Remembering Bill Holm: May's Interesting Icelander
- Icelandic Roots
- 22 hours ago
- 8 min read
By Becky Byerly-Adams, Brian Borgford, and Cathy Josephson
This month's interesting Icelander is a tribute to William Jon Holm, more commonly referred to as Bill Holm. He is revered as many things, with poet, author, teacher and musician among them. This special collaborative article shares contributions from three Icelandic Roots volunteers and writers, Becky, Brian and Cathy. They tell us about Bill, but more so, they reveal more of the person he was. Join us in remembering a man who contributed so much, not only to his home community of Minneota, but to the Western Icelandic history that we share.
“…iconoclast poet, curmudgeon, author, musician, teacher, traveller, friend.”
“Bill… was the conscience of every man and the spokesman for civility and decency”
Wayne Marvin Gudmundson (I540333), Bill’s friend
Bill Holm (I549625) was, and is, a treasure for all Icelanders – a giant in stature, at six and a half feet tall, and a giant in his contribution to the written word. Bill was born in 1943 on a farm north of Minneota, Minnesota and passed on a scant 65 years later in Sioux Falls, North Dakota - less than two hundred kilometers south of his place of birth. He was buried in Westerheim Pioneer Cemetery, Westerheim, Lyon, Minnesota.
American poet, essayist, memoirist, and musician born on a farm north of Minneota and attended Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota where he graduated in 1965.
Later, he attended the University of Kansas. He was Professor Emeritus of English at Southwest Minnesota State University, where he taught classes on poetry and literature until his retirement in 2007.
Although he spent the bulk of his working life in or near his hometown of Minneota, Bill was a man of the world having lived and worked in Iceland and China, with more exotic locations touched along the way from England to Madagascar. Each destination created a plethora of stories, many of which found their way to the pages of his catalogue of captivating books of prose and poetry, while others remained unwritten.
Bill’s writings won several awards including the Cobb partnership award, which honors Americans who have contributed to strengthening bilateral relations with Iceland. The McKnight Distinguished Artist Award celebrates artists who have left a significant imprint on the culture of Minnesota. In an article for the MinnPost, Nick Hayes describes him as “the quintessential voice of our small towns and prairies” and “our lost Icelander in Minnesota.” He frequently appeared on A Prairie Home Companion, a live radio variety show and on Minnesota Public Radio.
A notable illustration is his book “Coming Home Crazy,” where, through a series of essays, Bill describes the joys and frustrations he experienced while teaching in Xi’an, China in 1986-87. The culture, bureaucracy, travel pains and pleasures, and emotions of living and working in a foreign land are vividly portrayed.
His return to The United States provided an appreciation of reverse culture shock, causing considerable reflection on his homeland and its residents, often in a decidedly critical vein, earning him the label, “curmudgeon.”
Bill Holm was a Full-Blooded Icelander as both of his parents were born to Icelandic emigrants. They left northern and northeastern Iceland over the period of 1878 to 1901, settling in the farmlands of Minnesota. Bill was always conscious and proud of his Icelandic heritage. He made his first visit to Iceland in 1979. He considered making Iceland his home on that visit as a teacher. He already considered himself a writer, although he had not yet authored a book. This made him reconsider his relocation, and return “home” to write his collection of works.
In his later years, Bill spent his summers in Hofsos, Iceland, where he purchased a home known as Brimnes. This experience gave rise to his book “Windows of Brimnes” where he reflects while looking through the glass panes of his residence over the fjord. He philosophizes on life in Iceland, United States, and upon his heritage. He states that Brimnes is “…a series of magical windows with a few simple boards to hold them up to protect your head from the rain while you stare out to sea.”
Of his stays in Hofsos Bill says, “I come with the terns, and I leave with the terns,” mirroring the migration patterns of the Arctic birds known locally as kria, meaning “the season of light.”
Jack Plumley and Amber Drake served as Snorri interns at the emigration centre in Hofsos. They wrote of the magic of Brimnes when reciting their experiences living in the house Bill Holm once occupied. (You can access their articles below.)
Bill was not a man of wealth, but he left us riches through his books of essays, reflections, and poetry, as seen through his “windows.”
Note: The Windows of Brimnes: An American in Iceland was reviewed by the Icelandic Roots Book Club on 6 April 2023. Cathy Josephson was welcomed as our special guest.
Bill: Cousin and Friend
a personal story from Cathy Josephson
My first memory of Bill is of me, sitting in the last pew on the left in St. Paul’s in Minneota, watching Bill being herded by his mother into “their” pew, more forward and as far left as possible. Bill fat, red, clumsy, smiley - just as he often described himself - and Jona smartly dressed with her red hair in place under a Sunday hat. To the older ladies, he was Billy, a wonder child who would do them all proud, so the contrary streak in me decided that Bill was just a spoiled kid and not so wonderful at all.
Years and decades rolled by, and our paths seldom crossed until the days of poetry readings in Memorial Park in Minneota, when I was an occasional reader along with Bill and others. With the publishing of The Music of Failure, I felt that Bill had found his voice, and I became a faithful reader and collector of his work.
Our friendship actually began years later. When I moved to Iceland, Bill’s estimation of my good sense was high and a bit mind-boggling. He bought Brimnes in Hofsós in 1998 and we met every summer either there or in Vopnafjörður.
