December 6th is a day of celebration in Hungary..It is the feast of Saint Nicholas, in Hungarian, Mikulás. Children put their polished shoes filled with hay out on the windowsill for Mikulás’ white horse. Of course they also set out treats for the old Bishop, delivering gifts to good children.
At age seven a child is thought to be able to think logically and sequentially. In my seventh year, a mere two weeks before reaching that magic age, mother let me produce some rather crooked cookies for Mikulás. She said he would not mind because he is kind and loves crooked cookies. I was not sure why he needed my crumbly wreath-shaped cookies in exchange for melt-in-your-mouth Swiss chocolates. If I were he, I would stay home and eat the chocolates myself. I guess I was never meant to become a highly celebrated saint.
Some other things puzzled me about this feast day. I could not figure out why pictures of Mikulás were everywhere but he came and left houses unseen. If he were so fond of children, why did he sneak around and not stay and visit? And another thing, how did he know exactly what I wanted. The only people I told, were my parents.
That auspicious year of my age of reason, I was longing for one of those dolls made of real skin-coloured plastic, that had real eyes that opened and closed when you lay her down, just like Julia got from her American relatives. My dolls had rag-filled bodies my mother had sewn onto store-bought heads with painted eyes.
When I told him about the doll my dad said that he hoped Mikulás had relatives in America to send me such a treasure. I thought Mikulás could get whatever he wanted. It did not occur to me that I was asking too much of such a favoured saint. Was I reasoning already?
I was excited that Mikulás day. I ate supper quickly and helped my brother with the dishes. Then I heard that familiar rustling noise recalled from previous years. My dad put his finger to his lips and eyes wide whispered, “I think Mikulás is here.” I looked at him in disbelief, reached into his pocket and pulled out the candy wrapper. “You can’t fool me daddy”, I announced with my newly acquired discerning wisdom. “I heard you rustling paper in your pocket. I know you are the Mikulás.”
© Márta O’Reilly
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What a wonderful memory, Marta. In the UK where I grew up, a pillow case was left on the end of the bed and I can still remember the thrill of my feet touching the presents inside and trying to open them without making a sound and awakening my parents. Little treasures kept forever in our minds.
Thank you, Chris