Santa takes a sip of coffee, not milk. He’s also not wearing red velvet. And he doesn’t go by Santa, St. Nick or Kris Kringle when he’s off the clock. He goes by Bill Russell, and he has lived in the Sandhills, not the North Pole, for almost 50 years.

“Once you get a little sand in the shoes, you can’t get it out,” Russell says, breaking into a smile. His rosy cheeks lift, causing his blue eyes to shine. Sure, he can step out of the Santa suit, but the jolly face travels with him.

“I wear this year-round,” he says, pulling at his cheeks.

Russell could remove his rimless spectacles but doesn’t. He could dye or shave his snowy white hair and beard but chooses not to. Bill is the real deal.

People do a double take even when he’s incognito, dressed in an outfit as inconspicuous as a navy microfleece and khaki shorts. It’s not rare for a young child to spot his beard, tug on the hem of Mom’s skirt and jab a pudgy finger his direction. Even though he’s off duty, Russell will give a friendly wave and a wink. Santa incognito.

Being St. Nick is a sacred responsibility. Russell knows that, and with his authentic appearance, it’s one that will follow him even as he steps out of his shiny black boots and into retirement.

After three final appearances as the kindly old elf, Bill is hanging up his Santa suit for good. He’s handing off the reindeer reins to spend more time with his beloved Mrs. Claus, Doris, during the most wonderful time of the year. It’s a Christmas gift they both deserve after his 30-plus years in the sleigh.

Russell first slipped into a Santa suit in his early 40s when his adult children, Chelsea and Russ, were still young. The kids knew their father was destined to be Father Christmas when his red beard began turning white.

“When it started going, that’s when they gave me the suit,” Russell says, remembering the peculiar birthday present. “It was down and dirty. A cheap one.” He laughs at the memory.

“Try it on, see if it works,” they said. And it did. Russell had the magic even in that bargain basement outfit.

His career started slowly, with a few small gigs. He posed for photos with the children of their church’s pastor, then worked an event for the Little People Loving and Learning Preschool in Southern Pines.

“That was one of my first real gigs, you know, showing up at a certain time and being Santa,” Russell says.

It’s fitting that the preschool site of one of his first appearances will also be the site of one of his last. The other sunset tour engagements are the Christmas party for the Russells’ retirement community, Pinehurst Trace, and The Arc of Moore County’s annual bowling party for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

“I can’t look them in the face and say, ‘No.’ I just can’t do it,” Russell says, shaking his head.

At the peak of his Santa persona, he sat for 26 events in a year, all stuffed into those hectic weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. He landed all the wish-granting gigs by word of mouth, never asking for one, and always worked them for free.

“I’m not saying someone wouldn’t slip me a $20 sometimes,” Bill says, hedging. He doesn’t want to risk landing on his own Naughty List.

Russell donned the red suit neither for money nor fame but because everyone — young, old and in-between — needs a good-hearted Santa come Christmastime.

“The suit commands a lot of power,” he says, striking a serious note. “It sounds ridiculous, but you’re looked at differently. Walk in wearing a Santa suit and this place becomes like putty in your hands.”

He rubs his fingers across his palm. “Can I come and see you, Santa?” Russell says softly in imitation. “It doesn’t matter if you’re 6 years old or 80.”

Even the slim minority of Scrooges are usually won over after a few magic moments with Santa. “It’s bizarre because I can’t think of anything to say right now, but if I put the suit on, it all just flows,” he says.

Often Russell worked two or three gigs per day, sometimes dashing across town to change into his Santa suit in a friend’s bathroom. “It can be a very exhausting day,” he says, physically and emotionally. “When you put the suit on, you’re on.” If he gave the first kid 10 minutes, he made sure to give the last kid 10 minutes, too, at times to the chagrin of hosts who were ready to wrap it up.

“You put your whole self into it for however long you’re there,” he says, describing the role like he’s a method actor.

That all-in mentality made no day more exhausting, nor more rewarding, than Santa’s annual fly-in at Pik N Pig, the barbecue hotspot in Carthage. Each year, a pilot would donate his plane and time to fly Bill and a schtick of skydiving elves from the Moore County Airport onto the runway beside the restaurant. When Santa Russell landed, there would be a line of 300 or so wide-eyed youngsters eager to climb onto his lap.

“Last year was my last year,” Russell says with a sigh. “That’s a lot of fun. I will miss that. I’ll miss the kids.”

Sometimes the kids were shy, screaming until their cheeks matched his suit. Other times they were inadvertently funny, like the time a young boy asked for a bull to breed with his cows. On occasion, the kids’ requests could even bring Bill to tears.

“Especially during the era of crisis when we were overseas fighting,” he says. “Every day, you’d get a kid come sit in your lap and say, ‘I just want my dad to come home.’”

The blue eyes puddle. “I just want them to know that Santa is always there,” he says.

And with a wink and a nod and a finger aside his nose, up the chimney he goes, one last time.