Nicholas of the Winter Road

40” handmade Santa. Luxurious velvets, double lined cloak and the richest of trimmings. Faces and hands are all original handmade and one of a kind. He brings fruits, nuts and coins to good little children. Woolf pants under a silk wool tweed cloak. Red velvet outer heavy lined coat with luxurious silk trimmings. Dresden stars cover his coat. 

 He carries two antique 1940s old children’s mantle stockings  a full Christmas tree loaded with old ornaments  snow covered wooden slatted base just as the old German ones  antique gold bell  

On winter’s eve, when snow is white,

A Red-Cloaked Nicholas walks at night.

His hood is crowned with fruits and gold,

A tale as old as days of old.

He journeys softly through the trees,

His lantern swaying with the breeze.

He stops at doors where children know

To place their shoes in tidy row.

Into each shoe he leaves his cheer—

Sweet candied treats and coins so dear.

A twig he sets for gentle guide,

To keep all kindness close inside.

At dawn the prints of snow reveal

A traveler with a heart so real.

For Nicholas comes, as legends say,

To bless each home on winter’s way.

The Tale of the Red-Cloaked Nicholas of the Winter Road

 Long ago, in the snow-covered valleys between Bavaria and the Rhineland, families spoke of a gentle winter traveler known as Nikolaus der Rotmantel — Nicholas of the Red Cloak. He was said to appear on the evenings just before December 6th, the Feast of Saint Nicholas, walking the old forest roads with a lantern’s glow keeping pace beside him.

 He was unlike the grand bishops painted in church books. This Nicholas wore a deep scarlet hood trimmed with hand-twisted cords, and from its brim rose a crown of velvet fruits, gilded leaves, and winter blossoms — symbols of the blessings he gathered for children throughout the year. In his left hand he carried a woven cup of apples, pears, and sugared nuts, and in his right a switch of twigs, reminding children to walk kindly and bravely.

Families knew he came only to homes where the children placed their shoes outside the door before nightfall. This custom was older than memory itself. Villagers said it dated back to the Middle Ages, when traveling bishops would bless households by leaving coins upon their thresholds. In time, the coins were dropped into children’s shoes to mark Saint Nicholas’s ancient act of giving three golden pieces to save a poor family from despair.

Thus the shoes became the symbol. And Nicholas of the Red Cloak honored it faithfully.

On the eve of his coming, children scrubbed their little boots until they shone in lamplight. Mothers brushed the snow from the doorstep, and fathers whispered the old blessing: “May Nicholas find our house by the warmth of our hearts.” As the moon rose, silence settled — save for the soft crunch of snow far down the road.

Then he arrived.

He walked with the stillness of falling flakes, his woolen beard silvered by frost, his cheeks glowing with winter’s warmth. When he came upon the waiting shoes, he paused. From his basket he placed candied fruits, marzipan, gingerbread hearts, and always — always — one or two bright golden coins, slipped deep into the toe for good fortune in the year to come.

To the homes where kindness had been shown, he left an extra apple or a sprig of winter greenery. And for children who needed gentle correction, he set a small twig beside the sweets — a reminder of virtue, never of punishment.

But no one ever saw him leave.

By dawn, only footprints remained: long steps softened by drifting snow, leading back toward the forest path. And each year, as families gathered their treasures from the porch, they knew Nicholas of the Red Cloak had again walked the winter road of blessings, just as he had for centuries.

To this day, it is said he visits any home that honors the old custom:

Shoes placed neatly outside the door.

Hearts filled with kindness.

Lights dimmed so his lantern glow can find its way.

And when he arrives, the spirit of Saint Nicholas — the giver of coins, the protector of children, and the quiet friend of winter — walks once more among us.