My December Holiday Traditions

Until I was five years old, I had never heard of Santa Claus. Instead, being born in Holland, each year I anticipated the December 5^th arrival of Sinterklaas and his stalwart assistant Zwarte Piet. Supposedly, they arrived from Spain on a steamship complete with the blessed bishop’s white horse, which huppelt het dek op en neer (“hops up and down the deck”). Hundreds of little children greeted them enthusiastically at the harbor, but my parents never rode their bicycles to Hoek van Holland to see him. (Like most Hollanders in the early 1950s, we didn’t own a car.)

On December 4^th, we would put our shoes out before the cast iron coal-burning fireplace (our only source of heat in our coldwater flat). In those shoes we’d put hay for Sinterklaas’s white horse. Sinterklaas, we hoped, would exchange the hay for presents. It was Zwarte Piet, however, who told him who had been stout (naughty) or lief (nice). One didn’t want to mess with Zwarte Piet or instead of presents in our shoes, we’d get coal!

I remember that last December 5^th in Den Haag. There was a knocking on the door. My father opened it a crack. A black arm reached out and rained candy on us squealing kids and pandemonium ensued. I was four and a half, but even then a bit of a cynic. I had noticed my mother was not in the room and that black arm had looked suspiciously like a glove. I was disappointed that it hadn’t really been Piet’s, but I kept mum and stuffed candy in my pockets.

On Christmas Eve we decorated a tree lit by tiny candles (OMG!) I still have one little broken toadstool candle holder from those dangerous days. There were no presents, just dinner with family. Not much for a four-year-old to get excited about, so I kept getting out of the chair to find something of greater interest than cooked carrots. Eventually my father put an end to that nonsense by taking off his belt and strapping me to the chair. (That probably seems appalling, but then, today, we are required to wear seat belts. Nevertheless, I still hate cooked carrots.)

In 1954, we immigrated to the United States as part of the Great Brain Drain from Europe. My father was an aeronautical engineer and had been recruited by Lockheed Aircraft Corporation which, by the way, started in Santa Barbara. Sinterklaas’s steamship, it seemed, couldn’t land in America, so December 5^th came and went unremarked. There was, however, this other white-bearded guy who came later in the month. His name was Santa Claus and his helpers were elves!

We learned it was customary to let Santa Claus know what presents you wanted for Christmas, which was the eve he would land his sleigh pulled by eight-tiny reindeer, defy all laws of physics, and swoop down the chimney to lay presents under the Christmas tree. That year, we went to a local shopping center where Santa sat on the porch of a faux log cabin. We waited in line and were instructed to tell him what we wanted for Christmas. It was a bit of a challenge because we didn’t speak English very well yet. I wasn’t too sure about this man in the fake beard. He sure didn’t look like Sinterklaas, and my cynical five-and-a-half-year-old-self decided that I needed to let him know the gig was up; I didn’t believe in him. Nevertheless, we posed for the obligatory photo, and I kept my mouth shut around my little brother.

We had left our entire family behind in Holland, so we made a family of friends from among the other Dutch engineers who had been recruited by Lockheed. Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter brought us together as each family took a turn hosting. Today, the character of Zwarte Piet (translated in English as “Black Pete”), in Holland and elsewhere, is rightly considered a racist stereotype. To a four-year-old who knew no better, however, he was an important and beloved member of a legendary dynamic duo who were celebrated in song and art and our childish hearts.

Wishing you HAPPY HOLIDAYS with your treasured traditions!