As a child, I was an amateur detective; a master of argument and the suspicious side-eye. The adult world seemed to be defined by determined, capable people making important decisions and I was desperate to be one of them. In short, I was precocious. And I’m sorry to everybody I came up against. Especially my uncle Dan.
Christmas 1989 was exciting for four-year-old me. I had visited the mall Santa a few weeks before and been crystal clear in my request for a magic tea set and world peace (see? Insufferable). Christmas Eve celebrations at my grandparents’ were an unbridled success. As the first grandchild, I reaped the benefits of generous aunties and uncles and I ate my weight in potatoes and sausages.
That was when I heard them: sleigh bells. My mom stopped tucking me into bed and looked surprised. I was confused: surely, Santa wouldn’t have made such a rookie error as to show up before I had fallen asleep. There must be some mistake.
“Annie!” my dad shouted from the living room. “Annie, come quick!”
There was no time to lose. I leapt out of bed, my mom smiling as she trailed behind me. I ran down the hallway into our foyer. That was when I saw him. Santa. Right there. Standing in front of me. Ho-ho-ho-ing like I had never heard before.
I walked up to him in shock, thrilled that my humble request for a peaceful world had inspired him to visit me. I looked at my parents, my grandma and the pals who had swung by for a little Christmas cheer. They were bearing witness to a miracle.
Santa sat down on an armchair while I jumped up on his lap. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I took it all in: the white beard, the laugh, the ease with which he interacted with me. The suit was velvet, the belt was shiny. He wore white gloves and his long hair was perfectly curled. And then I looked down.
Santa was wearing sneakers. Familiar sneakers. The sneakers I recognised as belonging to my uncle Dan, who, during Christmas, would dress up as Santa for holiday parties and grow out his beard to match his white, trademark moustache. This Santa also had his light blue eyes and the crow’s feet that framed them and, unlike the mall Santa, smelled of Old Spice.
That was when I knew: this warm, lovely, jovial Santa was my favourite uncle. He had dressed up to make my holiday a little more special and to delight my mom and dad as they watched their only child revel in the magic of Christmas. I knew it would be gracious not to acknowledge any of this, but I was a detective – and delighted by my findings.
“You’re not Santa!” I exclaimed excitedly, pointing to his running shoes. “You’re uncle Dan!”
The room went silent. The fear was palpable as my family tried to gauge whether my reaction connoted the joy of discovery or the makings of childhood trauma. I looked at everyone, grinning maniacally, as I had clearly proved my flair for deduction and my ability to suss out the truth.
“Uncle Dan!” I repeated, before giving him a hug.
The room exhaled collectively. I jumped down, laughed along with them, and got tucked back into bed, thrilled by this experience. Not only did my uncle do something kind, but he risked crossing paths with the real Santa by dropping in so close to bedtime. Could you even imagine? I thought to myself. Two Santas? Unbelievable. You couldn’t fool me.
That is, until the following year. Called out to the living room before bed once again, I showed up just in time to see Santa do a mad dash from our Christmas tree to our patio door, where he made his great escape. He was wearing his boots. It had to be him. I couldn’t wait to tell my uncle Dan.
