First and foremost — and especially as a father of a wide-eyed little girl — I want to deliberately note that this story is NOT about the REAL Santa Claus.

The REAL Santa lives in the North Pole and spends his time taking stock of which little girls and boys have been naughty or nice each year - along with drinking way too much Coca-Cola, shoveling reindeer dung and supervising an overworked staff of undocumented, toy making elves. I hear he's also been trying to watch his cholesterol, but my intention with this story is not to create any wild, speculative or unsubstantiated rumors about the REAL Santa Claus.

That would be reckless journalism. Let's leave that to TMZ. Besides, there's a more interesting story to tell.

Instead let's talk about Santa's "ambassadors," as one local Santa explained it to me - the real old men, typically with real long, white beards, that get real busy this time of year opening their laps to toy hungry kids at malls, department stores, fundraising functions, fun runs, tree lots and breakfast feeds as far as the eye can see.

They're not the REAL Santa, but they're a lot like him. If you ask one of them about their identity, you're likely to get the response, "Do I look like Santa?"
For a child, that's usually all it takes to create the magic.

Who, then, are these men devoting, if not their lives, at least their appearances to creating that magic? Where do they come from, and more importantly, how do they come to be a Santa?

What is their world like?

This is what the Weekly Volcano's Special Report: Santas Revealed aimed to find out.

The history
If it wasn't for Saint Nicholas, the Santa Claus we know and love today may never have come to be - though, rest assured, Lexus would have found another reason for SUV-sized bows. Without Saint Nicholas, however - a saint and bishop from a part of the world that's now Turkey, circa 300 AD - there might not be a jolly red persona to accompany our December shopping bonanza.  According to lore, or at least Wikipedia, Saint Nicholas had a habit of secret gift giving, regularly slipping gold coins into the shoes of the unsuspecting.  It's the kind of selflessness that would get a person deemed wacky at their job at Outback Steakhouse, but back then it was one of the building blocks for today's Christmas.

To be succinct, a bunch of historical and religious stuff happened in between, and then in the 19th century cartoonist Thomas Nast started drawing Santa Claus as a jolly, bearded, gift bearing, elderly white guy. Not long after, corporate advertising took over and the image of Santa we know today was set in stone.
In early November sitting around a cookie and brownie covered table in a makeshift break room at a local elementary school - during a Christmas event for children of deployed Fort Lewis soldiers - a gaggle of hired Santas sat in their red suits passing time between shifts with the children. They munched on home baked goods, swatted crumbs from their white beards, and looked very much in their element.

They were, of course. It was the beginning of the Christmas season - a time they live for. Never had I seen so many Santas in one place, and it was at this moment that it hit me: This isn't just seasonal work; this is a culture. These guys know each other, and this isn't just something they do.
Santa is who they are.

Christmas all year long
The Santa I tracked down lives in Lakewood, and though he will remain nameless in the pages of the Weekly Volcano to further the contrived illusion of investigative reporting, a quick Google search will probably find him. He has a Web site.

His house was like all of the others on his block: well groomed lawn, children's swing set - for the grandkids, no doubt - in the back. A full size motor home sat parked in the gravel driveway.

Christmas music played as he opened the door, predictably dressed in red. He led me toward his office. In the living room, a fire burned, and though it was the week before Thanksgiving, the tree was already up. This Santa told me he'd been lobbying to keep the tree up all year, but so far his "Mrs. Claus" had yet to go for it.

We sat down. It wasn't long before I had a candy cane. We talked about how it all started.

He's a deeply religious man, a pastor in fact, and for this Santa it began seven years ago when somewhere in Steilacoom a stand-in Saint Nick was needed. He fit the bill, so to speak - which is to say he's "jolly" - and he took the gig with one request: he would grow his own beard.

It was a fateful Christmas, and he's never gone back. Now, a member of the Fraternal Order of Real Bearded Santas - a California based association devoted to fostering the spirit of Christmas and providing opportunities for Santas to hang out with other Santas in places like Knott's Berry Farm - not to mention a founder of the soon to be NorPac Santas - a group of Santas from the Pacific Northwest - this particular Santa has turned Kris Kringle into a year-round devotion.

It's not just a job, and it's not about the money for this Santa.
"Christmas isn't just a day; it's a frame of mind," he says.
When he shows me one of several custom-made, $1,500 Santa suits, I know he isn't kidding.

Why he does it
For this Santa, his connection to the role has to do with spreading all that's good about Christmas - the joy, the love and the spirit. It's also about serving Christ and Christianity, which he says share the same core values as the personification of Santa and Christmas. He tells stories of children on his lap wishing for nothing more than their parents to stop fighting or return from war, and you can't help but understand his motivation.

He acknowledges, though, that not all Santas share his religious inspiration. Some fill the roll for fun. Some do it for money. There is money to be made in the industry. A Santa on the East Coast can make $60,000 a year, he tells me, and in Asia, where the fat white Santa image they've been sold is harder to find, it's more. The Santa market on the West Coast is a little tougher to crack, but a working Saint Nick can earn $20,000 a year.

Mall Santas have it the worst, typically working long shifts with no breaks, but hey, it's still a job.

Before I leave, this Santa thumbs through his Rolodex and pulls out a few numbers, names and contacts for some of the Santas he "runs with." He tells me of a Santa he's been mentoring, a guy named Ernie who is retiring from a car lot, and suggests I call him for another perspective.

As we make our way back toward his door, he tells me something I already knew.
"I didn't put on the Christmas music just for you," he says. "I always listen to it."

"Of course you do," I reply.

