nearly 50 years prior. When the woman is murdered, Konrad’s sense of duty brings him onto the case, augmenting and sometimes crossing Marta, the official investigator. Konrad has mysteries of his own from the past, notably a charlatan con-man father who ran fake seances with a partner as a way of fleecing wealthy widows. His father had been murdered too, and the thread of connection between the two stories is in these ‘supernatural' elements, whether real or contrived.

This is one of Arnaldur’s better plots—it’s not just a rehash of earlier books. His writing, always concise, is honed to a razor edge here and is very readable, new characters are introduced naturally, and even the Icelandic names are (relatively) easy to follow. The story has some deep human currents going on under the surface which Arnaldur handles with tact and grace. The city of Reykjavík becomes another main character, those familiar with it will enjoy an extra dimension in his descriptions. Special note must be made of the integration to the plot of legendary nightclub Glaumbær, which burned in 1971. It was located where the National Gallery now sits, on the other side of the wall in the apartment where I usually stay when I’m in the city. Philip Roughton’s translation is unfussy and elegant. One niggle: The stock cover photograph of the church at Buðir has nothing to do with the story. It would have been nice if they could have had a vintage picture of Glaumbær or some other city landmark featured in the story.

Highly recommended.

More on Arnaldur here…

Beth Ann

20 Years Ago on FITK

A party at Beth Ann's.

She had moved up from Iowa to attend school at the Junior College, or to get off the farm, or both. We met when she asked me why my beard was red while my hair was brown. I told her that my pubic hair was red too. Not the best answer, but true. She was lonely I guess, as lonely as I was, and we did become friends, in sort of a “safe” way. After I had fallen for Robin she was still there too, there were about a half-dozen of us semi-attached waifs. We would meet in the cafeteria. Beth had a place, an apartment, with a couple of roommates. They threw a party and I went with a couple of my buddies. Robin was there also.

After the party warmed up a bit, Beth took me aside, into the bathroom, and got all smiley, and then real close. I kept backing up, finally falling into the bathtub. For being the advanced age of twenty, I was still pretty dense. We went back to the party.

The next day she cornered me, and told me how disgusted she was that my friends had peed all over the bathroom floor. She was right. My friends at that time were pretty crude. But I sensed she really was disgusted in me, that I didn't pick up on her signals. But I had wanted Robin, not her.

Years later, we met again. She was an artist,
She wanted me to shoot some of her work for her portfolio. We embraced, and again I felt her need, and again I could not respond.
I did the job, and we departed as friends.

I never peed on anyone's floor.

Check-out in Lane 3

It was a routine shopping trip.

Just the essentials: Bananas, bread, milk, eggs.

As I was bagging my groceries, the PA system played an instrumental, an oldie from the 50s.

The woman on the other side of the lane said: “Oh! I remember this, what's that song called?”

“Sleepwalk, by Santo and Johnny,” I replied, “… my old band used to play it. The slow dancers loved it.”

“That’s a real belly-bumper,” she said with a toss of her silver curls as she turned away.

And then she was gone.

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

I had been invited into the parlor.

Not by a spider but, rather, by a vivacious young woman named Robin.

We were involved in a romantic triangle, I was the interloper. We didn’t talk about that situation too much. I don’t think she was a coquette, she just liked the attention and conversation. Her early life (prior to our meeting nine months earlier) had been something of a mystery to me, it was not spoken of, but on this day she was eager to talk about a formative episode in her teen years.

We were standing before the spinet piano where she had taken lessons in her early teens. She related a story about her piano teacher, an older teen boy who took advantage of their proximity on the piano bench to indulge in some light touching, running his fingers through her hair. Creepy, perhaps, but nothing exactly criminal. And she enjoyed it, immensely (“I came and came…”) Her musical ambitions faded after that, or perhaps because of that, but now that she was older she still did enjoy current pop music, especially Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love.

On this day, however, she rather shyly brought out her favorite album of her teen years, and played me her favorite song:



Whew! That was a far cry from Led Zep. Lesley Gore was a great singer, Marvin Hamlisch wrote the song, and Quincy Jones was the producer, all of them superstars (albeit of a different sort.) Looking back on it now, I think that that particular song may have been Robin’s adolescent mantra, a way to live life, harsh realities be damned. And the good times we had together, those times when she lifted me out of my pit of teen-angst, truly were sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.

Chocolate or Wait

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Leaving the wintry themes behind for a day…

Summer road trips when I was young always seemed just a little too long, a little too hot (no AC), and never quite as much fun as I had hoped for. It was on a foray into the wilds of western Wisconsin, in search of the fabled Crystal Cave, when we found ourselves a little overheated, a little hungry and a little lost. Finally, dad broke down and pulled into a little roadside store. we went in, and much to our relief, found out that they sold ice cream. I was in the mood for a nice cone, something light to freshen my palate.

"What would ya like, sonny?"

"What kinds do you have?"

"Wull, we've got choclit or wait."

"What?"

"He said Choclit or wait." My dad was getting impatient.

I really didn't want chocolate, but I didn't want to wait either… (For what? The ice cream truck? Did the guy have to make any other flavors from scratch?)… so I meekly said: "I'll take chocolate."

I got my cone, and went outside, to eat it at a picnic table.

A minute or too later my sister came out with a nice vanilla cone.

"How come you got vanilla? I wanted vanilla!"

"He said chocolate or wait. I choose wait."

I thought every one had gone nuts.

"But you got vanilla, and you didn't have to wait."

"WHITE, dummy. This is a white ice cream cone."


Somehow, in Wisconsin, vanilla was called white. I later learned that all sorts of things in Wisconsin were called by other names, although I never heard "white" for vanilla again.

The thing that bothered me all the way home was that my family had also called it white.

Sometimes I thought that I was adopted.

Image: Stanley Mouse and Alton Kelley