Sinterklaas Comes to Pella

Sinterklaas came to Pella the way most things did in the 1800s—carried across an ocean, held together by memory, and kept alive because people needed something familiar in a place that was still trying to decide what it wanted to be.

Every December 5th, Dutch families lit their lamps a little earlier. Children took out their wooden shoes and lined them near the door, polished as best as small hands could manage. Nobody said it outright, but the shoes mattered. A good shine suggested good behavior. A scuffed heel hinted at mischief. Children hoped Sinterklaas wouldn’t notice.

 

The Pella Gazette said, “The little ones prepare their shoes with great care, and the streets ring with their anticipation.” That was about as emotional as the paper got, but you could tell the editor enjoyed the spectacle.

The bakery worked hardest. Banket came out of the ovens in long, coiled ropes that looked like they were meant to last all winter but never did. Speculaas baked on warm trays, stamped with windmills, lions, or the occasional saint who looked as though he was reconsidering his vocation. By mid-afternoon, the entire square smelled like butter and spice. The Gazette said, “The fragrance of the Dutch ovens is unmistakable this week.” It didn’t need to say more.

 

Children walked past the bakery windows and pressed their faces to the glass. They didn’t dare go inside unless they had a coin. Some waited for the baker to notice them and pass a broken cookie out the door, which happened often enough that it became its own tradition.

 

Evening came early in December. Families gathered by the stove. Parents shared stories of the old country. Sinterklaas arriving by horse. Zwarte Piet carrying a book that held every child’s secrets. These were the stories that traveled across the Atlantic, staying somehow intact.

 

Children listened with the seriousness only children have. They wanted sweets. They wanted toys. Mostly, they wanted to avoid the switch—the dreaded reminder that even saints had assistants with a practical streak.

 

The Gazette described the night before Sinterklaas as “a mixture of excitement and dread.” Dread doesn’t last long in Iowa, though. It has too much work to do elsewhere.

 

On the streets, adults exchanged small gifts—candles, oranges, a length of ribbon, a piece of banket wrapped in paper. Nothing extravagant. Extravagance wasn’t the point. Holding on to a custom was.

 

Pella had snow some years, and mud others. Both felt appropriate. The early settlers would have told you that weather didn’t care about holidays. Parents walked through town on Sinterklaasavond with their coats pulled tight, carrying small bundles hidden beneath their arms.

 

The Gazette said, “Several gentlemen were observed delivering parcels after dusk.” In a small town, everything observed became public knowledge by morning.

 

Inside the houses, plates were set on tables. The wooden shoes waited near the door. Some families set out hay or carrots for Sinterklaas’s horse. Children pretended not to worry whether their offerings were insufficient. Parents added a few extra carrots when no one was looking.

 

Then came the quiet part of the night. The waiting.

 

That was the part the Gazette never fully captured. It wrote about the gifts and the customs, but not the long, thoughtful hour between excitement and sleep. Parents whispered. Children pretended not to listen. The fire dimmed. The smell of banket still lingered.

 

At last the children slept. Or pretended to. Either way, the adults took over.

 

Gifts were placed in the shoes. A few pieces of candy. A toy made from carved wood. A small book. A ribbon. Maybe a note written in careful Dutch script praising good behavior or nudging a child toward better habits. Sometimes, the switch was placed beside the treats—not to be used, just to be remembered. Parents understood symbolism long before it became fashionable.

 

The Gazette reported how early the children rose. “At first light, the youngsters greet Saint Nicholas with great delight.” Delight was the right word. Shoes overflowed with the small treasures that make up large memories.

 

The children ran outside to compare gifts. The frost made their breath visible. They showed each other their candies, their carved horses, their gingerbread men with indestructible smiles. In that hour, nobody thought about the colder months ahead or the chores waiting for them. Winter could wait.

 

The baker came out to sweep the steps of his shop. The aroma of fresh banket drifted into the street again. He watched the children run and said nothing. He didn’t need to. The Gazette quoted him saying, “The joy is always loudest in the morning.” It was the closest thing the town had to philosophy.

 

As the day wore on, Sinterklaasawas returned to ordinary life. Adults resumed their work. Children grew sleepy. The wooden shoes were put away. The switch, if given, was tucked somewhere parents and children would forget by spring.

 

Still, the memory stayed a while—the warm smell of spices, the sound of children laughing, the faint creak of wooden shoes on a December floor.

 

Pella held onto the tradition because it made the winter feel shorter and the distance from home feel smaller. Nothing complicated. Just a night when the old customs walked easily alongside the new.

 

The Gazette explained: “Our Dutch festival brings cheer to all, reminding us that even far from the homeland, good traditions take root.”

 

In Pella, they did. And for a long time, the town felt better for it.