A real journalist would not have to offer this disclaimer, but — there will be no lies in this column.

Yes, the gist of my scratchings are true, but sometimes I’ll include asides or snatches of anecdotes for comedic sake or to make myself look more witty or handsome. I also sometimes type fake stuff to my mate’s detriment. 

For instance, it was a complete fabrication when I recently wrote that she stole the batteries from my life-saving avalanche transceiver to use in her foot massager. And no, she never put super-glue in my hemorrhoid cream. But a lot of the other stuff she has done was pretty bad. She once warned me, as I was showing off by crossing a raging river on a narrow log, “don’t you dare fall, break your leg, and ruin my summer,” no lie!

So with that out of the way, it is the God’s honest truth that on Christmas Eve afternoon I opened our front door in my underwear to find Santa Claus standing on our porch. 

I was upstairs getting out of ski clothing and about to jump into the shower when I heard my cell phone ring downstairs. I assumed it was a call from one of my family, so I sprinted downstairs in my jockeys. Turns out it was a spam caller that, since my age is public record, was hoping to sell me a casket. 

I hung up and headed toward the stairs when someone actually rang our doorbell. I did not even know we had a door bell. We seldom get visitors; almost never solicitors. We were put on some sort of “avoid this house” solicitor page when I told an earnest young man that I would only listen to his personal testament of how he found his way to the bosom of the Lord if, when finished, he would take our recycling to the bins at the end of the street. We both held our side of the bargain.  

I had no desire to run up the steps, put on pants, run down and answer to doorbell. So assuming who ever rang the bell was either a friend or near-sighted, I pulled my t-shirt down a little and opened the door. On my mother’s grave, it was Santa.

He had two sacks. He reached into the one labeled “Naughty” and handed me a gift. He then reached into one listed as “Nice” and said, “This is for Ellie.”

It being an unseasonably warm day, I stood on the front porch in my briefs and shot the bull with Father Christmas. In a span of about five minutes a few neighbors passed, greeted Mr. Clause and made the same request of, “hey, Santa, can you make it snow?” Santa replied, “Ho-Ho-Ho” — so at least he wasn’t lying. 

We talked for a while, but I think my outfit was making him uncomfortable — perhaps because the family visiting next door walked by while covering both their dog’s and children’s eyes. 

It wasn’t until I was walking the St. Nick back to his car did I figure out who he was. It was my old friend Ace. By the size of Ace’s sack, I’m guessing my house was not his only stop.

Santa’s visit provided hope and a reminder. 

Truth was — I didn’t need a reminder. All who passed, and were able to ignore my outfit and focus on his, asked for snow. This has been the driest winter in Summit’s recorded history. Many locals are freaking out, none more so than my mate who loves to ski as much as anyone I know. The recreational and financial impact to residents could be huge.

And though it is bad enough for the locals, I feel for our guests. It is expensive to vacation here and the product we provide is dependent in large part on the weather. The resort has done an amazing job both managing the snow that has fallen and of making snow.

The hopeful part of Santa’s visit was the fat man himself. Here was a local who, during the busiest week of the year, took the time to put on a outfit and spread joy to friends and strangers. 

Like it or not, we live in both a community and a resort. The community is our home, which is made possible by the resort, which is a product. Yes, one aspect of this product — sliding on snow — can be affected by the weather, but the quirky ambiance and friendly service provided by our facilities and locals can override any fickleness of Mother Nature. And some old dude standing outside in his underwear is just icing on the holiday cake.