The year I knew in a moment he wasn’t St. Nick

Shortly after lunch one sunny day in December 1983, we heard the clatter of jingle bells in the distance.

We were first graders at Kellogg Elementary School in Goleta, Calif., and Mrs. Winn acted as if she heard nothing. A professional, she carried on with reading a book to us, slightly raising her voice as the jingling of bells outside grew louder.

We sat in a semicircle on thin carpet in front of her reading chair, and when the racket became too much, she slowly closed the book, adjusted her glasses and told us a special visitor was headed our way.

The bells were close. We stared out the classroom windows, and soon someone in a red-and-white suit passed. Santa Claus was about to enter the building! The seconds before the door opened felt like forever.

Finally, with a crash of bells and a familiar sounding “Ho, ho, ho,” there he was in full bearded and bespectacled glory. He carried a sack of candy canes and a strap of jingle bells that looked like some we had at home.

We 5- and 6-year-olds smiled and laughed, and at that moment we could think of no better place in the world to be.

Mrs. Winn welcomed Santa into class and told him we’d all been good.

Santa sat in her chair and told a story that I don’t remember. As he spoke, something in the sound of his voice kept my attention. Shards of familiar inflection floated among what seemed like a faux-deep tone.

His blue eyes flashed around the room, but rarely in my direction. I watched and wondered what dirt this Santa guy had on me. Had I been that bad?

As he spoke, I focused on the details of his Santa uniform — red felt pants a few inches short, vintage black leather boots with a buckle.

When he gestured with his white-gloved hand, I spied the sleeve of the shirt he wore under the red coat — a sweet ’70s navy blue number with white dots. The disco shirt looked like something my father owned. Wait a second, I thought. Jingle bells. Buckle boots. Cool shirt. That voice. Those eyes.

Those eyes!

This dude is my dad.

How can I be sure? There’s no way to be sure.

What should I do? Go with your gut.

My mind wrestled with the dilemma throughout his visit. In the end, I went with my gut.

As Santa stood to leave, I jumped from the carpet, ran over, hugged him and halfyelled, “That’s my dad!”

Santa hugged me back, patted my head and tried to shepherd me back to the carpet.

Mrs. Winn, ever the professional, jumped in and announced that Santa had to leave so he could visit other classes.

With a final “Merry Christmas,” and “ho, ho, ho,” the Santa with the blown cover quickly walked out.

Confused, I wandered back to my spot on the carpet. My classmates continued their banter largely unfazed by Santa’s abrupt exit.

If there were a movie version, the kids would shriek, and the teacher would quickly pivot to explain to the class that the real Santa is busy, so he has volunteer helpers around the world.

As I remember, that’s how my folks explained the episode to me that night 38 years ago. The story made sense to me, and the magic held.

That time I outed Santa found its place in family lore in record time.

Looking back, I think about my father, the tough career cop, who stepped away from his day job for a few hours that day to help bring smiles to kids’ faces. Volunteering as Santa was a small gesture, and it created strong memories I’m grateful for.

Sometimes, things not going as planned make the best stories.

Dad’s been gone 15 years, and I miss hearing his version of this story and many others. Thankfully, the tales live on in our minds, and that’s a gift.

Sometimes, things not going as planned make the best stories.