White Horse Santa Jim

Tag: Storytelling

  • What Santa Thinks of the Yule Trolls

    What Santa Thinks of the Yule Trolls

    I have been traveling winter roads for a very long time, long enough to know that not every place welcomes the season in the same way. Some winters are loud, while others are quiet. Some people lean into rules and warnings, while others lean into warmth and watching.

    I first noticed the Yule Troll family the way one notices neighbors across a snowy field. Not because they announced themselves, but because their lights stayed on late and the house always felt alive. Laughter carried through the dark, footsteps crossed the floor, a chair scraped, and a door opened and closed again.

    They stay busy in a way that feels familiar, and like most people, they are good at heart even when they make a mess of things.

    Grýla watches the season carefully, and she keeps an eye on children as well, not to scare them, but to understand them. She notices how rules get tested, how someone goes a little too far, and how learning happens when it is time to stop.

    Leppalúði pays attention to what breaks after the noise has passed, whether it is a hinge, a handle, or a temper. He fixes what needs fixing and stays close while the day settles again, letting the lesson take its time instead of pushing it along.

    The Yule Lads do what children everywhere do. They push boundaries, peek where they should not, and reach for whatever smells good or sounds interesting. They make a mess of things, then pause to see what has changed because of it. If you have ever tried something simply to see what would happen, then you already understand the Yule Lads.

    What interests me most is what does not happen.

    No one chases them or threatens them, and no one warns that winter will turn against them if they get it wrong. Instead, the world around them adjusts. Doors close a little more carefully, food moves farther back, and shoes appear in windows. Some mornings bring a gift. Other mornings bring a potato.

    The message stays quiet, but it remains clear. You are part of this season. Your choices matter. You are still welcome here.

    That feels familiar to me.

    My own work has always focused less on watching for mistakes and more on noticing effort. Children learn best when they are allowed to take part, when they feel trusted enough to try, and when the season invites them in rather than standing over them.

    Winter lasts a long time in Iceland, and darkness lingers. That makes care important. Stories need to hold people together, not press them apart. They should feel like a fire you can sit near, not a door that closes.

    The Yule Trolls seem to understand this, which is why their mischief stays close to the hearth and their corrections stay close to home. No one gets sent away.

    These stories did not soften by accident. People chose that path.

    They grew the way families grow, by listening, by choosing what to carry forward, and by deciding that fear was not necessary to keep a tradition alive.

    When I watch Icelandic children place their shoes in the window, I do not see obedience. I see anticipation, curiosity, and trust that morning will bring something worth finding.

    Children do not need to become someone else to belong to winter. They belong while they are learning.

    That feels like good winter work to me.

    So when people ask what I think of the Yule Trolls, I tell them this. They are doing what winter stories are meant to do. They keep the dark from feeling empty, remind children that they belong, and leave room for mistakes, for laughter, and for learning.

    They leave the door open.

    And in a season like this, that is more than enough.

    Next time, I would like to tell you why stories like these matter most when the nights are longest.

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends

  • How Icelandic Children Celebrate with the Yule Lads

    How Icelandic Children Celebrate with the Yule Lads

    By the time the Yule Lads have finished filling their family’s mountain home, something else has already been happening across Iceland.

    Shoes have been appearing in windows.

    Not all at once, but one here and another there. Small shoes and worn boots. Slippers that have clearly been cleaned more carefully than usual. They line windowsills in apartments, farmhouses, and towns along the coast, waiting quietly through the night.

    The children check them each morning. Some mornings bring a small gift. Potatoes appear on other mornings. Both things make those children laugh, and a potato never feels like a punishment. It’s not a warning, but a piece of the game itself. A shared understanding that the Yule Lads are watching, noticing, and still learning alongside the children who wait for them.

    I have watched children explain this to one another many times. They speak with ease and excitement. They sound proud, as if they are taking part in something important.

