When my village’s new modern standard for the Epiphany holiday–let’s call it “Dial a King”– baffled and discouraged me . . . and, worse yet, when I lost the phone number and couldn’t dial the Wise Men to request a visit, wisdom did out anyway.
Last night, the Heilige Drei Konig (3 holy kings) came to visit my home. Unbiden but hoped for, they appeared. Ahhh, life is sweet.
One hitch, though: I wasn’t home. My husband answered the door and filled me in on the visit later.
Minor detail. I don’t expect wisdom to settle upon me, but I am overjoyed that it still roams the world, blessing the unscheduled stragglers when the chance arises.
Today is Epiphany, the day when the church observes the visitation of the Magi after the birth of Jesus. This year, my German village is celebrating with a twist–a new Dial a King program.
Last year this time, I posted about the Heilige Drei Konige–the three wise kings– and the star singers who come around German villages the first week of January to observe the holiday and raise money for children’s charities. (You can read the post here if you need a primer on the tradition: Die Heilige Drei Konig.)
I counted myself among the lucky ones last year–the three kings visited my home. They were a little less earnest and more distracted than I had imagined . . . chatting on cell phones. . . but maybe this is the modern face of wise men.
In fact, this year you have to phone in your request for them to come visit you. No kidding. A few weeks ago, there was an announcement in the local paper: if you want the Heilige Konig to pay your home a visit, you should phone or email the posted number/address and schedule a visit and donation to their charity.
Very efficient, that. Very modern. Or maybe not modern–probably kind of true to the story of the Magi. They were planners. They studied the stars; they packed their bags; they navigated a great distance without any GPS to steer them off on certain exit ramps. They didn’t wait for the revelation to come as a lightening bolt: they did the math, said the prayers, kept the faith, and planned the trip.
Still, I miss those wandering Heilige Konig in my village. I like the epiphany that comes as a lightening bolt, the Holy Kings who come, unbiden, to bestow blessings on your home. Call me a drama queen, but scheduling our blessings bothers me– I guess it’s not unrealistic, but it’s far too convenient. Dial a King for your religious holiday feels too much like putting a drive through window on the church for quick service.
Maybe your life works well on such schedules and conveniences. If so, I’m happy for you. But mine? Lord help us, mine is far messier. True confession: I meant to Dial that King, but lost the newspaper article while tidying up for a holiday party or guests or dinner. Maybe it went out with recycling a week or two ago, or maybe I’ll find it in a pocket sometime around mid-March, or maybe it’s in the butter compartment of the refrigerator. I haven’t the foggiest idea where it is . . .I’m bad at these things.
But I’d always hoped the Magi, in their wisdom, might find my home anyway.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written a This Old House post, but here goes.
We loved the atmosphere of this house from the first moment we saw it. We have continued to love those moments when you turn the corner toward our house and– “Ta Da!”– you see the oh-so-European red stone castle (albeit diminutive) that we call home.
A foggy winter night at “the castle.”
We moved into the house a year and a half ago, fully aware that an old house would have its share of issues: hot spots, cold spots; inefficient utilities; old bathrooms; pipes that occasionally clog; and light fixtures that give up the ghost.
But we also considered that the ghosts of this house might not be the giving up kind.
“Marley was dead, to begin with … This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.” ― Dickens, A Christmas Carol
When we first moved into this old home, I harbored a secret fear and longing–a uncomfortable pairing– that the place might be haunted. It was the right sort of house for that: imposing, old, creaky, and definitely situated in a country with its share of ghosts.
I was terrified that we’d be plagued by eerie happenings.
But then nothing happened.
Eventually, I became simply curious about whether eerie things might happen.
Still, nothing happened.
After a while, I was just put out that nothing, not one darn thing, spooky had happened. What a rip off! I have to live with old (I mean OLD) bathrooms, and I don’t even get a good ghost story out of it!? Not a fair trade off if you ask me.
But ghosts are people too, and they have their own agendas. I remember putting up Christmas decorations last year and wondering what sort of celebrations this house had seen over the century-plus of its life. It’s no manor, but it’s grand enough that the original owners must have lived a fine life. What was Christmas like for them? Did the Christmas Eve table gleam with silver? Was it loaded with salmon, goose, and sausage? Did the children go to sleep fat with gingerbread and the parents groggy with spiced wine?
And what of the years after World War I, when French troops occupied the area? Was this a dramatic change, considering this area has always been a source of border disputes? Was the occupation a barely perceptible weight on the shoulders of the locals who must have been haunted by their own grief, so many young soldiers lost in the war?
And this interplay of politics and personal life certainly wasn’t diminished in the years that crept toward World War II. What about those Christmas dinners? Were there rousing nationalistic talks around the table, was there support for the Third Reich, or was there dread at the creeping dark? Were Jewish friends hidden in the cavernous basement to keep them safe? Were Nazi armaments held there? This is the era whose ghosts send icy chills through me. I want to know the house’s history, but I don’t want to know the house’s history.
Staircase between floors/apartments
And then after World War II, when the house was divided into apartments on each level–still lovely, but divided, like Germany itself, by the rise and fall of its fortunes, ambitions, and fate.
Reverence or dread–the families who have lived here might inspire either. I would revel in the one, but stoop under the weight of the other.
It’s better not to know, I tell myself.
Still, I want a ghost for Christmas. I can’t shake that feeling. It’s part of the old house package.
“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” -William Faulkner
I had a ghost once, a few years ago.
I know, I know–just hear me out. This is a story that is usually told under different circumstances. The general rule: you must be at least a glass of wine or two into the evening; for that matter, I must be at least a glass of wine or two into the evening; at that point, it all makes more sense. And one more thing–the children aren’t around. If they heard the story, they’d never sleep again.
