We Did Not Write To St Nick

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".

The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

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Here in America, the Post Office receives thousands of letters each year addressed to Santa. In the mid forties, I also dreamed and wrote to the Christ Child. We expected the coming of the Christ Child on Christmas Eve.

A week or so before Christmas, my sister and I would write an invitation to the Christ Child to come and visit our home on Christmas Eve. The little letter also included a short wish list. We kept the wish list really short, for it was just not right to be selfish and ask for much. Other than cookies, fruit, and some of Mother’s knitted wears, we seldom got more than one extra present on Christmas Eve; the day of gift giving.

We stuck the little written note between the window and the sash so the Christ's angel could pick it up as he flew by. The longer the letter stayed stuck in the window, the better behaved and more polite we became. There was always that chance the angel  remembered some bad behavior or deed and as a result would pass us by.

In my child’s imagination and anxiousness I often looked out through the window into the dark night. I hoped to see Christ’s angel as it flew by. I actually saw him once, very briefly, like a bright blip. He did not come close and take the letter, but I prayed for the angel to come back; and he did––on his time. The little letters always vanished.

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St Nick had nothing to do with Christmas

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS IN THE MID 40’s

Practically every day on the Catholic calendar was dedicated to honor a saint. That day, if your name was the same as the saint's, you celebrated your Name Day. December the sixth is Saint Nickolaus’ day. The Catholic’s celebration of Saint Nick has nothing to do with Christ Jesus and His birthday. Activities honoring Saint Nick were a bit unusual and were not related to what is called Christmas in America.

In my younger days, Saint Nick visited the homes of families on the sixth of December. We didn't have malls or television, so the only way a kid got to see this colorful character, bearded and royally cloaked in red, was when parents thought it worthy to either reward or punish their children. . . .Let me tell you what I mean.

Saint Nick was always dressed in a red coat with white cuffs. He wore a tall hat like the Pope would during certain religious festivities. He walked with a tall staff in one hand and was proud of his long white beard. He toted a sack over his shoulder with goodies in it.

When Saint Nick came to visit the home on the evening of the sixth, he would ask the parents for a report on the behavior of the children during the previous year. If the child was deserving he or she may receive a few cookies, apples, nuts, or rock candy, along with a little admonishment to strive to be an even better person the coming year.

To have a Saint Nick come to one’s house, parents visited a local Gasthaus where men, wearing Saint Nick outfits, were gathered and waited to be hired.
However, for children who really needed a bit of additional reprimanding, Saint Nick’s helper, Knecht Rupprecht, would have to come along. This Knecht Rupprecht doled out the deserved punishment––as he saw fit!

Oh my, my!––This Knecht, he was an ugly, bent over, mean-looking creature. He dragged a long and heavy chain on the ground behind him. This introduced him as the coming of doom. One could hear the chain clanging as he smacked it onto the cobble stones. He would snort and grunt and would make eerie noises as he came up the front walkway, or up the steps, to pay the wayward child a visit.

He wore a sackcloth mantle over his shoulders and a crude rope tied around his waist. His hair, dark and scraggly, stuck out from under his floppy, black, wide-brimmed hat. He was marked with dark shadows under his beady eyes and showed a deep frown that extended down from each side of his mouth.

I recall one night in the mid 1940s, when our little family visited the home of a friend with two teen-aged daughters. We had a friendly and jovial visit until a terrifying commotion outside the house suddenly entered my ears and heart. Wow!––What?––Sure enough, Knecht Rupprecht approached the closed front door. Through the window I saw Saint Nick restraining his Knecht from totally going mad and breaking down the door. My sister and I shivered. I vowed never to do anything wrong as long as I lived. We did not want to face this evil creature at our house!

Saint Nick and his sidekick entered the house. The room filled with evil. I had slid down in my chair and was barely able to watch the goings-on above the table’s top. After a brief report from the girls' mother, the Knecht stomped and smacked his wooden switch on the floor. With much huffing and snorting, he started to chase the giggling girls around the house and into the bedroom. Soon the calamity subsided. The girls had received their reward. I, however, could not understand the disrespect these girls had for an individual of such authority.

I also remember on one such night when a young boy, a little older than me, still having respect for “The Authority” was rewarded with Rupprecht's whipping cane. After a good salting, the naughty boy found himself stuffed in Knecht Rupprecht’s sack. The Knecht, grunting and mumbling, carried the boy, over his shoulders, into the night. Several hundred yards from the boy’s house he shook the boy from the sack into the deep snow in the forest. The boy received additional stern warnings and was told to find his way back home in the dark.

After that ordeal, I bet the boy had to change his clothes from the inside out!

