Decorah always felt like it was built to
survive winter, not enjoy it. The cold didn’t nibble at you—it crawled straight
through your coat and took up residence in your bones. The Norwegians who
settled there understood the cold. They’d lived with storms that could erase
entire villages, so when they brought julebukking with them—this odd little
winter ritual—it didn’t feel like an import. It felt like a warning that old
traditions don’t die; they just change latitudes.
A knock at the door, and random masked strangers
Julebukking was never a spectacle. No carolers in neat rows. No cheerful postcards. No marching band in red hats. It was smaller, stranger, and more intimate. It thing started with a knock after dark—the kind that froze a room mid-sentence. A knock with weight to it. A knock that carried old-country ghosts on its back.
The children always heard it first. They stiffened like animals catching a scent. Adults tried to look unconcerned, but the winter air came into the house in a new way when julebukk night rolled around. Everyone felt it.
