The one where I met the real Santa in my living room

I grew up in Rahway on Kline Place. Back then, kids had freedom, and we used it. We made friends and had our drama, which was mostly great. It was the age of drinking out of garden hoses and never being inside until the streetlights came on.

Chinese checkers in that cool basement at Marc LaBelle’s house. Exploring the woods with my buddy Paul and that awful time, my dad accidentally backed over his bike, and we carried the twisted mess home to his dad, Mr. Hammell.

I spent more time at the Mulligan’s house a few doors down than I had a right to expect. We would camp out in a tent in Mark’s backyard, and Mr. Mulligan never missed an opportunity to either bust chops or scare us senseless. He would creep out with a flashlight after midnight and have fun, making us think a killer was after us.

Then there were the Levechias. I was best friends with Carl for years, and his parents treated me to many things my parents couldn’t afford. Aquariums, zoos, a circus, movies, on and on. I hope they all know how much I appreciate all of them.

Even this “Wonder Years” type of childhood could not have prepared me for the night I was visited by Santa Claus. It was the most magical moment of my young years.

I was probably 5, maybe 6. I can’t remember if it was after school or on a weekend. I just know it was on a December evening when I heard voices outside and suddenly heavy boots on the stairs of our porch. Christmas was still a week or so away, but before the knock on the door came the jolliest, most authentic laugh you could imagine.

The door was answered, and in an unexpected moment as big as meeting Elvis or Springsteen, I was face to face with Santa Claus. He was real.

Snow kicked off from his boots as he trudged in, and his breath stopped fogging the cold air as my mom closed the door. His cheeks were rosy. His beard was perfect. His eyes did twinkle. I swear, they twinkled.

He looked at me and said, “I know the older one is Kerry, so you must be Jeff!” It was him. Whatever doubt was crushed by the magical goodwill he exuded. He talked to me but briefly, asked about school, and asked if our dog would bite him when he came back on Christmas Eve.

Then, as I sat there mesmerized by what was happening, sitting near the end of the couch where shadows of our Christmas tree’s branches moved on the wall with the blinking of the lights, he handed me something.

I thought it was money. Gold coins. I took them, surprised they didn’t feel heavier. Then he explained these were chocolates pressed and wrapped in foil to look like gold coins. It was a special treat only children who meet Santa were ever given, you see.

Did I unwrap them and devour them? Not a chance. Not even after he left, not even once did Christmas come around. I held on to these things like a talisman. The ultimate proof the best of things exists.

Even before he left that night, I thought how funny it was that the real Santa Claus looked a very tiny bit like my Uncle Stan. It certainly wasn’t him, though. He lived all the way up in Syracuse, New York, and wouldn’t make that trip for a prank. No way.

This was Santa, and that Christmas was great. The most perfect one I probably ever had. I felt important that Christmas when I never had before. I felt even a shy neurotic mess like me was good enough to be visited by this crimson-clad royalty.

I left that Christmas behind with the best memories as winter turned into spring. The problems between my mom and dad that I forgot for a little while during the holidays came back with a vengeance. The school year felt longer than before. When summer came, Christmas seemed like a dream that hadn’t happened. But it had.

The cheer faded, though. Bad things came. That was the summer I was in the backyard playing catch with Mark Mulligan when, in the middle of a hard fastball coming my way, came a sickening scream from a few doors down. I froze, missing the ball, as both Mark and I recognized the second scream as Mark’s mom.

He took off racing home as I stood frozen. I saw my dad and other adults come tearing out of their respective houses and beating Mark to his home. There was talk on the street over the next few minutes, some of it I didn’t understand. The ambulance showed up as it was getting dark. At six or seven years old, I stood watching as Mr. Mulligan was wheeled out on a gurney with EMTs working on him as they rolled him into the ambulance.

He had been electrocuted. He died within a day. The guy who always was good for teasing us neighborhood kids. The guy who used to scare us witless in the tent in his backyard.

The guy I found out about three years after that had been the one who played Santa Claus.

He didn’t really ‘play’ him, though. Mr. Mulligan was him. He loved the kids in the neighborhood. We were always welcome in his home. He was always patient with us. He worked for charitable causes that benefited children. He was a genuinely good, kind guy.

When you grow up and stop believing in Santa, remember they’re everywhere. Maybe even inside you. They just tend to wear the disguises of ordinary decent people so that no one knows who they are.

Merry Christmas.

Opinions expressed in the post above are those of New Jersey 101.5 talk show host Jeff Deminski only.

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