    In Iceland today, the Yule Lads are not used to frighten children into behaving. They are an invitation into the season. Their stories are told in classrooms, shared in drawings, acted out in winter plays, and laughed over at kitchen tables. Children know their names. They know their habits. They recognize themselves in them, especially when they would rather grab than wait, or peek instead of ask.

    What strikes me most is how comfortably these stories live in everyday life. Children talk about which Yule Lad arrived last night the same way they talk about snowfall or daylight returning. It is part of the rhythm of December. Parents listen without correcting too much. Teachers smile and let the conversations wander. Nobody rushes to explain the lesson, because the story already knows how to do its work.

    The Yule Lads are mischievous, but they are not cruel. They are curious, but they are not careless. They test boundaries, and then they learn what happens when a house grows full and people notice one another more closely. Icelandic children understand this instinctively. They do not need the stories spelled out. They live them.

    I have seen children draw the Yule Lads with crooked hats and long noses, laughing as they argue about which brother would be the loudest or the hungriest. I have heard them debate which Yule Lad they would rather meet first. These are not fearful conversations. They are affectionate ones.

    What the children seem to know, and what the adults quietly protect, is that winter already carries enough darkness. Stories do not need to add more. Instead, they add warmth. They add recognition. They add a sense that everyone is learning together, even the ones who sometimes make a mess of things.

    That is what I admire most about how families in Iceland tell these stories now.

    The Yule Lads still arrive one by one. Shoes still wait in windows. Potatoes still appear now and then. But the heart of the tradition has shifted toward kindness, humor, and shared anticipation. The season becomes something children take part in, not something that happens to them.

    From where I stand, that feels wise, and it feels familiar in a way I recognize right away.

    When I listen to Icelandic children talk about the Yule Lads, I hear something familiar from my own work in winter. People believe that sharing wonder works best. That mischief is part of learning. And that the most important thing a holiday figure can do is help families gather closer, not pull them apart.

    In the next post, I will speak more directly about that recognition, and about my own thoughts on this lively troll family who has learned how to walk gently alongside children in the darkest weeks of the year.

    I have a great deal of affection for them.

    And I think you will understand why.

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends

  • The First Four Yule Lads

    The First Four Yule Lads

    On the first night of the Yule season, something changes in the house among the lava fields.

    It is not loud at first. A door creaks. Boots shake off snow. Someone laughs too early, then stops. Grýla does not turn around, but she knows. Leppalúði sets his tool down and listens.

    The boys have begun to arrive.

    In Iceland, the Yule Lads come one at a time, one each night for thirteen nights. By the time the first four have shown their faces, the cupboards need watching and the sheep are restless. Shoes appear in windows across the country, waiting quietly to see what the morning brings.

    Let me tell you about the first four.

    Sheep-Cote Clod

    Stekkjarstaur (STEK-yur-stare)

    The eldest comes down from the hills stiffly, as if the cold has settled into his knees and stayed. He walks as though bending were something he once knew how to do and has since forgotten.

    Sheep-Cote Clod has always had trouble with fences. Gates frustrate him. Hinges offend him. He knows the rules about enclosures, but he also knows how tempting it is to lean too far over them, to test whether wood and wire really mean what they say. He wanders near the sheep pens, peering in, convinced he can manage things better than the gate was designed to do.

    Most nights, he does more bumping than helping.

    The sheep scatter. The fence does not.

    By morning, something is bent. Grýla notices it right away. She always does. She says nothing at breakfast. Later, Leppalúði fixes the damage around their own mountain home, tightening what loosened and straightening what bent. Elsewhere, farmers and their children do the same.

    Have you ever wanted to help, but made things harder instead?

    Sheep-Cote Clod watches from the doorway. He does not offer to help, but does not leave either. He pretends not to be paying attention, but he is.

    He is slowly learning that wanting to help is not the same as remembering how things are meant to work.

    That lesson takes him many winters.

    Gully Gawk

    Giljagaur (GIL-yuh-gowr)

    The second brother prefers places where no one expects him to be.

