‘Twas the night after Christmas, 1951, and all through the town of Appalachia, Virginia, heavy snowflakes were adding to the deepening white-scape. My sister Susie and I were enjoying a final pre-bedtime half-hour with the toys we’d found under the tree that morning. Santa had treated us well.
And then came the sharp knock on our front door. My dad eased the door open, as we kids and our mom huddled a few feet behind.
“Why, Santa!” my dad said. “Come right on in.” The imposing red-clad figure lumbered through the door, his eyes darting from behind one of the hideous Santa masks typical of that era. Our ever-wary mom eased us a further few feet back. Why had Santa returned, I wondered. And why hadn’t he arrived via our chimney?
“Ho, ho, ho,” said our visitor. “I sure am hungry! I was hoping for a few goodies before I head back up north.” My mom eyed the phone on its nearby stand, in case a visit by law enforcement proved necessary.
My dad turned around to my mom, a smile lighting his face. He mouthed one word to her: “Jim.” Ah, that explains it, she thought. My dad and his pal Jim loved few things better than playing pranks on each other, and this Santa visit was but Jim’s latest. My mom’s demeanor brightened at once.
“Have a seat in the living room, Santa,” my mom said. “Your goodies are coming right up.” As she scurried about in the kitchen, Santa and my dad tossed good-natured barbs back and forth about life at the North Pole versus life in Appalachia. My mom soon handed Santa a plate crammed with scrumptious cupcakes, chocolate fudge, and peanut brittle. He dug into them with gusto, navigating each bite past his mask’s fake beard and mouth opening.
My dad, smiling broadly, swooped onto the sofa alongside Santa, just as my mom aimed and clicked her camera. This game was over… Now he’d let Jim know that he’d been onto the ruse all along.
My dad’s smile vanished as quickly as Santa’s current goody disappeared from the plate. Something was amiss here. Jim had WW2 shrapnel scars on the back of his neck. Santa had none. And a portion of Jim’s right pinkie finger had been severed years ago. Santa’s hand sported five intact digits.
Our mom hustled us kids toward the corner, as our dad stood, hands on his hips. Santa, sensing the change in the room’s atmospherics, shoveled the remaining treats through the mask and into his mouth.
“I have a long trip ahead of me,” Santa said as he arose. “The food was delicious. Thank you so much. I’ll show myself out.” He hastened to the door, opened it, and exited. We watched through the window as he strode down Blondell Avenue through the still-falling snow, turning left toward Main Street as he neared the river.
My dad expected one of his other friends to quickly ‘fess up to having been the mystery Santa, and to gloat about the success of the prank. None ever did, and, to this day, the mystery remains.
My dad told us that, since we lacked any other explanation, we must have been visited by the real Santa. If not for the grotesque mask, I’d still be believing him.