The spirit of Saint Nicholas lives on at the Georgetown Christmas Market! I have represented this spirit for about seven seasons, and I know that the Christmas Market will always have a Saint Nicholas. Whoever represents the good saint at any particular time assumes the representation of hundreds of years of tradition. I undertake the role with feelings of good cheer and a dignified but playful approach. When I don the vestments, I straighten my shoulders and suck in my stomach. I am not my normal self for the duration. A saintly air is adopted and the fun begins.

The children are the best part of the role. Many are shy and in awe of the imposing figure who is unlike anyone they have seen before. They have been raised with the jolly Santa Claus character who usually sits in a chair and asks them what they want for presents, and they cannot quite figure out this strange person who is looming near them. With these little folk, I wait for them to come to me (usually at the urging of the parents), or I smile while wishing them a Merry Christmas. St. Nick plays these situations very lightly, getting to eye level usually to explain some of the St. Nicholas story, especially of his being the protecting saint of little children, the leaving of gifts, and of giving to others. It is amazing to see the transformation from avoidance to enjoyment that takes place in most cases.

Many parents say they have been coming to Christmas Market for years and have a series of photos to prove it. It has become part of their family tradition, and they are glad that St. Nick appears each year. I sense that having the St. Nicholas figure present at the Market gives them an alternative to the commercialism that is so prevalent in our Christmas season today.

For many people, St. Nicholas was part of their childhood - stories of times in the 'old country' or long-ago neighborhoods are told, and sometimes eyes need to be wiped a bit. One Argentine couple was really happy that they found both St. Nicholas and a street named after their country, all in Georgetown, all in the same day.

Another Memory: Rev. David Morgan, as St. Nicholas, enjoys a moment with his grandchildren, Alexander and Hannah Troxler, during the 2002 market. One woman complimented him on his kind face and disposition, and then invited him to see her etchings. He was relieved to discover that she owned an art gallery.

The Santa Lucia singers are a special part of St. Nicholas' duties. He gets to help lead them down from the school and watches over them as they perform. St. Nick adopts a conspiratorial attitude with the older ones, as in, "I know you find this kind of high weirdness, but look what I am doing," while looking out for the younger ones who are tripping on hems and losing halos. This St. Nick cannot sing for beans, so I just hum along with the real singers.

Ah, the ladies at the Hotel de Paris. They always provide a respite for St. Nick, with smiles, hot cider, cookies, and a place to sit for the old gent. These folks are a class act, and St. Nick thanks them.

For several years I was a back-up or second-string St. Nicholas, filling in either for former mayor Ed Tharp or for HGI¹s wilderness expert, Frank Young. Ed, who is several inches taller than I am, or Frank, who is several inches shorter, would usually leave the handsome-but-heavy trappings of the good bishop at the Shoppe Internationale. There Janice Moore would do her best to bolster my confidence that I actually looked the part‹before sending me out into the bustling crowds.

Sometimes at the Hamill House Christmas recptions, I would struggle to get into the vestments in a corner of the Hamill nursery. But I often needed help from HGI members who were working at the parties. One year my good and kindly friend Peggy Moore jokingly remarked at the foot of the staircase that she had to go to the second floor "to put St. Nicholas into his clothes." To my amazement, several ladies of mature years whom I had never seen before followed us into the nursery‹for what reason I¹ll never know.

I wasn¹t confident at first that I would be convincing as the gentle 4th-Century bishop of Myra (a town in the eastern or Greek portion of the Roman Empire previously ruled from Byzantium). But on my first day of mingling with the crowd on Georgetown¹s Sixth Street, I was recognized by a couple of local women who remarked that I looked "very Byzantine." I took that as a compliment. But when I got home and looked up the word in the Oxford English dictionary, I noticed that Byzantine had other meanings‹such as "complicated," "inflexible," or "underhanded." I brooded about what part my appearance contributed to these meanings until I rationalized that they were probably provided by some spiteful pagan Roman officials. As a scholarly churchman, I chose the course of virtue and ignored the problem.

When Ron Neely sought to anoint me into the exclusive group of St. Nicholas portrayers, I asked him if he had picked me because of my inherent saintliness. No, he replied. "It¹s because you have a white beard." Obviously, he didn¹t want any of us actors to get a swelled head. Even so, my head did give me one problem in carrying out the role. That miter or bishop¹s hat that I wore had to be awfully tight to stay atop my bald head, and under the circumstances reminded me of the painful sacrifices that seem to go with the job. Alas, my heart will always go out to the brave bishops of the real world.