Love At Our Santa Party
by Lini Richarda Grol (ON)

One of the e x c i t i n g events for us student nurses in Holland was the St. Nicolaas Surprise party. During November we closely watched our friends and foes, making notices, for our doggerels to accompany our secret SANTA’S gifts.

At that time our wages, and consequently our gifts, were small, modest and inexpensive. Luckily almost all of us were financially moribund.

All year round, we tried to create something worthwhile out of scraps of material or from left over yarns.

But more important than such a hand made gift, were the silly verses that went with them. They gave us a chance to mock or rebuke someone, without them ever knowing from whom these lyric admonitions came. For it was tradition to sign all verses that went with the gifts with: SANTA . Giving the old Saint the blame for our friendly or not so friendly ribbing with our witty or even down right catty verses. We were no saints, though some of our patients claimed we were angels.

It was all good fun, and on such days there was lots of secret laughter in the nurses residence as well as on the wards, for our patients and older staff nurses shared our secret jokes and offered advice.

Many girls had trouble composing even a passable doggerel, and they leaned on me for their masterpieces. They’d provide me with the noble or nasty details from which I concocted four, six or eight lines of verse, which they would have to rewrite, but mostly they simply used my scribbles to hide even more their true identity and lovingly signed with a flourish and a giggle: SANTA.

The days before the big party I had little rest, for they’d come after me anytime, anywhere with their request for verses. I did not mind, we all itched to tell someone off.

Our housemother was kept busy storing our parcels in the storeroom of which she held the key. For weeks we all lived in excited suspense, for that great evening. Long before 8 p.m. we hung in front of the door, joking, teasing, and laughing before finally the door opened and we trooped into the recreation room, where large tables were set out with all our parcels...next to our names lined up in alphabetical order.

Dutifully we sang while our Santa and Peter made their entrance. (Our Dutch Santa is a bishop and he always comes in full regalia, with Peter his servant in a colourful, gold-trimmed, medieval outfit [Spain?].)

Peter would haphazardly grab one of the parcels from one of the tables and call the recipient to appear before our Santa: “On your knees. I!” he would shout, and down on your knees you went as a penitent sinner while he read your verse, and threw in some minor peccadillo provided by your ever-so well-wishing friends. It would be embarrassing if some not so secret bad habits were loudly proclaimed in the presence of our Matron, and of some visiting family or friends. There would be chuckles and cheers, and screams of laughter as these verses were read. To be sure they were always funny, at least if it was someone else’s. Luckily few verses were really rude or hurtful, some even hinted at love. To add to the suspense and fun, we tucked a tiny gift in ever bigger boxes, often accompanied with several witty or rebuking verses.

Some favoured gifts were funny candy items but made of soap.

On such evenings Cupid worked overtime and had his helpers. One year Corry, one of my friends, was in love with the pharmacist, ever so shy Anton. The poor guy hardly dared to talk to any of us eager young nurses. And in his presence, love sick Corry, our chatterbox, was speechless. All they did was ogle each other in silence with deep sighs and longing eyes. We, her friends, would watch them looking at each other in loaded silence, had seen them blush and sigh, too much in love daring to speak to each other. Seeing their suffering, we decided to do something.

While on holiday in Paris, Anton had sent one picture card to the staff. He was the only person we knew who had ever been in Paris. His prized card went from hand to hand, ending with Corry. She took it to her room, no doubt admiring his signature with deep sighs, in sleepless nights. At that Santa party, our Corry got a prettily wrapped exclusive box of French soap (donated by Anne) with a heartrendering love poem, signed Santa. (I knew a bit about the language of love.)

As proud godmothers we watched when Corry was called before the Saint and she unwrapped her parcel, with the exclusive gift, and deeply blushed when she read out the love poem.

Indeed she concluded that this exclusive gift and love poem came from her too shy Anton. She ran to him and before he realized it, her arms were around him as tearfully happy, she cried out, “Thank you...thank you Anton, for your poem and the exquisite French soap.” Much to our delight, very shy but also sly Anton, did not question her action, the poem or gift, but responded wholeheartedly, but without words right in front of all the staff, who joyfully cheered and applauded.

We smiled knowingly at each other when we saw them with their arms around each other and right away made plans for their wedding.

Corry never knew what we had done, and shy but sly Anton obviously never discussed this mysterious gift.

And as every love story ends, they lived happily ever after, and begat seven jolly noisy children.

Mrs. Grol is still writing, using the computer and sending e-mails at the age of 94. - the editor