Wednesday, December 21, 2016 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
Commentary...
When Belsnickle came to my house
By Marlene McCormack
Guest Columnist
It’s been a long time since
I invited a certain white-
haired fellow over for the
holidays. Oh, I’m not talking
about [that] white-haired fel-
low, but we’re getting ahead
of the story here.
There was a Christmas
long ago when my two grown
sons, Harry and Patrick,
needed a lesson in making
good choices. You see, there
was a time when Patrick was
3 and Harry was 5 years old
— and together they could be
a handful. They were excited
to move to a place where it
snowed all winter. During the
day, my new job at the library
kept me busy and, at night,
it seemed I was just as busy
making Christmas gifts for
friends and family. Maybe
that’s why I didn’t notice
that the boys had made a new
friend. His name was mis-
chief. It fell on deaf ears when
I reminded them that “Santa’s
elves were watching.”
On this particular evening
it was snowing — again.
That launched the boys into
their snow dance through the
house, yelling, “Call 911!
It’s snowing!” They’d done
this before, so I let them be.
After a few trips through the
house, they usually got bored.
Tonight’s trip ended in silence
somewhere down the hall.
“They’ve tired themselves
out,” I thought. I didn’t budge
from the dining table, focused
on painting the Christmas fig-
ure I held my hand.
Wait. Was that someone
knocking on the front door?
“Hello, ma’am. We got a
call from this location,” said
one of two EMTs standing in
the doorway.
“Boys!” I called, “come
out here — now!”
Harry and Patrick shyly
emerged from my bedroom.
Patrick admitted that he dialed
911 from the phone there,
hanging up when he heard a
voice. Both boys thought that
would be the end of it.
Fearing the worst, the 911
dispatcher at the other end of
the phone sent help. All she
heard was heavy breathing,
then a dial tone. Now here we
stood, sorting it out. I apolo-
gized to the EMTs and they,
in turn, patiently educated my
sons on the proper use of 911.
After they left, I delivered a
scolding and sent them to bed.
I sat back down at the
dining table, paintbrush in
one hand and my head in the
other. How do I get those
boys to mind?
The answer was right in
front of me. The Christmas
figure I was painting was
named Belsnickle, a char-
acter from my childhood in
Pennsylvania. And he had a
history.
I’ve researched and writ-
ten about the many, and
vastly different, versions
of Belsnickle. My favorite
version describes him as a
short, grumpy assistant to St.
Nicholas. German immigrants
introduced him to America in
the 1800s. Also known as the
Pennsylvania Dutch, these
ingenious parents brought
Belsnickle from Germany
because he was very effective
at getting children to behave
for the entire Advent season.
Dressed in furs and
adorned with jingle bells,
Belsnickle traveled the coun-
tryside, visiting children
good and bad. The good
ones received candy, the bad
ones received switches, or
sticks, for parents to use on
them (remember, this sort
of discipline was condoned
over a hundred years ago).
Belsnickle wasn’t restricted
by a one-night, once-a-year
trip, either. He could visit
any time, day or night. If
you heard jingle bells at bed-
time, that may be Belsnickle
outside. Confirmation came
the next morning: if you
found candy strewn over the
kitchen floor, you received
an overnight delivery from
Belsnickle.
In the early 20th cen-
tury, regional newspapers
in Pennsylvania reported on
his activities. He appeared at
schools, churches and com-
munity events. In fact, a few
mischievous versions of
Belsnickle made the police
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blotters of the day.
I grew up in a small coal-
mining town in Pennsylvania,
where Belsnickle visited my
second-grade class. It was just
before Christmas in the late
1950s. My classmates and I
got very quiet when a white-
bearded man strided into
our classroom. His face was
nearly hidden under a furry
hunter’s cap. Candy canes and
twigs bulged from the pockets
of his long, shaggy coat and
jingle bells adorned his walk-
ing stick.
“Make good choices
and you get candy,” said
this Belsnickle in a heavy,
German accent.
“But if you don’t, then
switches you will get!” he
roared.
Thank goodness, we all got
candy from that Belsnickle.
Sadly, this folk legend
vanished sometime during
the 1960s. At that time, our
attention was captured by
our nation’s race to get to
the moon before the Soviets.
Maybe that’s why no one
cared about a folk legend any
more. Whatever the reason,
Belsnickle faded away, con-
fined to the shape of the small
Christmas figure I painted.
That was, until I brought
him back to life for Harry and
Patrick. I enlisted the help
of their aunt and uncle, who
would be here for Christmas.
I phoned them and explained
my mischievous plan.
“Uncle John! Aunt Janie!”
Harry and Patrick shouted
when they arrived later that
week. Aunt Janie led them
into their room to play. Her
distraction provided John
the chance to slip outside
and be the Belsnickle. I was
in the kitchen, preparing the
evidence.
There was an abrupt
knock-knock-knock at the
front door. Then another
knock-knock-knock, only
louder. Bells jangled outside.
My wide-eyed sons emerged
from their room and I joined
them at the front door, call-
ing, “Who’s making all that
noise?”
“Have you made good
choices?” growled someone
with a heavy German accent.
“Don’t open the door!
Don’t open it!” Harry yelled.
“Do you think it’s
Belsnickle?” asked Aunt
Janie.
“Aaaahhhhh!” screamed
Patrick.
I slowly opened the door,
and stepped outside — but
there was no one there.
“Oh, I thought it was
Belsnickle,” I said sadly.
“It sounded like him,” said
Uncle John, joining us at the
front door — as if he had been
there all along.
“Well, let’s get dinner,” I
said, “Boys, go wash up.”
The three of us watched as
they nearly skidded to a stop
at the doorway. Candy and
jingle bells were scattered all
over the kitchen floor!
“Belsnickle WAS here!”
Harry screamed, “Look at all
the candy!”
That night, my sons hap-
pily bid farewell to mischief.
Well, at least through the end
of that holiday season.
Harry and Patrick’s
“Belsnickling” inspired me to
write a poem for them. I plan
to read it to my granddaughter
this Christmas. She’s almost
four years old and has made a
new, invisible friend.
I’ll bet you can guess his
name.
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