The other day something happened to me that I believe has never happened before. I was profiled. That’s right, blanket assumptions were made about me based solely on my appearance. Now before you call Rev. Sharpton and start organizing marches, relax. I was not shot, tasered, arrested or denied housing. But nonetheless I was profiled due to my gender, race, age and size.

Based entirely on my appearance, a man walked up and accused me of being … Santa Claus.

I was at a children’s event with my grandson Jesse. An event that was to include a visit from St. Nick. Just before the program was to start, one of the leaders, a nice young man whom I had met before and spoke with on the phone, came up to me and asked, “Are you Santa?”

I wasn’t wearing red velour, nor was I accompanied by elves and eight tiny reindeer. But because of the fact I am old, round and have a white beard, he assumed I was the guy hired to be the evenings entertainment.

I should have been insulted. But I wasn’t, because it was a role that I’ve actually played in the past. Instead of hurt, I actually felt a little bad that they didn’t ask me to be their Santa for the evening.

Now before I get too far along, let me stop for the benefit of any young children reading this and state, for the record, that there is indeed only one true Santa. He exists and lives at the North Pole and in just a few days he and his reindeer will circle the planet in 24 hours delivering joy, and toys, to good little girls and boys everywhere. But, as I’m sure your parents have told you when you asked how Santa can be at the Mall, on a street corner and at school all at the same time, Santa has help.

Specially selected “helpers” don the red suit and beard as ambassadors of Christmas Cheer.

As I mentioned, I have been lucky enough to play Santa on a few occasions. The last time was about 20 years ago at an event in Stanton Township. If I remember correctly, a youngster called me a fake and said he was going to pull my beard off. I might have threatened him, I don’t recall. Although the incident might account for the fact that nobody has tapped me for Santa duty in a couple of decades. Oh well.

My first Santa gig was in the sixth grade when I played the part in a Christmas pageant. I don’t think it was my acting ability that got me the role, but more the fact I was the only 12-year-old around with the body of a middle-aged man.

Being Santa was a big deal in my home town. I grew up in a little town smack dab in the middle of the U.P. In the 1960s there was no cable TV in Rock, (I still don’t think there is), no Internet and you didn’t walk around with a phone in your pocket. In those days every house only had one phone … and it was nearly always black.

So, as I’ve written before, we kids hung very closely to those special events in our town. The Lions Labor Day Festival, Memorial Day Parade, spring grass burning and deer season were always things we looked forward to, each with their own special traditions.

Christmas time in Rock meant at least two visits from Santa for most kids, three for the Catholics. The first two were always a little weird because the Santa that appeared at the Rock School and at the St. Joseph’s Church Christmas program in Perkins, was the same person … my dad. When he handed me my treat and said “have you been a good boy,” I always felt that mixture of shame and pride that adolescents feel whenever they see their parents in public. He was a great Santa Claus, but he was my dad!

But the best visit from Santa was the one that came the last Saturday before Christmas. It was always outside and it was always cold. And it always felt like Christmas.

We didn’t have a town square in Rock, but Campbell’s City Service, later Johnson’s Citgo, served the purpose. There was a grassy lawn in front of the gas station that contained the town’s fire siren and our phone booth. It wasn’t Boston Commons, but it served a purpose. On that last Saturday before Christmas it was jammed with every kid the town could muster. When I was real little, when Frank Campbell owned the station, Santa would ride on the back of a hay wagon pulled by a tractor. Later, when Paul Johnson owned the gas station and started selling snowmobiles, Santa would pull up on a brand new Arctic Cat.

There wasn’t time to present him with a Christmas wish list. Basically you waited in line, answered “yes” when he asked if you’ve been good (even if it was a lie) and took your treat. The treat was always the same. A brown lunch bag, stapled shut, filled with peanuts in the shell and the occasional piece of candy. Looking back it wasn’t much of a treat. My grandkids would probably turn it down, but to us it was as if we were at the North Pole ourselves.

The most peculiar thing about my memories of Santa visiting downtown Rock, is that I have no idea who Santa “really” was. It wasn’t my dad or Uncle Sonny or any of the men who were part of my daily life. That’s what bothers me most. I don’t know who was the “Rock Santa.”

I can remember incidents from my childhood down to the tiniest detail, but I have no idea who was Santa every year at the gas station. It’s not that I’ve forgotten, it’s that I never knew. The funny thing is, I never asked anyone. I’m sure if I asked my parents who Santa was, they would have told me that it was the “real” one. Not a helper. And perhaps it was. Here’s hoping the “real” Santa visits you and your family Wednesday night, and may all your Christmas dreams come true.

Editor’s note: Mark Wilcox is the managing editor of The Daily Mining Gazette