Santa, Off the Clock

Buddy and I were enjoying a quiet summer evening on the front porch yesterday, the kind where the heat finally backs off and the sky turns that dusty pink color that makes you think maybe the world isn’t so bad after all. He was sprawled out like a rug, twitching every so often in a dream I imagine involved rabbits or snacks—or both.

Me? I had my boots kicked off and a cold beer sweating in my hand, just a man, his dog, and the blessed silence of a Monday evening.

That’s when I heard the pitter-patter of little feet coming up the sidewalk. A young mother and her toddler were walking by.

The kid had that wide-eyed curiosity that’s either going to get you an interesting question or a rock in the mouth if you’re not careful. He was dragging a stuffed animal by one leg—looked like a koala who’d seen better days—and then he stopped right in front of my yard.

He looked at his mom, pointed at me with all the grace of a courtroom accusation, and asked, loud enough for the angels to hear, “Why is Santa getting drunk?”

Now, let’s pause here. I’ve got a decent white beard, especially since I’ve let it grow out a bit, and I was wearing a red T-shirt, which—okay, fair.

But I was also sitting there, minding my own business, enjoying a single beer. One. Uno. Not exactly nine reindeer deep.

The mom turned a shade of red that matched my shirt and looked at me, mortified. She started to say something—probably an apology or an excuse—but I waved her off and went full Foster Brooks, “Thhhe… the kid… he don’t m-m-missh mush, does he?”

There was a half-second pause, then she snorted, I laughed, and for a moment, the world was what it should be. Two strangers, laughing at the absurdity of it all, while my dog, unimpressed, rolled over and farted.

We chatted a little after that. It turns out mom’s name is Jenna, and her son’s name is Max.

They were just out walking off the late-afternoon wiggles before dinner. Jenna said it had been a long day of sticky fingers, tantrums, and stepping on Legos. I nodded understandingly—Buddy’s not a toddler, but he’s got his brand of chaos involving muddy paws and stolen sandwiches.

Before they walked on, Max waved at me and said, “Bye, Santa,” like it was the most normal thing in the world. I told him I’d see him in December and to keep being good, which earned me a little giggle.

After they disappeared around the corner, I sat back, took another sip, and thought about how funny life can be. You wake up thinking you’re just going to mow the lawn and maybe grill a brat, and then suddenly, you’re the neighborhood’s off-duty Santa Claus.

There’s a kind of grace in being mistaken for something good, even if it’s accidental. I wasn’t handing out toys or flying a sleigh—but I was being present.

Kindness can be simple like that. A laugh. A friendly voice. A moment shared on a porch between sips and stories.

So, here’s to being mistaken for Santa—and to making the most of the quiet moments when they come. And if you ever feel the world’s gotten too complicated, find yourself a porch, a cold drink, and a good dog.

You’d be amazed at what a little stillness—and a toddler’s honesty—can do for the soul.