    Gully Gawk lingers in gullies and narrow paths where snow drifts quietly and footsteps echo longer than they should. He slips into the spaces between places and stands still for long stretches of time. People forget he is there. This works to his advantage.

    He listens more than he moves.

    He follows the sound of milk. Streams, buckets, barns. When a cup goes missing, he is often nearby, close enough to hear the question being asked, studying the stream.

    No one calls him out directly. Grýla keeps track in her own way. She notices patterns. Leppalúði sets one cup farther back than the rest, not hidden, just out of easy reach. Sometimes he sets an extra cup aside.

    Gully Gawk notices. He always notices. Who in your family notices when something small has changed?

    By nightfall, everyone has learned to count the cups before bed.

    Stubby

    Stúfur (STOO-fur)

    The third brother is the shortest, quick on his feet, and never quite convinced there is enough to go around.

    Stubby hates waste. Scraps bother him. Half-finished things bother him most of all. Pots, pans, and crusts draw him like a magnet, especially when he thinks no one is paying attention. He waits for the moment everyone looks elsewhere, after people scrape plates clean and set meals aside.

    He scrapes pans so thoroughly they shine. Sometimes he scrapes food meant for tomorrow.

    That does not go unnoticed.

    Grýla corrects him without raising her voice. Often, a look is enough. Have you ever gotten a look that said everything without a word? Leppalúði makes sure they share the next meal slowly, leaving nothing unattended or rushed. He leaves a little extra for everyone, spread evenly across the table.

    Stubby eats less than he wants and more than he needs.

    He is learning a lesson many young adults learn slowly. Just because something is almost finished does not mean it belongs to you. He learns to wait.

    He does not like it.

    Spoon-Licker

    Þvörusleikir (THVUR-uh-slay-kur)

    The fourth brother has a different kind of patience.

    Spoon-Licker waits near the hearth. He lingers where steam rises and people set down pots, watching hands instead of faces. Spoon-Licker listens for the scrape of wood against iron. He is not bold, he is careful.

    When someone leaves a wooden spoon unattended, he quietly takes it, licks it clean, and returns it polished.

    It is hard to be angry with him. The spoon comes back polished, as if he were doing the household a favor. Grýla lifts an eyebrow when she finds it hanging where it belongs. Leppalúði turns it over once, then hangs it higher.

    Spoon-Licker looks up. He notices where it rests now. He files that away for later.

    He is learning about timing. About asking. About the thin line between cleverness and courtesy.

    Have you ever done something clever, then realized later you should have asked first? Spoon-Licker is not there yet.

    By the time these four arrive, the house feels different. Louder. More crowded. More watchful.

    Outside, children place shoes in windows and go to sleep thinking about what they might find. Sometimes there is a small gift. Sometimes a potato. Neither arrives by accident.

    The Yule Lads are not cruel. It is that they are young, and push where they should pause. They learn, slowly, what it means to live in a household where everyone notices.

    Above the house, snow keeps falling. Inside, the fire stays lit.

    And farther up the path, more boots are already making their way down the mountain.

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends

    If you’d like Santa to share a story or bring a little wonder to your home or event this season, my visit calendar has a few open spots. I would love to meet you.

    Invite Santa to Visit

  • Leppalúði: The Quiet Troll Father

    Leppalúði: The Quiet Troll Father

    If Grýla is the voice of the mountains, then Leppalúði (LEP-pal-LOO-thee) is the hush that settles after the echoes fade. He is the quiet father of the Yule Troll family, a gentle giant whose strength does not come from volume or temper, but from patience that seems older than the winter itself.

    Very few stories paint him as fierce. Most modern Icelandic families describe him with a fond smile, as if remembering someone who always sat in the same chair by the fire, carving a piece of wood or mending a tool while the house tumbled with noise around him. When I visited their home, that is exactly how I found him: peaceful, unhurried, and perfectly at ease in a world full of clatter and mischief.

