Old Saint Nick

In our culture of consumerism, it’s hard to imagine St. Nicholas as anything other than a jolly, old, fat man who gives good American children everything they could possibly ask for. We certainly don’t celebrate the fourth century bishop of Myra (now Turkey) known for his kindness and his aid to the poor and oppressed in his community. I think David Sedaris sums it up when he compares the North American understanding of Santa with the Dutch St. Nicholas:

Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former career, when he served as a bishop in Turkey.

One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn't use to do anything. He's not retired, and, more important, he has nothing to do with Turkey. The climate's all wrong, and people wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint Nicholas currently resides in Spain, which again is simply not true. While he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No one can spy on him, and he doesn't have to worry about people coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in that outfit, he'd most certainly be recognized. On top of that, aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn't speak Spanish. He knows enough to get by, but he's not fluent, and he certainly doesn't eat tapas.

- David Sedaris in Six to Eight Black Men

But St. Nicholas was a real man. And yes, he was the bishop of Turkey. And today, December 6, the anniversary of his death, is St. Nicholas Day.

In the Frey household when I was growing up, this was the beginning of the Christmas season for us as December 6 was when we decorated the house and put up the tree. Mom would bake cookies, though I recall doing that when I got older, and we’d eat a dinner of Hickory Farms cheeses and sausages (this was long before I became a vege-preferian) given to my dad by various colleagues. We’d drink eggnog and cider and hang the ornaments on the tree, telling the story that accompanied each one. It was a time of family and fun. And like I said, it was when things began to feel a lot like Christmas at our house.

Sure, we had an Advent wreath out, marking the beginning of the Christian year and counting the weeks until Christmas. But for the child Rachel, December 6 was when the season started.

And maybe this is true for the adult Rachel as well. I had such good intentions about blogging on the first Sunday of Advent (and everyday as we journey through this season!). But that obviously hasn’t happened. And here it is, December 6, and I am just starting to prepare for the season.

But perhaps I will honor the spirit of the former bishop of Turkey if I go a little easy on myself and not get so caught up in the stress and guilt that usually accompanies this season here in the United States.