Memories are a funny thing. The past—and our own individual memories of it—affects each of us in often-unrealized ways. Who we are is in large part due to our past experiences. Nostalgia for the past affects all of us, to one degree or another.

When I was a little boy, I loved Christmas and Santa Claus. I received a child’s Santa costume for my fourth birthday. It was one of those late ‘90’s hot, sweaty, unlined plush costumes—and I had a blast with it! Funny thing is, I’ve always been a stickler for details. When I was a child, I even used a child’s real leather belt and even an old pair of black zip-up snow boots from my grandmother. No detail was an insignificant one. Every individual piece of clothing—Santa suit, boots, and belt—was chosen by a little boy who loved pretending to be Santa. I never outgrew that. Of course, that’s only the beginning.

I used to pretend the couch was a chimney and slide down it. One year, our school had a Halloween party and I went dressed as Santa. I even used one of my mother’s pillowcases for a Santa bag and gave out candy.

My late mother always told me that Denny (our family’s Santa for close to forty years) had apparently always known I would be his unofficial successor. Denny was a wonderful man, Christian, volunteer, and Santa Claus. As for me, I don’t even feel worthy of carrying his boots. Yet, nevertheless, here I am. I hope I can make him proud of me.

When I first started, I did our family’s Christmas party. Now, all these years later, I’m doing multiple home visits in a few different towns in my area, as well as trying to get back into my old nursing home circuit (in light of COVID restrictions). I’m trying (and hoping) to launch a website and corresponding social media (Facebook) to help drum up even more business.

Children who I visited with when I was a teenager are slowly beginning to marry and have their own children now. In enough time, the cycle will repeat. I’ve often thought about the fact that I’m probably in untold numbers of family photo albums in my area of PA. When those numerous children think back to their own memories of Santa, they’ll remember me. They’ll probably never know my name, but they’ll fondly remember that (once upon a time) they had sat on Santa’s lap. That reward is enough for me.

My own memories of Santa—both of seeing Santa and of pretending to be Santa when I was a child—impacted my own portrayal as a teenager and an adult (and will continue to do so when I am old and gray, with the memories of many Christmases behind me). In turn, my own Santa work will be happily remembered in ways I’m sure I’ll be unable to even fathom. To think it all started with a little child’s Santa costume.