When I was growing up in Cape May, my late mother, Libby Demp Forrest Moore, believed in Santa more than any person I ever knew. But 13 Santas?
This summer on a trip to Iceland, I learned that the American version of Christmas has been skimping on Father Christmas. All my life, I have put up with just one visit from St. Nick.
In Iceland, children are visited by the 13 Yule Lads. It’s a petite country with just 360,000 hearty souls sandwiched among the glaciers and volcanoes.
But at Christmastime, Icelanders get an oversized Christmas presence. The Yule Lads come down from the mountains to leave gifts and cause a little mischief.
Starting on Dec. 12, Stekkjastaur (Sheep-Cote-Clod) with his stiff legs clumsily roams your house looking for milk. In days gone by that meant getting the milk directly from your sheep. But as Iceland has become more modernized, now he is headed to your fridge.
Thirteen sons, all of them elves. As the mother of two boys, my mother would have relished the extended Christmas.
Children in Iceland don’t hang up stockings. They leave their shoes on a windowsill or the edge of their bed.
After they’re done with a little naughtiness, each Yule Lad leaves small toys or candy for the sleeping children in their shoes. On Dec. 15, Pot Licker uses his gnome-sized tongue to comb off all the bits of goodness from the evening’s dishes. I imagine Icelandic parents are grateful for the invention of the dishwasher on that night.
A few nights later on Dec. 18, Door Slammer manically rushes about your house trying to create as much noise as possible. Probably the envy of every prankish child.
My mother never lost her inner-child. I picture her sitting on a stool in the kitchen in our house on Jefferson Street with Door Slammer on her lap. Laughing in the way that only she could laugh. Like she was still a child.
Finally on Dec. 24, Candle Beggar comes to town. He follows children around and tries to steal their candles.
In a country that only gets a few hours of daylight in winter, candles are still the light of the holiday season in Iceland. A small bit of control over a hostile climate.
But for Icelandic children, the scariest part of Christmas is the mother of the Yule Lads, Grýla. She is a gruesome ogress who collects bad children and turns them into a stew for her lazy husband.
Forget naughty and nice, Icelandic children are threatened with becoming Grýla’s dinner. I could definitely imagine my mother spinning an elaborate yarn about how my brother, Craig, and I were headed for Grýla’s oversized caldron.
My mother loved a big story. And the Yule Lads give you 13 chances to build up the Christmas season.
But then at the end, their pet arrives, the Yule Cat. She is a vicious member of the fashion police.
An enormous feline that roams the dark streets of Iceland looking for any child that doesn’t have a new piece of clothing.
If mom and dad forget to include that new scarf under the tree, the Yule Cat has you as a snack. For such a small country, Iceland has an awfully big Christmas.
And my mother would have loved it.
ED. NOTE: Keith Forrest is a professor of communication at Atlantic Cape Community College. His late mother, Libby Demp Forrest Moore, wrote the Joyride column for this newspaper for 20 years.
