As if a giant man living in the sky were brushing the crumbs of a coconut macaroon from his thick, rich, glorious beard, the first few flakes of winter snow have sprinkled to the floor of the Chippewa Valley. And that can mean only one thing: Christmas is on its way.

If this frosty, visual wonder were not a strong enough sign of the jolly holiday’s close proximity, there’s always my neighbor down the street. He got the holiday lights up soon after Halloween. His yard display plays Christmas music. Two different songs. Simultaneously. From each end of the property. And the lights blink in time to the perky, high-pitched melodies.

This man’s yard is like the Christmas nightmare of a thousand pale-faced 15-year-old goth girls. It’s probably what the inside of Santa Claus’s head looks like.

I might be exaggerating a little. Hey, speaking of Santa Claus, that cheery fat man always makes me think about a wayside bathroom nestled alongside Highway 53 between Eau Claire and Rice Lake – in the summertime. That’s were I was told.

The family was heading up north to our cabin, and right before I loaded my butt into the waiting car, I was watching MTV – trying get a last dose of sweet, sweet music videos before spending the weekend in no-cable-having cottage. In one video, the dancers brought out a MASSIVE boombox of wet your pants it’s so cool proportions. Many shiny switches and knobs. Many blinky lights. Many places to inset cassette tapes. It took a few people just to carry it.

I wanted one. At the time, I probably owned about four audio cassettes – three of them being Disney read-a-long tapes – but I wanted one.

As I got into the car, I was blabbering on about this boombox and how I just had to have it. My mom said something infuriating like, “Those are pretty expensive, Mike.” So I mustered up the formidable force of my pre-adolescent logic skills and declared, “Santa can get it for me.”

And so it began. I passionately argued about how Santa can make you anything, and a boombox the size of a smallish aircraft carrier was no big deal. My mom, bless her heart, tried to discourage my Christmas wishes without actually saying something like, “Santa’s not real, Mike, and there’s no way in hell your father and I will spend a small fortune on something so ridiculous.” I started to suspect something.

Like a cold darkness at the edge of my mind, I started to realize that all those sad, grumpy kids in the movies, the ones who didn’t believe in Santa ... they might have been right all along. The argument with my mom grew and grew until finally, shouting, I said, “Yes or no – is Santa real?” She said, “No, Mike, he isn’t.” And I wailed as if I’d just lost a son in a war.

Yeah, I was a fun kid to take on a two-hour car ride. We pulled into a wayside, and while my dad and sister took a walk, my mom calmed me down. By the time we hit the highway again, she had me laughing.

That next December at my family’s Christmas dinner, I asked my cousins if they believed in Santa. They told me no, but they believed in “the spirit of Santa.” I had no idea what the hell that was supposed to mean. I made a point of telling them not mention Santa being fake to my older sister. Because she didn’t know yet.

Many years later, probably to get revenge for putting my mother through the ordeal in the car (sorry, Mom), my dad scared the crap out of me with a three-foot-tall plastic Santa Claus.

One Christmas when I was a (self-righteous, argumentative) college freshman, my dad came home with a light-up plastic Santa Claus to decorate the front step of our house. Once again proving what I pleasant guy I am to have around, I told him how much I hated it. It was gaudy and weird looking and commercial and WRONG. So, naturally, he has placed it on the front porch each December since then – just so he can ask, “Did you see what’s on the front step?” and watch my eyes narrow.

And one year, when I had to sleep on their living room couch, my dad actually placed the glowing plastic Santa in the front window, facing me. I had the pleasure of waking up in the middle of the night to see a creepy, three-foot-tall, rosy-cheeked Kris Kringle leering at me from outside. I almost wet the couch. Maybe I deserved it.

And now, just this year, my two-year-old daughter saw that plastic Santa on Grandpa’s step, and, not even fully knowing who he is, was delighted. She wanted to be lifted up to the window to see him again and again.

So, I guess, even after I found out he wasn’t real, Santa’s always been there ... watching ... waiting to see how I handle his legend with my own kid. My wife and I are doing the Santa tradition with her, so there will definitely come a day when she’ll learns the truth. And on that day, we’re going near Highway 53.