    Leppalúði does not move quickly unless he must. He believes you can solve most things by taking one thoughtful step at a time, and he is almost always right. When one boy dents a pan, tears a sleeve, or leaves muddy footprints across the floor, Grýla’s voice rings out first. Leppalúði’s comes afterward, low and steady, smoothing the edges so the day can settle again.

    Leppalúði is not timid. Where Grýla feels carved from the rocky lava fields, Leppalúði seems shaped by the quiet between the stones, and by the gentle snow that settles over their home. He simply knows that storms pass. He knows that a gentle hand often fixes what a loud voice cannot. And he knows that his sons, for all their pranks and appetites, want to be good. They look up to him more than they realize. Some say the boys learned their best gentle moments from him.

    If you have someone in your family who brings calm the way another brings excitement, someone who listens before speaking and takes the burden quietly when others are tired, then you already understand Leppalúði. He is the anchor of the household. The counterweight to thirteen bustling boys and one formidable winter mother. The one who reminds everyone that the world is steadier than it sometimes feels.

    He always appears exactly where people need him. When I visited, I saw him leaning through doorways to check on conversations, handing a ladle into the kitchen at just the right moment, and shooing a sheep out of the pantry with the same gentle firmness he used on his children. Nothing startled him, not even the boys’ bickering or the sound of Grýla’s footsteps rumbling through the stone halls.

    In every story worth remembering, there is someone who carries the light quietly. For this troll family, it is Leppalúði. Without him, their winter would be louder, sharper, and far less warm.

    Next time, we will meet the Yule Cat and follow her trail of mischief. A cat the size of a house makes for very memorable nights in Iceland, and a story all her own.For now, I hope you enjoyed this quiet moment with a troll who reminds us that kindness does not need to shout to be heard.

    Explore the Iceland Yule Series

     If you’d like Santa to share a story or bring holiday magic to your home this season, my visit calendar is always available.

    Invite Santa to Visit

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends

    • Santa’s Northern Neighbors
    • Grýla: Winter Mother of the Mountains
    • Leppalúði: The Quiet Troll Dad (Current)
    • Jólakötturinn: The Great Yule Cat of Iceland
    • The First Four Yule Lads
    • The Middle Five Yule Lads
    • The Last Four Yule Lads
    • How Icelandic Children Celebrate with the Yule Lads
    • What Santa Thinks of the Yule Trolls
    • Why These Stories Matter in the Dark of Winter
  • Santa’s Northern Neighbors

    Santa’s Northern Neighbors

    Meet the Yule Troll Family of Iceland

    Far to the north of the North Pole, past snowy oceans and volcanic mountains, lives a holiday family unlike any other I have ever met.

    They live in Iceland.
    They are trolls.
    And they absolutely love Christmas.

    In Iceland, the holiday season is not only about Santa and reindeer. It is also the time of the Yule Troll family. They are part of an ancient tradition. Today, modern Icelanders tell these stories with warmth, humor, and a twinkle in the eye.

    Let me introduce you.

    Grýla, the Winter Mother

    At the center of the family is Grýla (pronounced GREE-luh). In the past, she had a reputation as a scary mountain troll. These days, most Icelandic children think of her as a grumpy but important winter mother who lives in the lava fields of Dimmuborgir (DIM-moo-borg-eer).

    Grýla watches over her family and keeps an eye on the season. She is strict about manners and rules. Mostly because when you have thirteen mischievous sons, you have to be. How does your mom manage you and your siblings when you’re excited?

    I have always suspected she secretly enjoys the noise and chaos. Even if she pretends she does not.

    Leppalúði, the Gentle Giant

    Grýla’s husband is Leppalúði (LEP-uh-LOO-thee). He is quiet and moves slowly. Leppalúði does not enjoy conflict. If Grýla is the storm, Leppalúði is the snowfall that follows afterward.

    People often see him as the calm one in modern stories. The steady one. The troll who fixes things after the boys have finished causing trouble.

    Every family needs someone like that. Who is “Leppalúði” in your family?

    The Thirteen Yule Lads

    Now come the stars of the show. Their sons are called the Yule Lads. Thirteen of them. Each ‌with a funny habit that gave him his name.

