I’ve told this to a few people over the past month and thought I’d share it with you…

On Christmas Eve when I was 3 or 4 years old, Santa Claus came to visit me at my grandparents’ house. Yea, I *know* that’s when he’s supposed to come, but that time he came while I was still awake. There was a knock on the door, one of my aunts or uncles went to open the door… suddenly in came Santa Claus – white fur-trimmed red suit, big white beard, black boots, the whole shebang. I don’t remember much about it, but I *do* remember sitting on the sofa unable to move or speak, I just stared. Santa Claus had come to visit me on Christmas Eve. He thought I was special enough to stop by before he got into his sleigh to deliver presents. He came to see *me*.

That night has been one of those important, vivid memories that one keeps with them from childhood. Any Christmas Eve I spent at my grandparents’ house (most of them) I thought about it, but I had never spoken about it with my mother or my grandparents…

This Christmas I went back to the States for the first time in 3 years and spent Christmas Eve at my grandfather’s with my aunts, uncles and cousins. The ‘adults’ started talking about the time when Santa Claus came to visit – I said it was still a very vivid memory of mine. My grandfather, unprompted, then told me the answer to one of my unasked questions : Who was it really?

My Santa Claus was…. Bob Dylan’s mother, Beatty.