First and foremost - and especially as a father of a wide-eyed little girl - I want to deliberately note that this story is NOT about the REAL Santa Claus.

The REAL Santa lives in the North Pole and spends his time taking stock of which little girls and boys have been naughty or nice each year - along with drinking way too much Coca-Cola, shoveling reindeer dung and supervising an overworked staff of undocumented, toy making elves. I hear he's also been trying to watch his cholesterol, but my intention with this story is not to create any wild, speculative or unsubstantiated rumors about the REAL Santa Claus.

That would be reckless journalism. Let's leave that to TMZ. Besides, there's a more interesting story to tell.

Instead let's talk about Santa's "ambassadors," as one local Santa explained it to me - the real old men, typically with real long, white beards, that get real busy this time of year opening their laps to toy hungry kids at malls, department stores, fundraising functions, fun runs, tree lots and breakfast feeds as far as the eye can see.

They're not the REAL Santa, but they're a lot like him. If you ask one of them about their identity, you're likely to get the response, "Do I look like Santa?"
For a child, that's usually all it takes to create the magic.

Who, then, are these men devoting, if not their lives, at least their appearances to creating that magic? Where do they come from, and more importantly, how do they come to be a Santa?

What is their world like?

This is what the Weekly Volcano's Special Report: Santas Revealed aimed to find out.

The history

If it wasn't for Saint Nicholas, the Santa Claus we know and love today may never have come to be - though, rest assured, Lexus would have found another reason for SUV-sized bows. Without Saint Nicholas, however - a saint and bishop from a part of the world that's now Turkey, circa 300 AD - there might not be a jolly red persona to accompany our December shopping bonanza.  According to lore, or at least Wikipedia, Saint Nicholas had a habit of secret gift giving, regularly slipping gold coins into the shoes of the unsuspecting.  It's the kind of selflessness that would get a person deemed wacky at their job at Outback Steakhouse, but back then it was one of the building blocks for today's Christmas.

To be succinct, a bunch of historical and religious stuff happened in between, and then in the 19th century cartoonist Thomas Nast started drawing Santa Claus as a jolly, bearded, gift bearing, elderly white guy. Not long after, corporate advertising took over and the image of Santa we know today was set in stone.

In early November sitting around a cookie and brownie covered table in a makeshift break room at a local elementary school - during a Christmas event for children of deployed Fort Lewis soldiers - a gaggle of hired Santas sat in their red suits passing time between shifts with the children. They munched on home baked goods, swatted crumbs from their white beards, and looked very much in their element.

They were, of course. It was the beginning of the Christmas season - a time they live for. Never had I seen so many Santas in one place, and it was at this moment that it hit me: This isn't just seasonal work; this is a culture. These guys know each other, and this isn't just something they do.

Santa is who they are.

Christmas all year long

The Santa I tracked down lives in Lakewood, and though he will remain nameless in the pages of the Weekly Volcano to further the contrived illusion of investigative reporting, a quick Google search will probably find him. He has a Web site.

His house was like all of the others on his block: well groomed lawn, children's swing set - for the grandkids, no doubt - in the back. A full size motor home sat parked in the gravel driveway.

Christmas music played as he opened the door, predictably dressed in red. He led me toward his office. In the living room, a fire burned, and though it was the week before Thanksgiving, the tree was already up. This Santa told me he'd been lobbying to keep the tree up all year, but so far his "Mrs. Claus" had yet to go for it.

We sat down. It wasn't long before I had a candy cane. We talked about how it all started.

He's a deeply religious man, a pastor in fact, and for this Santa it began seven years ago when somewhere in Steilacoom a stand-in Saint Nick was needed. He fit the bill, so to speak - which is to say he's "jolly" - and he took the gig with one request: he would grow his own beard.

It was a fateful Christmas, and he's never gone back. Now, a member of the Fraternal Order of Real Bearded Santas - a California based association devoted to fostering the spirit of Christmas and providing opportunities for Santas to hang out with other Santas in places like Knott's Berry Farm - not to mention a founder of the soon to be NorPac Santas - a group of Santas from the Pacific Northwest - this particular Santa has turned Kris Kringle into a year-round devotion.

It's not just a job, and it's not about the money for this Santa.

"Christmas isn't just a day; it's a frame of mind," he says.

When he shows me one of several custom-made, $1,500 Santa suits, I know he isn't kidding.

Why he does it

For this Santa, his connection to the role has to do with spreading all that's good about Christmas - the joy, the love and the spirit. It's also about serving Christ and Christianity, which he says share the same core values as the personification of Santa and Christmas. He tells stories of children on his lap wishing for nothing more than their parents to stop fighting or return from war, and you can't help but understand his motivation.

He acknowledges, though, that not all Santas share his religious inspiration. Some fill the roll for fun. Some do it for money. There is money to be made in the industry. A Santa on the East Coast can make $60,000 a year, he tells me, and in Asia, where the fat white Santa image they've been sold is harder to find, it's more. The Santa market on the West Coast is a little tougher to crack, but a working Saint Nick can earn $20,000 a year.

Mall Santas have it the worst, typically working long shifts with no breaks, but hey, it's still a job.

Before I leave, this Santa thumbs through his Rolodex and pulls out a few numbers, names and contacts for some of the Santas he "runs with." He tells me of a Santa he's been mentoring, a guy named Ernie who is retiring from a car lot, and suggests I call him for another perspective.

As we make our way back toward his door, he tells me something I already knew.
"I didn't put on the Christmas music just for you," he says. "I always listen to it."

"Of course you do," I reply.