In 1927, the little fishing village of Gimli and the surrounding district, gathered donations and material for the construction of a new building. Add to these items a vibrant community spirit and the result was a wondrous building on the land next to the Unitarian Church on Second Avenue, which became known for all time as The Parish Hall.

The Parish Hall was very functional. It was the forerunner of the recreation centres that we have today. It boasted a beautiful maple dance floor and an elevated stage. With the big band sound of a live orchestra, there is no doubt that many a romance was spawned on the dance floor. This would have been especially true during the war years when so many military personnel were stationed in Gimli.

To complete this magnificent building was a projectionist loft and of course, hundreds of chairs. The theatre concessionaire, Harry Greenberg, wisely placed a bench for the children to sit on and reserved chairs for the adults. Much jostling took place by us kids for what we considered the prime spot. Together with the adults, we watched in awe as the newsreels described the activities in the various theatres of the War in graphic detail.

Legions of school children performed the compulsory school play on the Parish Hall stage. Many future corporate executives, politicians, teachers and others got their first taste of public speaking by acting out a part in some long forgotten school play.

I remember very well waiting on stage for the curtain to open, hoping against hope that I would not forget my one line. After our class play was done, I would watch the other grades go through the same ritual. Over the years, as people from Gimli and the district made their mark on the world, a warm feeling of kinship would come over me as I associated them with those school play days.

The same year as the hall was built, Lake Winnipeg attempted to regain its former glory as Lake Agassiz. High water did considerable damage up and down the lake. Many communities, and in particular, many fishing stations, sustained damage. One of these was the Northern Lakes Station at George’s Island on the North end of the lake. As this was a very important whitefish station, with the only sheltered harbour for miles around, speedy reconstruction was imperative.

At the time, the currency of the Interlake was poplar cordwood and fish. So when the opportunity of a steady paycheque appeared, my afi Siggi Kristjanson, and my uncle Hannes jumped at the chance. In January 1928, they, along with Tanie Johnson as foreman, took the job of rebuilding the station on the stipulation that they got Sundays off. Frank Kaminski was the teamster, and a new arrival from Iceland by the name of Stefan Kristjanson rounded out the crew as cook. In the Gimli tradition of nicknames, he was forever called “Stebbi Stew” since no matter what he attempted to cook, it always came out tasting like stew.

Communications were primitive - the crew did not even have a radio. Their only contact during the six-month contract was mail delivered to the post office at Poplar River - 12 miles away. My amma would send personal letters, the Icelandic papers (Logberg and Heimskringla) along with the Free Press to afi Siggi. (Afi was a staunch Liberal, and a civic-minded individual who always wanted to keep up on the goings on in government.) Every other Sunday, Hannes and Frank would hitch up the team for the trip to Poplar River to collect the crew’s mail. Everyone looked forward to word from home and the happenings in the world.

One Sunday in March, as the two were getting ready for the trip, the foreman Tanie announced that they could not use the horses. No reason was given for the decision and Tanie stubbornly refused to yield. Equally stubborn, Hannes and Frank said that they would walk the 24 mile round trip to get the mail. And they did. The two young men were in superb physical condition but as they both remarked years later, the last few miles were almost impossible to make.

It should be noted that in March the snow on Lake Winnipeg hardens to the consistency of concrete. The north end of the lake is a vast, frozen wasteland with only the occasional rock to break the fierce, icy wind from the Arctic. Unfortunate travellers caught unprepared by the sudden winter fury, had little chance of survival. Lake Winnipeg smiled on Frank and Hannes during their long trek that Sunday, but she couldn’t hold off for long - the camp diary notes that the following day, the region was hit by one of the worst blizzards on record. Had the storm struck one day earlier the two men would have surely perished on the frozen lake.

Only Hannes and Siggi got mail on that trip – perhaps Tanie sensed that he wasn’t going to get any mail and that it would be a waste of good horses. In any case, the letter that Hannes got was from his younger brother (my father) Ted Kristjanson. The letter told of attending a tumbola and recital at the new Parish Hall. Ted wrote that it was a wonderful experience with a huge crowd in attendance. Everyone had a chair to sit on - there were chairs everywhere. (Not so at the fishing stations where benches were de rigeur.)

Some years later, Ted met and married Annie and they set about making a family. I arrived in May 1936 but since my father was a whitefish fisherman, any celebration of my arrival had to wait until summer fishing was over. A family gathering was planned in my parents’ small, rented home. The only problem was that they only owned two chairs, quite satisfactory for their needs but not sufficient for entertaining.

Pete Thorsteinson was a childhood chum of my father, and he was caretaker of the Parish Hall. Pete gladly loaned my parents enough chairs to accommodate the invited guests. My baby book notes that the gathering was a success and I received one dollar and tens cents, along with other gifts. After the party all of the loaned chairs were returned.

Except one.

For some reason, a single Parish Hall chair stayed behind in the Kristjanson home and it remains in use to this day. The Parish Hall is “history” as they say, long since torn down. But the memories of the wonderful building and the many gatherings there, remain in the hearts and minds of those who, as children, were briefly stars on its stage and for the district’s farmers and fishermen, for whom the travelling shows and recitals were a welcome respite from the long periods of isolation demanded by their work.

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P.S. If anyone reading this story has an old photograph of the Parish Hall, and would not mind having it on our website, please email it to kards@mymts.net. It would be greatly appreciated.

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Ken Kristjanson