The scarier side of Christmas

Gudrun Scott
When speaking with Gurdrun last night I heard all about the devlish Krampus (pronounced "gran-poos") that originated in Germany and Austria. Gudrun remembers seeing Krampus when she was young in Germany. Apparently after a little "googling" I found out all kinds of unusual information on this. Here's some of what I found:

On the night of Dec. 5 (in some places, the evening of Dec. 6), in small communities in Austria and the Catholic regions of Germany, a man dressed as der Heilige Nikolaus (St. Nicholas, who resembles a bishop and carries a staff) goes from house to house to bring small gifts to the children. Accompanying him are several ragged looking, devil-like Krampusse, who mildly scare the children. Although Krampus carries eine Rute (a switch), he only teases the children with it, while St. Nicholas hands out small gifts to the children. In some regions, there are other names for both Nikolaus and Krampus (Knecht Ruprecht in Germany). Sometimes Krampus/Knecht Ruprecht is the good guy bringing gifts, equal to or replacing St. Nicholas. As early as 1555, St. Nicholas brought gifts on Dec. 6, the only “Christmas” gift-giving time during the Middle Ages, and Knecht Ruprecht or Krampus was a more ominous figure.

"Ingrid" on another blog has this to say about Krampus -- I was in Salzburg years ago as a college student. I’d been warned about Krampus, but still found the whole thing rather overwhelming. I recall seeing one man with his small boy flung over his shoulder, rushing down the sidewalk, trying to stay one step ahead of the many folks out roving the streets, dressed in frightening costumes - some with eyes glowing red. And every one seemed to carry around a large bundle of sticks with which they would not just threaten, but actually beat the legs of anyone foolish enough to get within reach.

Kentucky in the 50's -- trap St. Nic!

Denver Compton
When I went to 6th grade (1955-56), Ike was president and the world seemed a very predictable place - the little bit of civil defense stuff and news of the bomb that made it to Eastern Kentucky seemed more like fun to us, than something to worry about. One of the friends I made that year in school was Robert B.. I first began to hear bits and pieces of what sounded more and more like either an attempt to rob Santa Claus or take him prisoner from Robert's younger brother, William. (That was William's spin on it.)

Bringing up the subject to Robert got a frosty reaction, then an angry reaction. Finally, he said that on the Christmas when William was 6 (which made Robert 8), he had decided to prove to William that there was no Santa Claus. So he devised a plan.

The plan began as a simple idea: On Christmas Eve, wait in the living room where stockings were hung on hand-made antique nails (truly!) driven into the fireplace (no fire!) mantel, with his trusty Kodak flash camera. Then when Santa (believed by Robert to be Mr. B.) arrived to fill the stockings, Robert would snap his photo, obtaining proof to shatter William's belief in Santa.

But a simple plan is never good enough. Robert decided to slightly rearrange the furniture so he could hide in a corner behind a couch. He also decided to sprinkle flour on the hearth in front of the mantel and on the polished stone floor so that if he missed Santa (he didn't know how long he would have to stay awake), he could track him!

Still so far, so good. But Robert admitted that he made one error. For whatever reason, he decided to have his Daisy pump-action BB gun with him. You can guess the rest. Robert dozed off. When Mr. B. arrived to fill the stockings, a startled Robert shot him in the stomach with the BB gun. Mr. B. was so surprised that he slipped in the flour and fell on the stone floor, cutting a gash in his head that necessitated a trip to the local hospital emergency room and stitches.

All well and good, except that I knew that Robert invented the "truth" on a regular basis. A couple of years later at the high school, waiting for the afternoon bell to ring (after lunch), I got up the nerve to ask Mrs. B. about the events of that Christmas Eve. The flour was true, the camera was there, Mr. B. did get shot by a BB gun, he did fall and cut his head, but --

She said that Robert was the last of his friends to believe in Santa and was trying to prove his existence. "But why the BB gun?" I asked. "You won't understand," she said, "but in his heart Robert is a combination of Zorro, Blackbeard, and Jesse James. " The bell rang and she seemed happy to get away from me.

I couldn't figure out how to raise the issue with Robert without giving away my source, so I never mentioned it again to him again.

Diane Freiburger

When I was five, my parents, especially my Dad, kept telling my brother and me that if we weren’t good, Santa Claus would put a stick in our stockings. Some personality traits are established early on - even at five, I was quite stubborn and sure that I knew more than my parents. I did not believe them, and told them there was no way Santa would give me a stick. Christmas morning arrived, and my brother and I excitedly ran for our stockings to see what Santa had brought us. And what did we see peeking out over the tops of our stockings? Sticks! I was so upset, and according to my parents, threw that stick down in disgust. On the other hand, my brother, who was three, was quite excited to receive a stick. He even kept it under his bed as a great toy, probably until my mother eventually threw it back outside. Unfortunately, there are no photos of us with our sticks, very likely because I refused to sit for one with the hated stick. I’m quite sure I had much more respect for Santa after this. I remember walking to school after Christmas, and asking my friends if they had received sticks. I was so surprised that they had not, and I could never figure out why Santa only brought us sticks. Looking back, my Dad now admits he was probably the one who deserved a stick for this stunt, but that somehow doesn’t stop him from laughing about the sight of me flinging that stick down on the fireplace.