Bill discovered that I could read his writing, which surprised him, and he asked me to type for him. At Brimnes, he wrote sitting on the sofa, light pouring in the windows, birds carrying on noisily outside, the nearby river gurgling and splashing its last few meters to the sea. He wrote confidently, in pen, with few corrections - clearly knew what he wanted to say, beginning as early as 4:00 am until, perhaps, the first knock on the door, or noon, or naptime. Then stuffed the pages into a manilla envelope and mailed it from the grocery store just up the hill. I received it the next day, typed it and emailed it to Vesturfarasetrið in Hofsós where it was printed out for Bill to look over.
As June moved into July, Bill would call wondering if we had a "back room" for him and would promise to ignore him for a few days while he finished some article or book or review. Ignoring Bill didn't go well. He walked into the house and wanted to mix me a gin & tonic. Wanted to catch up on our doings. Another gin & tonic. I had already set the ashtray nearby – only Bill could smoke in our house.
Then he disappeared to write. For some days the phone would not ring, there were no visitors, and he would write and write. And I would type and type. And we would finish, and then we three would celebrate. On a visit to Bustarfell, Bill sat in a sunny corner on the patio at the Hjáleigan Cafe there, alone, no one stopping to speak, with his cup of coffee and a book. I took a photo of him then. Later, he said it was wonderful to be “off”
- to be in a place where he could relax, where he was not known as The Writer, but as just a summer visitor.
One sunny day we headed north to Langanes. I wandered off as Bill and Sverrir, both with hands in pockets, stood where the house at Skoruvík had been. A pensive scene. Then over to Skálar, the abandoned village where Sverrir's mother was born. Again, two fellows standing on the ruined pier, contemplating something without words. Perhaps the view south across the outer ends of the East Fjords.
Bill became very fond of Iceland's summer birds. On a visit to Hofsós, we took a drive on a country road. A hundred terns screeching overhead, diving at the car, veering off to dive again. Sverrir said, "Stop!", stepped out into the tall grass, stooped, picked up a tiny chick. The terns were suddenly silent, hovering overhead. Sverrir brought the chick to show Bill, carefully set it back in the grass, and then back in the car. The terns began their swooping and screeching again. Bill was speechless (a wonder in itself!). We drove on in silence.
On 29 February 2009, the phone rang. On the other end, my father's deep voice said, "I have some very bad news. Bill has died." Cousins and friends, he and Bill would get together over a whiskey and a long talk. Even though they did not always agree, their mutual respect and enjoyment of a good discussion never diminished.
I have certainly not always agreed with Bill - he was always a bit further to the left, and also more forward. Talkative, even blustery, sometimes just ranting. Such differences are best used to increase, not stand in the way of, friendship and collaboration, maturity and understanding. Through his writing and through our friendship, I have learned much I did not know (for example, the names of Chinese philosophers and recluses, and, thanks to Wikipedia, how to spell them!), and seen other sides of ideas and philosophies (not just Bill’s).
We are all in this place together, and we do ourselves no favors by insisting that others sit in the same pew as we do. Thanks to Bill, I am, perhaps, a bit more to the left and forward than I was at eight or nine years old.
Cathy also sent along two personal poems that Bill had written for them in their home in Vopnafjörður.
Cathy has shared two personal poems that Bill wrote when visiting:
From their guestbook, dated 10 June 1998 Bill wrote:
For the only C in the Vopnafjörður Símaskrá
So get on the boat in the wrong direction
Collapse the sails and back it
Into the cold harbor: re-moor it to the half-rotted post.
As in a re-wound film rushing toward
Its beginning at double speed,
The lovers put on their clothes for their first kiss,
The cars uncrashed and whole again.
If you do this, then everything in the universe
Can be done twice from each direction,
Dawn and sundown pushing the light
Into each other's bodies.
Bill wrote this after a visit where Sverrir and Cathy had bragged about how peaceful it was at their house:
Vopnafjörður Aubade
Morning after the solstice
the sun already a quarter of the way up,
rising with almost noisy light
over the high ridge and the broad green valley.
Cathy and Sverrir say they live in a quiet house,
but a pair of snipes disturb the high air
with their loud whirring wings, darting
back and forth in some dance step I can’t figure out.
A big raven flies low overhead
its slow pumping wings churning the still air.
A half mile away in the meadows by the Hof River
a gang of geese honk their plaintive aubade.
A whimbrel comes to sit on a fence post not far away,
clacks a trill with its crabby beak,
then disappears... If this gets any louder,
his expression seems to say,
my beak will curve even steeper down.
Then the new lambs start their racket
bleating for breakfast.
Dawn is a noisy business here in a quiet house
at 2:00 in the morning.
Resources and Additional Reading
Icelandic Roots:
YouTube: Bill Holm Through the Windows of Brimnes
Drake, Amber; Snorri Alum 2018: First Week in Hofsós – Amber's European Adventures
Hayes, Nick; journalist MinnPost Aug, 30, 2011
William (Bill) Holm. in Horvath Funeral Service [obituary]. Feb 2026. Retrieved from: https://www.horvathfuneralservice.com/obituaries/william-holm
