Pauline Nevins guest commentary: Santa is what?

Not possible. Not the gentle man who sat for hours, year after year, quietly listening as children whispered their dreams. But it was true. Santa, aka David Paul Malloy, had died. He was the man who, when he wasn't waving to the cheering children during the Colfax Winterfest parade, was riding and restoring Classic Vincent motorcycles. On the second Saturday in June, a summer day that couldn't make up its mind whether to rain or shine, I drove my husband and friend, Penelope, to The Wheelhouse in Nevada City to celebrate Dave's life. We arrived early and wandered through the restaurant to the back patio. Erected on the lawn was an imposing banner, flanked by two shiny Vincent motorcycles. The banner bore the letters HRD and the words Vincent Owners Club – Northern California Section. I learned HRD were the initials of British pilot Howard Raymond Davies, who while languishing in a 1917 German prisoner of war camp, conceived of building his own motorcycle, and eventually did so. The threatened rain began to fall. The event host, Don Molloy – Dave's only sibling – squeezed under a portable cover in front of the Bob Woods Band and welcomed the crowd clustered under dripping tree limbs and bobbing umbrellas. He spoke fondly of his brother, and when the rain showed no sign of stopping, encouraged everyone to move inside. Three others joined Pene, Jim and me at a table in the corner. Friends Mo and Jeff drove down from their lofty hideaway in Eagleville. Another friend, Jimmy J., was on the loose from Alta while his wife, Heidi, vacationed in Rome. I met Heidi years earlier when we were members of the Friends of the Colfax Library. Back then, President Heidi organized the annual Colfax Santa's Village, the place where I first met Dave. For a long time, I didn't know Dave's name. Everyone referred to him reverentially as Santa. Across the room, I spied Kristi, husband Tom and their friend Debbie. Although Kristi, a teacher by profession, looked the part as Mrs. Claus in her wig, spectacles and gorgeous burgundy velvet dress, her cover was almost blown one year. As she handed a little girl a gift bag and wished her a Merry Christmas, the child gave Kristi a squinty look and said, "You sound just like my teacher." The morning of the Celebration of Life, Larry Hillbert, the Saturday morning host of "Backroads" on KVMR, paid tribute to his friend Dave. "When we first moved to Colfax," Larry told listeners, "I used to see this white bearded guy coming out of the back door of a real estate building and every once in a while, rolling a motorcycle out of there, and I said hello to him a couple of times …" Larry went on to say they bumped into each other one evening at a Dutch Flat establishment. Dave introduced himself, and they learned both had worked for IBM in the San Jose area. Later in the program, Larry shared something else he learned from Dave. Something that mystified me. On the shelf, in the corner of what was once Evangeline's, a coffee shop in Colfax, stood a pair of gleaming cowboy boots that kept changing. Neither Larry nor I ever saw it happen. Each Wednesday, at high noon, a tall, lean stranger with a white beard, carrying a leather case, strode into Evangeline's. He took down the boots on show and replaced them with another shining pair. It was known as "The Changing of the Boots." Another British connection, I thought. Dave supported local musicians. He and his friend, Lana, and a mutual friend of ours, Sharlene, drove to the Crazy Horse Saloon in Nevada City to listen to the Bob Woods Band play during the "Geezer Gig." They played from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. Got you home in bed by 9. On the phone, the day after the Celebration of Life, I asked Sharlene how she and Dave met. For years, Sharlene owned and operated Hair 'N' Stuff on Depot Street across from Dave's motorcycle garage. "I'd see him walk by in his black leather cap," she said. Sharlene's husband was seriously ill at the time, and she'd run out of wood for the stove. She popped into the nearby coffee shop to ask if anyone had any wood. "Not only did Dave bring me some wood," she said, "but he stacked it." There was a long pause. "He was such a kind person." On a ledge at The Wheelhouse, I placed a condolence card for Dave's brother, Don. Inside were two pictures. One was a group photo of Santa with the elves. The other was of Santa and a little girl. It was evening, and Santa's Village was closing. The child stood a short distance away, alone. Santa, weary from hours of sitting, slowly walked over to her. The picture showed the two together. She was looking up at Santa in awe, and he stooped to hear her whisper. Pauline Nevins is the author of the memoir, "Fudge" The Downs and Ups of a Biracial, Half-Irish British War Baby, and Bonkers for Conkers, a compilation of personal essays. She can be reached at paulinenevins.com.