For those
of you who haven’t paid attention (or who’ve visited Penwasser Place solely for the kick-ass pictures), my family and I
lived at the U.S. Navy air station in
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| FFS, that was a long-ass time ago. |
The base,
opened during World War II, has since returned to the Icelandic
government. I suppose it was felt the
money to keep it operating could be better spent elsewhere. After all, the threat of Viking raids has
pretty much petered out.
During the
short time we were there, we experienced a rich culture. From ogling New Year’s fireworks displays which
were truly “shock and awe” to lolling about geothermal spas in sub-freezing
temperatures, we immersed ourselves in all that was Icelandic.
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| Except that one where they ate rotted sheep heads. Yeah, they could keep that one. |
One of our favorite traditions happened at Christmas. Readily acknowledging Santa Claus as the favorite of children worldwide,
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| Brought to you by Coca Cola! |
Icelanders add their own unique way of celebrating the run-up to December 25th. For the thirteen nights prior to Christmas morning, legend has homes visited by the mischievous gnomes known as the Yule Lads.
From Sheep Worrier to Candle Beggar, each Lad has his own specific identity.
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| Luckily, Butt Sniffer didn't make the cut. |
Never malicious or harboring ill-intent, they play tricks on each household, whether by drinking all the milk or rearranging the furniture. Revealing their softer sides, they also leave presents in children’s shoes, unless they’d been naughty that year. In that case, they leave Puffin Poop.
Enchanted by this charming bit of folklore, my wife and I played up the fable of the Yule Lads to our two children. As December 12th approached, we told them that Stekkjarstaur, the Sheep Worrier,
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| Worried that someone will behead his sheep while he's asleep |
would surely pay a visit that night. To be ready, they needed to place one of their shoes on their windowsills so that he could leave them a present.
Or poop, I kidded my son.
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| Not funny, dude. |
NOTE: I guess he was worried there'd be no milk in the place. Or headless sheep.
Certain
the kids were asleep, I stole into their rooms to place small presents in
their shoes.
Our daughter was snoring away-no doubt dreaming of what kind of “loot” she’d get from the little troll that night (and I don’t mean me). A precocious fourth-grader, she made sure to tell us at dinner that she’d been a great girl that year.
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| Hopefully, Stekkjarstaur would be able to fit a puppy in her sneaker. |
One child down, I told my wife I’d place a “Family Size” Snickers in my son’s shoe.
The base’s
apartments weren’t like the typical ones in
As I neared his shoe, I heard a voice from out of the darkness,
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| "That's okay, Dad. You can turn on the light if you can't see." |
Busted, I
quickly dropped the candy into his shoe and fled without a word.
The next
morning at breakfast, I asked my eleven-year-old about the night before.
“Oh,
that,” he said, “I’m too old for that stuff
anymore. Tell you what, just save
yourself the trouble and give me my present before I go to bed.”
Mildly
depressed that my little boy was growing up, I said nothing as he headed off to
school.
Before he
walked through the door, he called over his shoulder, “Oh, hey, I left
something for you and Mom on your nightstand.
See you this afternoon.”
Shaking
off my gloominess, I shuffled into my dollhouse bedroom and saw a piece of
paper next to the alarm clock. It was my
son’s Christmas list.
Starting
off with “Dear Santa,” it went on to list, by color, size, and memory storage,
everything he wanted to see under the tree come Christmas morning.
At the
bottom, he closed with, “Oh, yeah, just in case, Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.”
Or, as
they say in
2025 Update: My son now lives in Richmond and is a civil engineer and pilot. Meaning, he can afford his own damn Snickers.
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