All year, it hung in the closet upstairs — red velvet, satin-lined — between short-sleeved shirts and straw hats.

In the basement, a belt and black rubber boots with white fur glued around the top waited in a canvas bag. And for 10 months of the year, a white wavy wig and beard sat at a beauty parlor.

Then, Christmas came.

In a small room at the Albrecht-Kemper Museum of Art, an old man wearing the red suit pulled the wig over his bald head and the beard over his own mustache. His voice was gruff from under the white curls. His eyes crinkled when he smiled.

For years since the suit was passed on to him, Stan Hall has dressed up as Santa, watched little eyes get big when he appeared, listened to Christmas wishes and felt the joy of giving a little Christmas magic.

The role, like so many traditions, was passed on to him years ago. And every year, the suit goes back into the closet, the boots into the bag, the beard and wig to the beauty parlor to wait for another season.

Not this year though.

This year, Stan’s decided, will be his last as Santa.

—— ❆ ——

Stan peeked around the corner, a flash of red velvet and white curls. He could hear the music, the kids waiting for the annual Breakfast with Santa at the museum.

“Let’s go ahead and go,” said Stan’s wife, Doris, who was dressed up as Mrs. Claus. “Are you ready?”

She straightened Santa’s suit from behind.

“That’s better,” Doris said, and then his hardy ho, ho, hos filled the room. Little eyebrows raised, little eyes got big, some thrilled, some frozen.

Stan loved those looks, and he had for a long time before he took on the role. Stan, a retired lieutenant colonel from the Air National Guard and an active community member, loved kids, loved how big their eyes got when Santa appeared.

He had a friend who’d played Santa and was retiring. And so, six or seven years ago, Stan asked Dr. Warren Chelline if he could borrow the costume.

Dr. Chelline hesitated.

He couldn’t have it, the retired professor told Stan. But he could borrow it on a permanent loan.

Dr. Chelline’s only request was that Stan play Santa at Helen Davis School. Soon, Doris, who volunteers in the football office at Missouri Western State University, joined in as Mrs. Claus, and calls came in asking for appearances from the pair.

“The word gets around, you know ...,” Stan said, “...who’s got a suit and who doesn’t.”

Stan and Doris made many appearances, all for free, asking only that private parties or businesses make a donation to a favorite cause.

Last year, they arrived as Santa and Mrs. Claus 14 or 15 exhausting times. It had become a job.

And so this year, they decided, they’d only be Santa and Mrs. Claus three more times.

—— ❆ ——

Stan and Doris returned to seats in the foyer at the art museum.

“Made the crowd, didn’t we,” Stan said, resting in the chair.

”Yeah,” his wife replied, “we did.”

A line of little girls in dresses and little boys in sweaters formed, parents flashing cameras as Stan listened to requests for bikes and Barbie houses, dollies and spy gear, even a big crocodile.

Stan and Doris posed for pictures, got hugs, held babies.

Then, Stan retired to the back room, took off the warm wig and beard and rested for a bit until the next group of children arrived.

Twice more this year, he’ll make the transformation and see the nervous wonder in kids’ eyes. He’ll miss that.

And then, he’s done, too tired, he thinks, too old to head into the cold and be Santa anymore. He had open heart surgery this year. He feels his age when he climbs in and out of the car.

“We’re getting to that age,” Doris said, “it gets hard.”

When his Santa season is over, Stan will take the suit to the cleaners, the wig and beard to his wife’s beautician. And then Stan will pass Santa on, just like it was passed on to him. He won’t say to whom.

But that red suit, those black boots, the wig and the beard will hang in someone else’s closet, and Stan Hall won’t be Santa anymore.

If you see an old man at Hy-Vee, however, having a cup of coffee, and his voice is gruff and his eyes crinkle when he smiles, you’ll know, maybe, that there’s still a little of Santa left there, even if the costume’s gone.