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Sack Time

In Germany we eagerly awaited the Christ Child on the eve of the 24th of December. Not only did the Christ Child come on the 24th, but that was also the night we first got to see the decorated Christmas tree.

Sack time at our house has become a standard Christmas Eve tradition. Ever since the grandkids were small they had their own Christmas Sack. The sack, a simple pillowcase, acts as a small replica of Santa's sack.
Carol and I printed the grandkid's name, and year issued, on the sack with a big permanent marker.

As Christmas approaches we start to gather small items and begin to fill each sack. Dark chocolate for the girls, beef jerky for the boys, are just a few things to start with.
For that special kid it might be sweet and sour pickles, or Maraschino Cherries for another.

When the children were really little, cloth pins, rubber bands, or a ball of yarn were great gifts for them. As the kids got older, we, the grandparents, could no longer anticipate their wishes. So we started the Elf Letters.

The Elves, better known as Sugarplum and Cringle (Carol and Franz), send out a letter to request the child's wish for his or her sack. The letter contains a form to fill out for the child's request. They then place the request in the self-addressed stamped envelope, to return to the Elves.

Sugarplum (Carol) has as much fun as the children when she receives the returned letters. With joy Sugarplum uses all her internet wizardry and shopping prowess to fill the requests. The sacks continue to get plumper. We do have a spending limit.

Sack time finally comes.

Going To Bed Was Not Punishment

This is one of more than a hundred stories now published and on Kindle at Amazon.
The book captures my early life until I was seventeen years old.

GOING TO BED WAS NOT PUNISHMENT

My mother, a firm believer in much fresh air even in the coldest of weather, often bundled me up and sent me out to play. My mother’s knitting turned me into a wool-wrapped mummy. With a couple of wool sweaters, a cap, mittens, scarf, knitted underwear, and socks, I played until my feet got cold. My feet got cold when the socks got wet. The socks got wet because my britches were too short and snow crawled down into my shoes.  –I had no boots.

Likewise, my sister, never too young for fresh air, was wrapped and tucked in woolens, placed in the carriage, and set out to enjoy the day. I was told not to wander off too far, and to keep an eye on Sis.

During cold weather it seemed like it snowed all the time. One day, while I was supposed to be keeping an eye on Sis, I was having the best time and was not paying much attention to the thick squalls of snow coming down. I totally forgot about little sister, as did Mom. When I finally checked on her, the carriage had filled with snow, except around Dagmar’s little head where her face lay peacefully napping.

No one heard of babysitters back then. The oldest sibling was in charge. He or she knew the routine, the rules of the family, and decisions were backed by the parents. The same was true at our house.

In the evenings when my sister and I were left alone at home, beginning when I was barely five years old, we had to fend for ourselves. Dagmar, three years younger, went to bed around dusk. I usually returned to the kitchen table, the center of all activities.
Again, I’d like to mention the extreme quietness of life in those times. The dome shaped kitchen clock supplied a constant ticking that soothed and somewhat mesmerized. A little crackling in the stove made the evening complete. When all the fire died, I also went to bed.

Bed was a heavenly place, a refuge from the cold. On very cold nights, when Mom was home, we preheated the foot area of the bed with a warm water bottle, which was a solid brass, oval container, highly polished, and a little bigger than a three-pound loaf of bread. It sported a screw-on cap on top. A little chain soldered to the bottle and cap kept them from being separated. The warm water bottle easily slid under and around the featherbed to desired spots; the hot water inside doing its magic. A wonderful addition to life indeed.

We used other tricks to warm the bed. Several hot clothes irons, wrapped in towels, as well as a hot cobble stone, heated in the oven, made wonderful bed warmers. I remember sneaking up to the bed, reaching in, arms stretched out, and moving the warming objects around under the feather covers until heaven was ready.

When we jumped into bed in the winter time, we lay between a feather tick under us, and a feather bed as thick as a fat man’s belly on top of us. The pillow, also stuffed with feathers, was as wide as the bed. When my head hit it, it collapsed around my ears.
In the dead of winter when the stone walls of the building absorbed the outside cold, I’d pull my knitted hat down over my face with nothing but my nose sticking out of the bed. On occasion the horses below kicked their stalls, in a way signaling that we were all together in this challenge.

Mostly, the nights were deathly silent. Nevertheless, I cannot deny to overreacting to any creaking, cracking, and fluttering noises. When I couldn’t interpret the source, I simply crawled deeper into bed.

Many times, I remember waking up in the morning after the breath of the night’s sleep had formed a frozen circle of hard crust on the featherbed around my face. One could knock on the frost and it would sound like knocking on a door.

The bedroom’s single pane window stayed open in the summer. Being high above the dark backyard, we didn’t worry about mosquitoes. However, everything else was free to enter the room. Moths didn't try, we had no lights. Bats tried it at times, but there was nothing for them to feed on.

