Sinterklaas

6 December is when St Nicolas (or Sinterklaas) comes to kids in Belgium and Holland. He brings his friends whose faces are black from going down chimneys (not because they're black, honestly) black slaves (who are all called "Zwarte Piet" or "Black Pete") with him and leaves sweets and toys for kids who've been good. Provided they set their shoe near the fireplace, with a carrot and a sugar for Saint Nicolas' horse of course.

Usually Saint Nicolas drops by earlier in the month for a little chat with the kid in question: He asks if they've been good and tells them what he knows about them. There's no point in lying because everything is written in The Big Magical Red Book That Contains The Truth About All Kids: have they been good or have they been bad.
I remember one time St Nicolas told me I needed to "listen to my parents more".
I was absolutely traumatised.

Now I know I have my mother to blame for that, but back then... if Sinterklaas said it, it was true: I was not a good girl.
There. I've just saved myself years of psychoanalysis just by this story.

But -despite this traumatic experience (and I can't have been that bad a girl, since I did get presents that year)- I do love St Nicolas.
The excitement, what will you be getting, will you even be getting anything, the mystery, how next to "Zwarte Piet" (Black Pete) sometimes "Zwarte Griet" would turn up (er... a female Black Pete), how does Sinterklaas' horse get on the roof and -now that we're thinking about it- how does it get off the roof. And why is Sinterklaas even on your rooftop in the night of 5 to 6 December when it's only Zwarte Piet going down the chimney. Hmz.
And why is it that the shops are mysteriously full of toys around December 6th. And why are the sweets Sinterklaas leaves the night he comes to get your wishlist, always the same sweets that you can find in the kitchen cabinets.

I remember once giving my dummies to Sinterklaas -because I was a big girl now and would sleep without-, then being inconsolable and not being able to get to sleep. My parents "mysteriously" caught up with Sinterklaas and gave me back my dummies. Apparently he'd told them I could keep them for another year.
Zwarte Piet once threw sweets through the chimney in the room when I was watching TV. Suddenly this cascade of sweets all over the living room! Fantastic!
We didn't have a chimney though.
And immediately after the rain of sweets my grandfather showed up.
But I didn't notice a thing.

I was devastated when I found out it was all A Big Fat Lie though.
"What do you mean, there's no Saint Nicolas who lives forever and walks on rooftops and knows every child everywhere?"
"Erm. Sorry... "
"But the Easter Bunny does exist, right?"
"Erm... no."
So much for my childish Christian conviction of the "everlasting life".

Agnes pointed me to this little gem: an American view on St Nicolas.

A little excerpt: " A Dutch parent has a decidedly hairier story (than that of Santa Claus) to relate, telling his children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things together before you go to bed. The former bishop from Turkey will
be coming along with six to eight black men. They might put some
candy in your shoes, they might stuff you in a sack and take you
to Spain, or they might just pretend to kick you. We don't know
for sure, but we want you to be prepared."

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