    They do not all come at once. One arrives each night for the thirteen nights leading up to Christmas. Icelandic children place a shoe in the window. If they have done their best to behave, a small gift appears inside by morning.

    If not, sometimes a potato.

    The Yule Lads are not mean. They are silly. Mischievous. Curious. A little too interested in snacks and noise and shiny things. In other words, they are a lot like kids.

    And Then There Is Jólakötturinn the Yule Cat

    Every family seems to have one mysterious member.

    In this one, it is Jólakötturinn (YO-la-KUH-tur-in), the Yule Cat. People say a giant black cat roams the snowy countryside at Christmas. Long ago, the story reminded children to help with winter chores so everyone could have warm new clothes.

    Today, most Icelanders treat the Yule Cat as a symbol of generosity. A reminder to make sure no one is left out in the cold.

    Even a very large cat can have a kind heart.

    Why Iceland Still Tells These Stories

    Modern Iceland does not tell these tales to frighten children. They are told to celebrate winter. To encourage kindness. To share laughter during the darkest part of the year.

    They remind everyone that even when the nights are long and the wind is loud, families stick together. People can forgive mischief. Warm socks matter. And small gifts mean a great deal.

    As Santa, I find that message very comforting.

    Next, I will tell you more about Grýla herself, the Winter Mother at the heart of this troll family. She is full of surprises.

    You will see what I mean.

    I hope you liked this first peek into Iceland’s Christmas folklore. Our next post arrives on Friday, when we’ll sit with Grýla herself. And if you’d like Santa to share a story or a little holiday cheer with your family this season, my visit calendar is always available.

    Invite Santa to Visit

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends

    • Santa’s Northern Neighbors (Current)
    • Grýla: Winter Mother of the Mountains
    • Leppalúði: The Quiet Troll Dad
    • Jólakötturinn: The Great Yule Cat of Iceland
    • The First Four Yule Lads
    • The Middle Five Yule Lads
    • The Last Four Yule Lads
    • How Icelandic Children Celebrate with the Yule Lads
    • What Santa Thinks of the Yule Trolls
    • Why These Stories Matter in the Dark of Winter

  • Santa Jim B Brings Joy to the Navy’s Holiday Celebration at Jim Creek

    Santa Jim B arriving at the Navy’s holiday celebration at Jim Creek in a Horse Carriage
    Santa Jim arrived in a carriage for this event.

    When the Navy called, Santa Jim answered.

    In early December 2019, the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation team at Jim Creek invited him to lead their annual holiday festival for military families. For Santa Jim, it was a full-circle moment—twenty years of service, ten with the Navy, and now a chance to give back in the most joyful way.

    A Rainy Beginning, a Warm Reunion

    The day arrived with that familiar Pacific Northwest drizzle—soft, steady, and somehow fitting. Hidden away until the right moment, Santa waited with his helpers while families gathered under hoods and umbrellas. Then, with a wave and a hearty “Ho Ho Ho!”, he stepped into view to cheers and laughter as children ran forward, eyes wide with delight.

    Inside the lodge, warmth replaced the rain. The scent of hot cocoa mingled with pine and cinnamon. Santa told stories, led carols, and listened to every whispered wish. For more than two hours, the celebration brought light and connection to those who serve and their loved ones—a reminder that holiday magic doesn’t depend on perfect weather, only on shared joy.

    Giving Back Through Joy

    That same spirit carries into Santa Jim’s work today. Whether it’s a cozy home visit, a lively corporate party, or a studio photo session, he brings the same mix of kindness, storytelling, and laughter that delighted those Navy families. Each encounter is personal, heartfelt, and full of Christmas wonder.

    Bring Santa Jim to Your Celebration

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    Share the joy that started at Jim Creek—right in your home, your workplace, or your community.

    Photo Gallery

    Santa Jim tells stories
    Santa Jim telling “The Cat of the Doverfjell.”
    Our first conversation.
    Elfin Joy

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