I used to enjoy a holiday tradition that has since fallen by the wayside. I was married to a Dutch woman for a number of years. Every December 5th, we would celebrate the coming of Sinterklaas, the Dutch Santa Claus.

This Saint Nick has nothing to do with Christmas. It is believed the historical figure lived in what is now Turkey but he operates out of Spain in his present incarnation. There is no indication of his ever even visiting the North Pole, let alone living there.

A good thing too, since he lacks the American Santa’s girthy insulation layer. He has the beard but is a comparatively gaunt old coot, resembling Gandalf the Grey in a bishop’s hat.

There are no elves either. Since slave labor was more abundant than creatures who exist only in folklore, the good saint chose Zwarte Piet (“Black Pete”) to be his servant. Well, this may or not have been an actual case of slavery but I’m pretty sure the position is non-union.

Piet does the shit work, lugging around gifts and distributing them to all the good little children. His duties also include stuffing naughty brats into a sack and taking them back to Spain, where the little scamps are forced to endure the company of working-class English on holiday.

The tradition has undergone some changes. The child-abduction element is now downplayed and due to an increase in workload, the singular Piet has become a team of Pieten.

Some of those pondering the political incorrectness of Zwarte Piet (which doesn’t require much pondering) have come with a multicultural alternative. Those portraying Piet have their faces made up in a variety of colors, rather than a uniform minstrel-show look. Thanks to such progressive efforts, people from all ethnic backgrounds can feel subservient to whitey.

My first exposure to this holiday came in 1993 during a six-month stretch in Europe. I was sitting in the Cafe de Wetering in Amsterdam, drinking beer and scribbling self-absorbed gibberish in my notebook. In walked Sinterklaas and and his Pieten posse, followed by a bunch of kids. The Dutch, unlike Americans, do not freak out over the presence of minors in a drinking establishment.

The children were served Coca Cola or orange juice and instructed by Sinterklaas to sing for their treats. While Big S basked in the musical glory, his subordinates took up ambush positions and pelted bar patrons with pepernoten (small, hard spice cookies). This suited me just fine as I already had plenty to drink but no dinner as yet. I ate more than my share of the things, many of them off the floor.

One nice part of the holiday is that a short poem is supposed to accompany each gift. The giver pens it under either Sint’s or Piet’s name and the recipient reads it aloud before opening the present. Meter and rhyme are simple. The tone is light-hearted and often playfully insulting. It isn’t great literature but appreciate a gifting process that involves more mental energy than walking into a store, pointing, and grunting at a sales clerk.

Laura and I brought the tradition stateside, inviting our friends Jody and Lisa to join in on the fun. There was more sex and flatulence in the poems than the convention but I think we kept true to the spirit of Sinterklaas by adapting it to our dysfunctional sensibilities.

After the divorce, my active participation in Dutch holidays became a thing of the past. I am now simply an American, content to have a fat Santa with no poetic inclinations.