The following is the second of three unauthorized copies of columns written by John Coit. This material is copyrighted by the Rocky Mountain News. You should probably read this entry and the previous column first.

Playing Santa easy if The Spirit visits

Dec. 3, 1984

THERE was a cold wind blowing down Larimer Street on Sunday afternoon, a wind that was not just nippy, but frigid, born on a glacier, a winter breath for sure.

A brass band did glorious carols on a bandstand in the middle of the street, which was blocked off for Christmas Walk on Larimer Square, as classy a yuletide deal as there is in these parts, with puppet shows, Dickensian strolling singers, jugglers and all manner of seasonal perk.

And, of course, him.

They call him Father Christmas down on the square, which is sort of Old World and, you know, classy.

Nonetheless, the man on the curb with the red suit and the real white whiskers and the twinkling blue eyes, had achieved The Transformation so perfectly, so artfully, that the nippers gathering around were convinced, and that's the deal.

I don't know. Maybe it's just natural, loving them that way.

Loving them is the real secret, as a Santa Claus I used to know told me once.

Whatever it is, whatever you have to do to pull it off, I had to figure it in the next couple of hours. There was a Santa gig for me to do in front of the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, when it kicked off the second annual Decemberfest, with Mayor Federico Pena and DCPA chairman Donald R. Seawell pulling the switch to light the 35-foot Christmas tree down there, followed by a caroling session by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

So I watched this Father Christmas down on The Square, and realized The Spirit was around, and would be there this night for sure, checking out the act.

He always is.

It was a lazy afternoon. I met some friends and ate a late breakfast, and thought about it.

For some reason I knew The Spirit would find me, dressed up in my Rent-a-Santa suit from the Mile High Child Care Association, followed around by Randy Thomas, a once-upon-a-time newspaperman who has since fled to the world of account supervision in PR land.

Thomas was going to Transform into an elf, which seemed a harder role than becoming The Great Claus. Elves are very mystical, and not as legendary.

Besides, in Levis and leather jacket, Thomas looks like a vice cop from Chicago.

Going to elf would be a feat.

I went to my digs on Vine Street and looked for bloated clothing that would add bulk and warmth under the suit.

In the back of the closet, I found an old down-filled jacket and added a flannel shirt and pulled on some 501s.

Spirit, where art thou?

Thomas showed up, strangely quiet. He was in Transformation mode, going elf.

I still felt like me.

Please, Spirit.

We drove downtown in his Saab, and parked in the big layered lot next to the DCPA.

"You feeling like him, yet?" he asked.

"You feeling like an elf?" I answered.

"Yeah," Thomas said.

We walked into the dressing rooms and got ready, next to two girls from East High School who were splendidly made up like toy soldiers, a military secort for The Great Claus.

I put a pillow under the down jacket and pulled on the red pants and tunic. Next the white wig and the beard. Then bushy, white eyebrows. Then the boots...

We left the dressing rooms and walked out into the freezing night. I had a couple little pals with me who took the white-gloved hands.

The Spirit came easily, without effort.

My little friends had seen the dressing room action, knew me, but now they called me by his name.

I realized that even though little kids are from another world, they aren't that easily fooled.

The Spirit had come all right.

I was gone.

Santa Claus ambled up the street, and these children all knew him and their eyes lit up and they came to be touched, to be near his presence.

He walked into Currigan Hall, and there were hundreds of them, and they gathered quickly, looking up, touching, faces filled with wonderment.

"Merry Christmas, everybody," said The Great Claus...

In street clothes, I walked into the office of the DCPA.

Winnie Ellis, who works down there, said I'd made a good Santa Claus.

"Wasn't me," I said.

She nodded, as if to humor an eccentric.

I went outside. There were carols playing over loudspeakers, and the night was very cold. The tree was beautiful, and a few people stood and looked at it.

I stood with them and looked at the sky, full of stars.

It would be a midnight clear.

"Thank you, Spirit," I said.

And I turned and walked away.