'Frosty' the Snowman describes demeanour, not appearance as originally thought

I always felt it was kismet, how the children just happened to find that old silk hat with magical properties that could make a snowman dance around. How they witnessed his laughing, playing, and broomstickery, keeping his legend alive through song.

So when my editor said simply, "Someday is here: he's back again," I knew it was kismet once again that found me conducting an intimate interview with one of the most reclusive yuletide icons of all time.

When I pictured meeting Frosty the Snowman, I imagined being in some sort of quaint, cozy village, perhaps near a hill of snow. I had no idea that the "village" would be Liberty Village in Toronto, and that instead of a hill of snow, I'd find myself knocking on the door of his 18th floor condo.

"Oh, you must be the journalist," he acknowledged, "Come in." His coal black eyes were impassive as I followed him into the apartment, which was freezing. He was wearing a silk Blue Jays snapback. He gestured vaguely at the ornately shaped icicles on his frozen mantelpiece, "Be careful around these. They were expensive."

I finally managed to stammer, "It is so wonderful to meet Frosty the Snowman. I can't believe it's really—"

He interrupted, "I'm gonna have to stop you right there. My name is S. Jaysin Winters."

"It isn't Frosty the Snowman?" I responded, confused.

"No. Obviously not. That was a title I never asked for. I mean, is your name Cassie the Skin Woman?" he retorted coldly.

I started writing it down in my notebook.

"Make sure you spell it correctly. S, J-A-Y-S-I-N, Winters"

"That's an unusual way to spell Jason," I said.

"That's an unusual way to prove you have social skills," he replied.

"What does the S stand for?" I asked.

"What do you stand for?" he shot back.

After an awkward standstill, he begrudgingly gave me a quick tour of his place, noting some artefacts like his corncob pipe ("It's vintage. Quite a pricey little piece") and a handwritten note from Michael Keaton ("I was his inspiration in the movie Jack Frost").

That's when S. Jaysin Winters abruptly informed me that the first part of his interview was over. The rest would be continued at an exclusive holiday gathering, where other notable Christmas figures would be present.

"So, you know, be cool about it and different than how you are now," he said. He handed me a postcard with a glittery snowscape on the front, and a map to a secret venue on the back. Intrigued, I agreed to meet him there. As he closed the door behind me, I heard him gleefully whisper under his breath, "Oh, this will be good."

Caught in traffic, I arrived at an abandoned Swiss Chalet around 7:15. "Oh, you were able to find the place all right? I was worried you were lost," he said icily as he noted that the time on the invite was 7, and not "whenever is convenient."

I apologized profusely. "Never mind," S. Jaysin Winters said dismissively, "I can't wait to show you to the others." 

He grabbed me by the arm, and led me into the foyer where a small group was gathered, sipping on hot toddies. The who's who of festive figures stared right at me: Santa, Rudolph, Buddy the Elf, The Grinch, Krampus, Scrooge, and Cindy Lou Who. Slowly, they started to laugh. Their laughter grew in volume until it was a cacophonous roar. It suddenly became very apparent that I was the reason for their mirth.

Santa's jelly bowl belly was heaving up and down as he clapped S. Jaysin Winters on the shoulder and exclaimed, "I can't believe you pulled this off!"

Krampus congratulated him heartily, "You did it, man, you brought the dorkiest person to the party! A comedy writer for CBC? Genius!"

Even Cindy Lou Who got in on it, saying right to my face, "He said you were kind of tacky, and a bit gullible, but I really didn't expect you to actually show up! I mean why would you even be invited to a party this good?"

Ashamed, embarrassed, and demoralized, I turned around and left the gathering quite abruptly. S. Jaysin Winters saw me to the door. My eyes were filling up with tears, and I pointed out how in the original lyrics, he told the children not to cry as he waved goodbye.

"Nope. Misquote," he sighed. "What I said when I waved goodbye was 'Don't you cry, again.' It's meant to be accompanied by an eye-roll."

And it was.

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