I’m taking a risk in telling this story: first, I can’t be sure that you’ve had any wine (strike one); second, it’s 8 a.m., and I’m nursing a semi-cold cup of coffee, which is a much starker place to be than wrapped in the warmth of a wine glass (strike two); and third, my children may read this (although unlikely, as they find this “mommy blog” vaguely ridiculous) (strike three on two counts then).
So here’s the deal–I’ll tell you my ghost story tomorrow. That gives you a chance to grab a glass of wine, if you are so inclined. It gives me a chance to write this post in a foggy evening state, instead of this stark-morning-coffee-mind that has its current grip on me.
Meet me here tomorrow, if you dare, and I will tell you my ghost story.
I’ve been thinking a lot about our friend St. Nick lately.
About his many incarnations; about his naughty and nice list; about the fact that some of his incarnations belong on naughty lists themselves; and about the actual man that inspired this mythical being with modern day rock star status. Really . . . just what kind of mortal could inspire so many, and such enduring, legends?
Who was Saint Nick? Nikolaus* of Myra (present day Turkey) was a Greek bishop during the 4th century. Many miracles are attributed to him, but his most enduring legacy is probably his generosity. As legend has it, he sought to relieve poverty through the giving of secret gifts. Most notably, there is a story that he sought to ease the plight of three young girls. Their father could not afford to pay a dowry, so they were doomed to a life of poverty and, quite probably, prostitution in order to survive. Nikolaus secretly tossed three purses of gold coins through the window of their home (this, obviously, before his chimney shenanigans in later centuries). One version even posits extra detail–some of the gold fell into a stocking that was hanging up to dry in the house.
It is a long and winding road from the life of the actual man to the variety of legends that we find today–and it is a great variety–but they all contain the kernel of his truth. There’s not much I can add to that truth–I’m no scholar on saints or on Nikolaus. I can, however, tell you that he is still remembered in Turkey as a great man. He is also embraced, to some small extent, in his modern Western guise–albeit largely for profit and the selling of kilims. There is a town in the eastern Mediterranean region of Turkey (I wish I could remember the name, but it’s been 16 years since I was there!) where we watched women weaving Santa Kilims. We bought a number of them, for ourselves and for our family. We still hang ours proudly each Christmas season. . . but we spray it with Lysol each year. (Sorry Santa, but I think you were woven with some raw wool, and you do carry a distinct old world smell that requires a little airing out. I don’t really mind–the way I see it, you bring a little of the Bethlehem stable into my house with you, and that keeps me focused for the season.)
About that variety of legends–I don’t think that we feel it much in the States. Our Santa is a homogenous and modern being–jolly and round, always in the same red and white costume, and, yes, generous to a fault (is there such a thing?). The menace of his judgment (his naughty and nice list) seems hardly menace at all–unless you’ve been outrageously naughty. It happens. Still, with late season penance, it all turns out well. Seems straight forward.
Victorian St Nick and Krampus
But it seems less simple in Middle Europe. Here, the judgment is real and the punishers are frightening. Easy salvation? That’s for American weenies. Here, you’d best practice good German diligence and industriousness, and even then the day will come when you have to stare down a devil for your Nikolaustag (St. Nikolaus Day) chocolate. Yes, a devil. Where goes Nikolaus, so goes his dark counterpart (with many faces and names, depending on the region of Europe). Good and evil, naughty and nice–they take it seriously in Germany.
I won’t go into great detail here about St. Nick’s draconian counterparts, as I’ve written a lot about them in the post Saints and Devils, Fire and Snow . However, I will add a few insights from a conversation I had recently with a Bavarian woman. I met her on December 5th– Nikolaustag Eve (“boot night” in Germany, when children put out boots for Nikolaus to leave candy in . . . but sometimes get visits from the grim sidekick instead or get ashes and coal if they have been bad). She told me
Friend or foe, funny or frightening?
that the children around Rothenburg ob der Tauber have traditionally not celebrated on December 6th, but rather on November 11th. When she was young, that was when Belsnickel (or Pelsnickel) would visit. Belsnickel was a fur-cloaked character, rather scruffy, who seemed to combine both the surly (Krampus, Ruprecht, etc) and the kind (Nikolaus) into one being. He carried a sack with both treats and switches. Belsnickel might judge the children and either punish or reward them; he might toss candy around the floor for them, and then paddle their backs with twigs as they scrambled for the candy; or he might be more elfin and be more mischief prone than malice prone. He might be a lot of things, said my new friend; however, when November 11th came around the children were really quite scared of what would come for them.
I asked this woman, once more, “And he came on November 11th?” “Yes,” came the answer. That seemed so early in the season to me. I looked the date up later and found that November 11th is not only Belsnickel, it’s also Martinstag– that’s Reformation Day, a celebration of Martin Luther and the Reformation. Ah, yes, this was beginning to make more sense to me. If you are celebrating the Reformation, why not scare the pants off of the children, and then reward them with goodies? Spare the rods, spoil the souls of the children. So very German, this Christmas cocktail: hell fire and brimstone, followed by a chaser of sweets and gingerbread.
Never a dull moment with these old European traditions. Is it awful that Christmas time boasts its own terrors and devils? Is it harsh? Absolutely. . .but, then again, it has some appeal.
Sante Claus The Children’s Friend, 1821 William B. Gilley, publisher
I could do without Krampus devils giving my kids nightmares, but I do start to think that the American Santa is a bit fluffy. I don’t mind him being “the love-meister,” if that’s really his focus, but when it’s all about giving out the stuff, and then more stuff– well, the guy needs to stand up for his principles. Let’s get back to the core of the man: not necessarily a tale of saints and devils who come for your children, but at least the tale of the saint.
Be jolly–yes, please be jolly– but also please be Saint Nicholas.
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 