The Closing Bracket

Brigitte reminded me this morning that it is Three Kings Day—Epiphany. “Ah yes,” I thought. “The sixth.” In Europe, at least if you were a child, the Christmas Season began with St. Nicholas day—not with the first Sunday in Advent. St. Nicholas day falls on the sixth—of December. As children we put our shoes on the window sill the night before and went to bed. In the morning the shoes were filled with fruit, candy and cookies; bright red paper and twigs of fir decorated the display; and for good measure each child also received a switch, to be used on our bottoms if we should be bad. And the season also ended on the sixth—of January, when the angels notified the shepherds and the Three Kings came to visit the Christ-child in his manger. That day—both for Brigitte (who lived her childhood in Poland) and for me (in Hungary), that day was also traditionally appointed to take down the Christmas tree and to store the Christmas decorations for another year. The season lay between brackets, you might say, isolated from the relentless flow of the world—thus outside of time.

Szent Mikulás

In my childhood, on the night of December 5, we shined our shoes and put them on the window sill before we went to bed. This morning we rushed to the window to see what Mikulás had brought us. Here read St. Nicholas. December 6 was the opening day of the Christmas Season for children. The gifts were fruit, candy, and such—lots of wrinkled up red wrapping paper for atmosphere—and for each child a switch (see image) our parents could use to punish us if we were bad. Those must have been sold at the market, I think—and then saved for next year when we weren’t paying attention. My last such Szent Mikulás celebration was problematic. On December 5 of 1944 we found ourselves aboard a train. The carriage had been equipped with beds and such; it had windows but they didn’t open and had no sill. What to do? My Mother told us that Szent Mikulás would “understand.” Therefore we placed our shoes next to our beds… Well, train or no train—we were bound out of Hungary and on the very first stage of our long voyage into the greater world—we discovered that Mikulás had found a way. And in the morning, to our delight….

That name, in Hungarian, is pronounced Sent Me-cool-lahsh. Image courtesy of Wikipedia (link).