The neighboring cemetery had in its midst a funeral chapel. The short, squatty bell tower of that chapel was home to several large hoot owls. The owls frequently sounded off in the night and made two little kids wide-eyed and well behaved.
More than once during a season, one of the owls fluttered up to our window to have a look around. To us, the owl was so big that it had to duck to look into the room. When it decided to sit a while on our lone windowsill of the bedroom, we hunkered down. Often, it did not only look in at us, but loudly hooted; all the while bobbing its head from left to right... We prayed a lot. 

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Fantasize, The Hidden Evil

Why do women, even young girls, dress to attract men?

Being in style has nothing to do with my point.

What I'm saying, to flaunt the female shape to entice men is wrong. To reduce sex crimes should be simple: do not entice the ignorant, lustful, wretched male dogs that are traveling among our midst.

I'm sure other women looking at the emphasized shapes, motions and appearances flaunted are not impressed. And I'm sure woman do not want to sexually attract other women. So, if you are spoken for, save it all for the love of your life.

Why then do married women want to attract other men? Or, why do young impressionable girls want to attract men if they have not yet lived long enough to have witnessed the wickedness that lurks in the world and even in serene neighborhoods?

I remember when pretty ladies were used to sell a product, however, they did not sprawl their legs from one side of the ad over to the next page.
I remember when girls flirted with their eyes not with a cleavage deep enough to expose the piercing in their navel.
I remember when girls crossed their legs whenever and wherever they sat down.
I remember when panty hose were knee-high because no skirts came above the knees.
I remember when courtship was courtship. When engaged meant you promised to be married. When marriage was till death do us part.

Now, everyone is in a "Relationship". I do not mean a business relationship. This word "relationship" now can mean anything you want it to mean. Absolutely anything ! ! ! you fill in the spaces. The closet is wide open. You pick your relationship.

Do you know who said, "In as much as you lust after a woman in your heart, you have already committed adultery with her."?


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This Beats Chicken and Fries

In Munich a snack is served on a wooden plank. Not that they don't have any dishes, but to bring the food down to earth. Food on a wooden slab automatically makes it local. It eliminates from your brain words like "processed", or words like "vacuum packed". When you see food on a wooden plank you don't worry about a little stamp that says "Best before a certain date."

What do you think about that? Lipsmacking beautiful! A culinary master peace! Look at the complimentary colors! Van Gogh would have savored this! The health nuts would be awed until they discovered the heart of the offering.

Starting on the left, crisp lettuce enhanced with a dab of pimento cheese joyfully pricked by a few pretzel sticks. An array of sliced accompaniment of red and green onions, tomatoes, and the famous Munich beer radish, sprinkled with Feta Cheese keeps pouring on the mouth smacking enticement.

Now, on the right side of the wooden platter is where the proteins hit the cheese. There is sliced smoked ham and local Wurst piled on top of headcheese. The chunks of pig snouts, tongue and jowlels are waiting to be devoured with buttered rye bread chased with a hunk of pickle. Deeply smoked and dried Landjager provide an increased sensation to the already feverish tastebuds. Of course, under all is an ample layer of sliced cheeses to what we call in German "to close the stomach." 

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Respect for Authority

Respect for the Authority

Human nature always wants to live by its own will. If not curbed it’ll destroy all that is in its way to achieve what it desires.

When does this selfishness start, and when does the need to curb it begin?

We are all born with it. A baby may cry because it is hungry, but a toddler will whine to get what it wants. Soon the child will scream and stomp, snort and backtalk to try to get what it wants. Once in school the child now needs the latest styles in clothing and footwear and has a hard time taking orders from the teacher.

You may say that kid is just spoiled. I say that kid is destined to despise authority because eventually someone will say “No.” “No, you are not allowed to do that.” Or, “No, you cannot have that.” Now that child begins to show animosity and hate toward these authorities that are anchored in law and have been given the power to control unchecked behavior.

Soon the adults are disliked. Then the teacher is hated. Then the principal. Then the boss. Then the police. “All are against me” is their cry.

The earlier a child hears the word “No” the easier it is for him or her to understand that there are limits and that there is always an authority higher than oneself. The word "No" must stick. No means: no, period. No arguing, no deals, no capitulation. To disobey must always bring consequences.  

That is why the traditional family structure is so important. A strong and loving father figure, anchored together with his wife, can curb the natural desire of the child who always wants.

When a young person has total disregard for authority, life becomes a constant confrontation. Respect for others is secondary.

Trayvon Martin, if he had simply continued to walk through the guarded community, he would be alive today. Michael Brown if he had had total respect for authority he also would be alive today. Both cases had nothing to do with race.

Say “No” to your kids, it's good for them.

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