My son, Seth, is a 31-year-old doctor today, in his first year of neurosurgery residency at the University of Florida. But 26 years ago, he was a kindergartner suffering a crisis of faith in Post Falls. (Spoiler alert: Don’t allow small children star-struck by Santa Claus to read further.) In September 1984, we moved from Lewiston to Post Falls, after I accepted a job as a government reporter in the Coeur d’Alene office of The Spokesman-Review. Sometime that fall, Ben Clark, the precocious son of friends Doug and Sherry Clark, had spilled the beans to Seth. Ben had alleged there was no Santa Claus. The revelation hit Junior hard. He moped around much of the holiday season, challenging Mrs. O and I, whenever we mentioned the Jolly Old Elf. We were wondering how to lift Junior’s spirits when Santa and his reindeer appeared to do the heavy lifting for us. Junior was questioning the existence of St. Nick again when I pointed out the window one evening and said: “Well, if Santa Claus doesn’t exist, who’s that up in the sky?” I still cherish the look on Junior’s face as he saw Santa & Co. flying overhead. Thanks to those old Tidyman’s Santa helicopter flyovers, we gained one more Christmas of cherished memories as Junior again believed. Who knows? Maybe he still does. Why me, Lord?