The Christmas Bookcase.

Christmas is almost here!  At least, that is what I see at my neighborhood Lowes.  The hardware chain seems to be suffering from schizophrenia as it features large displays of both Halloween and Christmas decorations.  Neither holiday display motivates me to purchase anything, since what few decorations we put up have been up for years.  As I write this, there are still stockings hanging from the mantle: we’ve decided to leave them there until somebody puts something in them.

There is one Christmas decoration that I have long wanted, one that I used to unsuccessfully lobby for:  the Christmas Bookcase.  Every Christmas, my wife, The Doc, would demand a live Christmas tree, which come January, we would plant in the yard.  Over the years, we planted so many trees in the yard that even though we live in New Mexico, we can only see the sun for about a half hour a day.  Our house is in the middle of a self-imposed forest.  (In hindsight, planting pine trees around a pool is an act of incredible stupidity.  Fishing the needles and pinecones out of the pool is damn near a full-time job.)

“Instead of a tree, why not put up a new bookcase for Christmas,” I argued.  “It’s made from wood, we can still decorate it, and instead of putting the presents on the ground where the cats will unwrap them, we can put them on the shelves.  Then, after Christmas, we can push it up against a wall and put all the books we read this year on it.”

My annual holiday suggestion was always rejected out of hand, and yet another tree was planted in our yard.  Neighbors look at our shadowy mini-forest and mutter, “They love darkness rather than light for their deeds are evil.”  

The idea of a Christmas Bookcase may yet come true, though.  While I’m probably never going to have one of my own, the tiny country of Iceland may come to love my idea, since they are more than halfway there already.  In the incredibly wise and civilized country of Iceland, books are exchanged as Christmas Eve presents, then the recipients spend the rest of the night in bed reading them and eating chocolate.  This tradition is called Jolabokaflod, which evidently translates out to “The Christmas Book Flood”.

Jolabokflod is a relatively new holiday for a country already rich with Christmas traditions.  Thirteen days before December 24, the children of Iceland leave their shoes by the window so that the 13 Yule Lads, the elves who are the sons of mountain trolls with impossible names desperately in need of vowels, can fill their shoes with presents.  There are the usual Christmas trees, the exchanges of presents, and family feasts, but during the partying, you have to keep an eye out for Jólakötturinn, the giant Yule Cat who lurks around the holiday parties, snatching up and devouring anyone who has not received new clothes by Christmas Eve.

To show the true genius of the Icelanders, they split New Year’s into two separate days, Old Year’s Day for the last day of December, and New Year’s Day for the first day of January.  Both days are celebrated with parties and fireworks.  Then, thirteen days after Christmas Eve, there are bonfires and more celebrations, so everyone can say goodbye to the elves until the next Christmas.  These are people who clearly understand the value of a good party.

With all these rich traditions, why would the people feel the need to add a new one, one that involved books?  The answer, like the unfortunate answer to so many history questions, is “war”.  

At the start of World War II, Iceland was still more or less part of Denmark and recognized King Christian X as the head of state.  When the war started, Denmark declared its neutrality, as did Iceland.  Germany, however, ignored such claims, occupied Denmark and was clearly interested in having a military presence based in Iceland.  Britain, which could not possibly survive the war without sea trade with America, tried desperately to pressure Iceland into joining the Allied cause as a co-belligerent.  When this failed, Great Britain invaded the neutral island nation with both British and Canadian troops.  By the summer of 1941, these troops were replaced with American troops, who would stay in Iceland until the end of the war.  Despite the occupation, Iceland remained neutral and declared itself an independent republic in June 1944.

During the war, Iceland continued to export fish to England, but imports of manufactured goods to the island slowed to a trickle, and those of luxury goods stopped completely.  By the second year of the war, some restrictions were lifted, particularly those for paper products.  Iceland, already a highly literate society, promptly began producing its own books.  This sudden availability of books after years of wartime privation made new books the perfect Christmas gift (with a little help from Hobson’s choice).  By 1944, Iceland began publishing the Journal of Books, a list of all the new books available in Iceland.  The publication is freely distributed each year in the months just before Christmas so that everyone can select the books they want to read and the books they want to give as gifts to their friends and family members.

Today, in part because of this new tradition, Iceland is the third most literate country in the world, ahead of both England and the United States.  Even more surprisingly, Iceland is one of the most creative societies that has ever existed, where artists and authors abound.  One out of every ten adult Icelanders has authored a published book.  One in four adults works as a creative artist of some form.  The island has almost no crime, a very high standard of living, and consistently ranks the safest country in the world.  (Mothers let their infants take unsupervised naps outdoors!)  Perhaps, this is why the island nation has been ranked as one of the five happiest places to live on earth

Iceland is by all accounts one of the most civilized, free-thinking, and creative places on Earth.  I’m confident they will understand and accept my idea of the Christmas bookcase.  If it weren’t so damn cold, I might move there.