I call it My Bloodright

When I was growing up, I knew my Mom was special, but she was also different from the other Moms. She talked different and her outlook on the world was different. We used to laugh at the funny way she pronounced words like “volleyball” and “bushes”. She never warned me that my nose would grow if I told a lie, she would tell me to stick out my tongue to see if it turned black. I never thought of her as strange, just Icelandic. Growing up in Central Illinois in the 70’s and 80’s, there weren’t any other Icelanders so she was always a novelty in that respect. Looking back, it seems odd that it never occurred to me since she was Icelandic that I was too. I remember the 4th of July in 1976, our town celebrated the bicentennial by having a Best International Costume. My sister and I wore traditional Icelandic dresses and won first place, getting to march in the parade with an American and Icelandic flag. It seemed like we were honoring my mom’s heritage an immigrant, again, not my own. I learned from her only a few words in Icelandic; how to say hello and goodbye, which I remember pronouncing as “golden-dye-yun” and “vet-ta-bless”. When I was about ten years old, my Icelandic grandfather traveled to America and I met him for the first time. I recall two of my mother’s brothers also visiting, for short stays and it was always exciting to listen to their strange language and hear their stories of Iceland. The heritage was not real to me as a part of who I was, at least not at that time.

American Family & Icelandic Cousins

My first visit to Iceland was shortly after I graduated from high school. The country was amazing, exciting, and beautiful. I met Icelandic relatives during a whirlwind tour, cramming in as much as possible in a week-long trip. I loved everything about the country and the people, but it still didn’t feel like an integral part of what I was. That didn’t change until 2013, when at the age of 88, my mom published her memoirs of growing up in Iceland. I was so proud of her. As I read her book I found that amongst the stories of her adventures with her sisters riding their Icelandic horses and spending summers at her grandfather’s farm, there was the prevalent theme of folklore, trolls, and Hidden folk. At that time, I was passionate about a hobby creating wood yard art and for Christmas that year, I made a set of Icelandic Yule Lads for her yard. She was so proud of them and insisted calling the local newspaper, who ran a story that ended up being featured in the Morgunblaðið, an Icelandic newspaper.

Saying 'takk' to Grýla for her story

Everyone seemed to be caught up with the story of the Yule Lads. I had always loved reading, particularity loving folklore, fairy tales, and mythology. This now was the spark that ignited my passion to embrace my Icelandic heritage. I began researching the folklore and was fascinated at the way the mythology reflected the culture and attitudes of the people. I brought more of the traditions into my own life, and sought out Icelandic organizations and clubs to join to learn even more. I returned back to Iceland several times and allowed myself to experience the land itself. My Mom had often said that when she returned to her homeland, that she could finally breathe. I understand that. As an adult embracing the heritage of the land, I felt that connection on my first trip back in 2014. I had been researching the people, the stories, and the customs. I understood now that this was my country, my heritage, and the people here had the same history and bloodline as I did. That time, when I stepped on the land, I connected. I took a deep breath and felt the significance. As I saw the sights and visited the historic areas, it was a profoundly moving experience.

Fishing like my Grandpa! from Hofsós

I have returned every year since then. My connection with my heritage has grown stronger, and my appreciation deeper. I started with the tourist highlights, then sought out lesser-known areas, and visited locations of family significance. I love Dyrhólaey, in Southern Iceland, where the ocean waves crash against the rocks, mesmerizing and haunting in its beauty. My favorite town is Hofsós, a wonderful village with historical significance and views of Drangey, the small island, which is the site of my favorite Icelandic legend. Vopnafjörður is where my mother spent her summers, and the site of so many stories of her grandfather’s farm. Reykjavík, her hometown and the capital city. Stykkishólmur where my maternal grandmother’s family was from and the amazing scenery of Snæfellsnes and Reykjanes peninsulas. These are all as familiar to me now as memories of American State Parks and campgrounds from my childhood.

Just outside Vopnafjörður

I was born and raised in the Heartland of America, educated and instructed in the things deemed important in the United States. I was not raised with an understanding of my Icelandic heritage and growing up in that culture was not my birthright. It is, however, my heritage and my history - because of that it is my bloodright, which I gladly claim and fiercely protect. I want to continue my trips to Iceland each year, or more frequently. I dream of owning a home there, spending entire summers in a small cottage perhaps around Borgarvirki, the old Viking fortress ruins that spark my imagination and inspire my creative writing. My deepest desire is to converse freely in Icelandic, to be able to speak, understand, and read the language as easily as my native English. As many places as I have been in Iceland, there are many more left to explore. I have ziplined, ridden horses through the mountains, and gone paragliding off the coast of Vik, but I’ve never snorkeled at Þingvellir, I’ve never stood at my great-grandparents gravesites, and haven’t explored Grímsey. These and so many more thing are on my ever-growing list of Things to Do in Iceland. In the meantime, I’ve added the Yule Lads to my Christmas celebration, try to find a Thorrablot dinner to attend each February, and stay active in Icelandic clubs to have the company of others interested in Iceland.

I am proud to be an American made with Icelandic parts, an Icelander living in North America, between trips back to my heart’s homeland.

Réttir - Annual Sheep Round-up

 

September and October bring the annual autumn ritual of sheep round-up, one of Iceland’s oldest cultural events. Icelandic sheep roam free throughout the summer and will graze anywhere wild grass grows, which in Iceland can be pretty much everywhere but on the glaciers. There are few restricted pastures, so everyone’s flocks may become intermingled or wander far and wide. Sheep do not have migratory instincts and they don’t know when the cold is coming and shelter is needed. So, at the end of the summer, a country-wide round-up is held to bring them in to the barns for winter. All the farmers head out on horseback (although today ATVs are also used), accompanied by sheepdogs, and spend up to a week getting the sheep to corrals for sorting. During round-up, participants stay in tents or mountain huts, using temporary pens to hold the sheep collected, then add to the flock as they work towards the corral. There are many sorting corrals throughout Iceland used for this annual event. The sorting process separates out the lambs, ewes, and rams belonging to each farmer based on the unique notches cut in the ears, which are put there shortly after birth. Each farmer keeps a tally of their sheep beginning with spring birth records, so they know if a second-search, or “eftirleitir” is needed. After the round-up, a large party with lots of singing and dancing, known as ‘Réttaball’, is traditionally held to celebrate the completion of the work. Dishes such as black-pudding blóðmör and liver sausage lifrapylsa are often served.

In the early days, the shearing would follow the round-up. Everyone who helped in the round-up and shearing would be rewarded with a bag of wool. That wool was then worked into cloth and would become sweaters, socks, or cloth by Christmas. Legend deems that anyone who does not have new clothes for Christmas would become the prey of Jólakötturinn, the Christmas Cat. The tradition continues today that clothes or at least a pair of socks is always on the Christmas list of every Icelander. Just in case.