Mr. Potato Head -- Two Times

Laurel Martin
As most families do, we had our own little Christmas traditions - putting out cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for the reindeer, and trying our hardest to stay up long enough in the living room to catch a glimpse of the one who always hooked us up with the best presents. This particular year, I was about seven, and when the morning finally came and we were rooting through all the gifts, I opened the first one. A Mr. Potato Head.... just what I wanted!! I showed off my new toy and moved on to the next gift. Another Mr. Potato Head. And, upon further examination, it was the exact same one. Both from Santa. Hmm. I looked at the tag from the first one, and noticed a strong resemblance of Santa's handwriting to my dad's handwriting. The second tag mysteriously had a strong resemblance to my mom's handwriting. I must have stared at those tags for a couple minutes before I figured it out (meanwhile, I'm sure my parents were giving each other the same "Now look what you've done!" look...). I asked my older sister later on that day, and she confirmed my fear was reality - no Santa, just tricky parents. My mission now is to keep Santa alive in the minds of my seven nieces and nephews for as long as I can!

Santa Who?

Anne VerPlank

I was in 2nd grade and clearly remember sitting in the cafeteria, eating lunch with my best friend Anne, a few weeks before Christmas. The holiday decorations had just gone up that morning at school. We sat gazing at a large wooden, painted cutout of Santa and his sleigh. I excitedly began to tell Anne what I was going to ask Santa for that year. She cut me off and flatly told me there was no Santa. “What do you mean?” I asked worriedly. She explained that Santa is not real and that parents only acted like Santa. They bought all the gifts. She further explained that the previous Christmas her dad made her take a bath on Christmas Eve so he could secretly put out presents (her first tip off since Santa comes while you’re in bed sleeping, not taking a bath). He then climbed up on the roof and stomped around, acting like Rudolph and the gang and yelling ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ for all the world to hear. Unfortunately he was drunk at the time. A fresh blanket of snow helped accelerate his slippery slide off the two story roof. Luckily there was a tree to break his fall, but her mom still had to rush him to the hospital to make sure he was OK. I was shocked at the news and couldn’t finish my lunch. Talk about a reality check! Of course I believed her because she was the smartest kid in the class and wouldn’t lie about something so serious.

I raced home after school and asked my mom. She said that of course Santa is real and we must believe or he wouldn’t stop at our house. But then I knew better. The signs were there if I looked hard enough. I pretended to believe for my little brother, and he believed all the way up to 4th grade. By that time, older and wiser, I came to the conclusion that while Santa might not be real, the Spirit of Santa lives on, inspiring kind and generous acts around the holiday season.

Red Ranger Came Calling

John Milliken

My family lives in a neighborhood where it is not uncommon during the summer to hear the back door screen slam followedby a flock of children that trail in after one of your own, inquiring on the status of lunch, snacks or wanting to borrow tools and a bicycle pump. Naturally the Christmas / Chanukah / Kwanza season involves attendance of various and sundry pint and full size neighbors. Several years ago we hosted a holiday gathering that featured a round-robin reading of Berkley Breathed's book "Red Ranger Came Calling". It is a wonderfully illustrated story of his father's adventures growing up on Vashon Island with an Aunt during the 1930's depression. Berkeley's father, Red, had his sights set on a hopeless quest for a genuine Red Ranger Buck Tweed Bicycle. Red's dream and antics combine with the mysterious arrival of an elf and one Saunder Clos. I figured this story, local to the Pacific Northwest, big on pictures and short on text might make for a fine group read. As we passed the book around, the task of reading the passage where Red reveals his heartfelt wish fell to Owen - aged three. Owen did a charming and smashing job with the paragraph, lisping Red's dream gift of a "Tweed Bicycle" to hard-of-hearing Saunder Clos. Owen finished to applause and gales of appreciative laughter. Owen looked up, somewhat taken aback as he knew he had nailed each word, and said "Mom, why is every one laughing?" Without spoiling the story, I give you Red's wish fulfilled:(attached) The book is available on line and in book stores. Ask for "Red Ranger Came Calling" (A Guaranteed True Christmas Story), by Berkeley Breathed, ISBN 0-316-10881-2 (HC), 0-316-10249-0 (PB)

Santa is so thin and young!

Aria Yow

When my sister and I were grade school, we decided to camp out in front of the fireplace in the living room, on Christmas Eve. Surely this would provide the best vantage point for any Santa sighting. In the middle of the night, my older sister woke up to go the bathroom.
As she stood in the hallway, she saw a thin, youngish man closing the chimney flue. This was recounted to me in breathless detail the next morning.

Surely I was the only grade schooler with a extreme athlete, double-century (e.g. 200 mile) bike-riding father trying to play into his children's belief in Santa.