How do you want to be known? By your physical appearance? Your quick wit? Perhaps your mad math skills? Your efforts to make the world a better place? How about as a resident of the herring capital of the world? There is a place that claims this title. It was included on the itinerary of our Iceland adventure.
Iceland is the only place I recall visiting where, even after hearing place names pronounced, I still can’t say them properly. The words are stuffed with more consonants than we are accustomed to in English, and they operate by a different set of rules. Such was the case with a town known as the herring capital of the world – at least in its heyday. It is named Siglufjörður. Say that three times fast. Or just one time correctly! It’s founding and prosperity were connected to a flourishing herring industry in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
Frankly, I have never cared for herring. I’m probably not alone in that dislike, but the truth is I have never actually tasted it! Usually, I am polite enough to wait until I have tried something before declaring my dislike of it. That isn’t the case here. I have eaten ants, crocodile, guinea pig and a whole host of unusual things just to have the experience, but I have an unreasonable revulsion for herring.
The very idea of eating them is off-putting. That is likely because in my first encounter with the little critters they were presented whole. If seeing the heads weren’t bad enough, thinking about chewing and swallowing tiny fish bones didn’t make them more appetizing. Perhaps if my first impression had been based on smoked filets it would have been a different story. I think it created a flashback to sitting at the country store with my grandpa when I was a youngster and watching some of his friends peel back the lid of a tin of sardines packed in oil. They then commenced to fish them out of the tray with their fingers, dangling them over their open mouths before gulping down the entire thing. To this day, that remains unappealing.
Of course, not everyone shares that opinion. Herring showed up on the breakfast buffet at one of our Iceland hotels much to the delight of one of our traveling companions. In contrast with me, she has a host of happy memories associated with the dish. It would have been a good opportunity to watch and learn, or even sample one, but I sat at a different table instead. Maybe next time!
Regardless of my opinion, those little fish allowed a thriving community to form on northern coast of Iceland. First came the fishers. They were a rugged, hardy stock willing to enter a largely unsettled area. They were followed by those who would build processing plants. Then came others seeking steady employment and a better life. Among them was a group known as the “herring girls.” These women set the standard for gutting, cleaning, and salting herring. As described, it sounds like a terribly unpleasant way to spend a day – the kind that might turn a person off from ever eating herring, even if it was the only food on the buffet. The herring girls proved to be so indispensable to the industry that they leveraged the role to improve their compensation relative to men. They are counted as one of the early influences for gender equality in Iceland.
Like gold rush towns in U.S. western lore, the herring capital was a happening place – until it wasn’t. Once the herring were overfished, business declined. As jobs disappeared, so did many of the people. But those who remain remember the heyday when Siglufjörður flourished and life seemed good.
What do you do when trying to preserve fond memories but also must focus on finding a new path toward a bright future, especially if educating and entertaining visitors seems like a viable part of that future? One part of the answer is to create a museum, of course! On our visit, we listened to the docent at an extremely well-done museum about the history of this town and its booming herring industry. Jobs, opportunity, and wealth were all possibilities for those brave enough to call Siglufjörður home in its early years.
Besides being informative, the presentation prompted me to think about heydays in general. It seems most every place has one. Here in east Central Indiana, many local histories include a section reminiscing about the arrival of the auto industry and the influx of people, especially from the Appalachia area, who re-settled here in search of a well-paying job. Most of those plants are no more, or at least not what they once were. They leave behind buildings begging to be repurposed and a people praying for renewal.
The town of Richmond, Indiana near where I live is an example of a town that had a heyday. Its reminiscing includes references to things like “Millionaire’s Row,” Gennett Records, the first recorded jazz, a piano factory and other innovative industries. Great effort goes into keeping those memories alive as part of an attempt to build a prosperous future. To its credit, city leaders continue to reimagine and work to reinvigorate the economy.
Celebration of heydays can be anchored to a variety of things: film stars (James Dean Days), outlaws (Johnny Ringo Days), Canal Days (one once existed in Indiana), as examples. Recently I visited one simply called Community Days. Perhaps it had no other claim to fame, or possibly it was an honest presentation of the purpose – an opportunity for the community to venture outside their homes and mingle for the weekend. Antiques vehicles, some musical entertainment, and a town-wide rummage sale were the anchor attractions. A few food trucks set up shop as well.
Be it herring or automobiles or something else, almost everywhere has a heyday in its story. It is often pointed to as a sign not only of what once was, but causes us to wonder what might yet be. It brings to mind the image from Ezekiel 37 where the prophet surveyed a heap of dry bones and the question was asked, “Can these bones yet live?” Questions like that, even when unspoken, are interspersed in efforts to commemorate heydays.
It is fun, and potentially useful, to remember our heydays. Memory is powerful, especially when it is selective (as it often is). We each have a multitude of ways to remember our pasts. Certain versions could leave us depressed if we allowed them to dominate our thoughts. Heydays create an interesting combination of nostalgic pride and hopeful determination. We relish what was – and perhaps what we were. Some long to return to that time. That is rarely an option and probably not a good idea, even if it were. But we possibly are inspired to cast a few dreams and launch a new effort. For whatever reason, heydays make us think we need a parade. Some are impressive and worth the wait, but others, well – not so much. Maybe it is just me but I don’t get the fascination with riding your lawnmower through the town, waving like the queen (unless, perhaps, you are the queen, or you live in a town where lawnmower production is an economic anchor or lawnmower riding is the town pastime. Then, maybe, it makes sense). To their credit, parades invite us to come out of our houses to see and to be seen. More than simply a reason to be seen, it is an opportunity to be part of a collective effort, even if it is short-lived. Heydays’ inspirational value could be more important than the pleasure we take from remembering a different time.
If something seems a little fishy, it is the unexpected outcome of this stop on our itinerary. I suppose I now have at least one reason to appreciate herring. The lasting impact it had on the town of Siglufjörður has, in fact, inspired a deeper rumination beyond the history of a fishing community. Heydays give us pause and allow us to reflect upon what has been. There is a fine line between healthy remembering and living in the past. Hopefully we can maintain that delicate balance. But to the degree they can nourish, inform, and educate us, we should keep the heydays alive in our stories. Perhaps it actually will be the best time in your life. More than likely, it is one high point among a whole range of highlights. At least, that is my hope for us all.
