In the late 1980s, Lynn, a friend of the family, approached my wife, Louise, with an urgent request. She explained that she had signed a contract to run the Santa Claus photo concessions at ten different Los Angeles-area malls. After weeks of searching, she had found nine managers but was desperate to have Louise take charge of the photo booth located a few miles north of our home in Irvine.
“If I do manage the Santa concession,” Louise responded, “where am I supposed to find a bunch of qualified Kris Kringles?”
“It is tough,” Lynn replied. “The men who are available and willing to work as a mall Santa are typically shifty, tipsy, grimy, stinky, queasy, seedy, and horribly unreliable. Sort of like the other seven dwarfs.”
“So there’s going to be a long line of children,” Louise said, “who can’t wait to talk with Jolly Old Saint Nick. They’ll practically be jumping out of their skin. Meanwhile, I’ll be on pins and needles wondering if the next Saint Nick will actually show up for his shift? And even if he does show up, I’ll be worrying about whether he’s sober or not?”
“Basically,” Lynn said. “Most of the Santas you hire will be quite unreliable. But you got the jolly part wrong. If you’re not careful, Santas can actually be too jolly. It’s against company policy for our Santas to shout ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ It’s considered infantile, hackneyed, and overdone.”
With this daunting introduction, Louise accepted the invitation. It was an invitation into the bizarre world of managing men who are willing to take the taxing and low-paying job of dealing with children and getting them to take a good photo—a task they perform while dressed in a sweltering velvet costume and donning a fake beard tainted by years of filtering the foul-smelling breath of pizza-eating alcoholics.
Sure enough, the SoCal candidates who showed up for the Santa job interview weren’t exactly taking a break from their promising careers in acting, modeling, or broadcast journalism. They looked more like extras from a vagrant movie.
Louise had been told to select younger men where possible because wrangling kids for a four-hour shift can be quite arduous. With this in mind, she immediately hired the two college students who applied for the job. She chose the remaining Santas from a pool of aspirants who weren’t the least bit merry, were alarmingly jittery, and seemed far more interested in not just the day they would get their first paycheck, but the day and time they would be paid. “Is our first payday next Thursday at six, or more like six thirty?” Hmmm.
So my business partner David Maxfield (always the good sport) and I volunteered to attend the official Santa training course in case Louise needed a certified Santa to fill in at the last minute. You can’t be too careful. If you let an unlicensed Santa into the mall, who knows how many triple “Ho!”s he’ll fire off before he’s trivialized the entire holiday season?
When opening day arrived, Louise received a phone call from Sammy, her designated lead Santa. He was a handsome, affable, junior-college kid—and for those reasons had been scheduled to take the all-important opening shift. As it turned out, Sammy was also fond of “fake baking” and figured that this Santa job would give him a chance to “show off his cool tan to lots of cute girls at the mall.” (His exact words.) Unfortunately, Sammy had fallen asleep in the tanning booth and rendered his skin holiday red and terribly painful. So Sammy Santa, Louise’s go-to guy, never put on the beard.
When the emergency call came in, I happened to be available. As luck would have it, the opening-day-sweltering-in-the-Santa-suit duty was given to yours truly. I made my grand entrance into the mall by strolling around the food court, jingling a string of sleigh bells, and shouting, “Merry Christmas!” “Feliz Navidad!” and “Guten Gibbenshtuff!” (I made up that last greeting.)
As predicted, David and I filled in quite often that season. Also as predicted, the job was exhausting. This was especially true when we worked with kids who freaked out at the mere sight of the bearded stranger. This didn’t stop parents from literally throwing their screaming, scratching, and kicking child (not unlike a bobcat being tossed from a bag) onto good old Santa’s lap. So David and I wrote and handed out a page of instructions to waiting parents on how to prepare a frightened child for a visit with Saint Nick. We drew our recommendations from the latest systematic desensitization research, which had been largely completed with subjects who had a paralyzing fear of boa constrictors. To our delight, the fear-reduction techniques we suggested worked quite nicely across species.
As the season of wrangling kids and babysitting Santas mercifully came to a close, Louise and I were so completely spent that we never got around to decorating our own home. Our kids still refer to 1988 as “the year without a Christmas tree.” David and I did our best to portray a sincere and caring St. Nick, and the teenage girls who served as helpers had been steadfast, efficient, and delightful. But after working a month with listless, leering, stinking, complaining, belching, and missing Santas—come December 24th, none of us felt the least bit jolly.
And then I overheard Katrina, one of the teenage helpers, say something remarkable as Louise passed out the final paychecks. Katrina quietly instructed her mother to send her money to a children’s charity. I was shocked. This young woman who had worked hard for her money was now giving away her entire paycheck. I learned from Katrina’s mother that her daughter had spent every penny she had earned that season sponsoring two orphan girls who lived in Guatemala. Katrina never said a word about her generosity.
Inspired by Katrina, my thoughts drifted from the killjoy Santas to the darling children who came through the line. Their unbridled excitement filled the holiday season with an electric and palpable joy. Most couldn’t wait to share their lists filled with exciting action figures and beautiful princesses. But some had a more serious agenda. They asked Santa to reunite their families. And a few children, following in Katrina’s footsteps, requested a present for their brother or sister, but not a single thing for themselves. Even when encouraged to come up with something for themselves, they typically responded, “No, nothing for me. Just a bike for my sister.” Disguised as the Jolly Old Elf, I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat that surfaced from such innocent and selfless requests.
All of this magic took place under the watch of a bunch of costumed scoundrels who could scarcely hold a job and who weren’t allowed to shout a single “Ho!” Despite our fair share of frustrations and all the humbugs we grumbled under our breath, during the Christmas of 1988, the holiday found a way to create its own magic. And what I’ve noticed every year since is that no matter the challenges and chaos of life, somehow it always does—with or without a Christmas tree.
11 thoughts on “The Year Without a Christmas Tree”
Inspiring, Gods blessings and Merry Christmas.
Really enjoyed the article. Thank you.
Lesson Learned: Finding the positive in everything we do changes your perspective. A beautiful lesson for all year round.
Sad commentary on how to select Proper Santas. The ones I have seen here are quite jolly and look forward to the gig each year. Can Michigan be that different?
Many, as you suggest, are quite a delight and perfectly suited to the job. Sadly, when selecting Santas we didn’t find the odds in our favor that year but this forced David and me into the backup role and that turned out to be a cherished memory.
As usual your stories never disappoint and always inspire us all to look for and see the best in any situation and definitely in other people. Have a very Merry Christmas and enjoy the time with your family and loved ones 🙂
I would just like to remind you that just as God created you, the “handsome, affable” college kid, the “steadfast, efficient, and delightful” teenagers and the selfless children in His image, which is what gives you and them incalculable, eternal worth, He also created the “shifty, tipsy, grimy, stinky, queasy, seedy, horribly unreliable, listless, leering, stinking, complaining, belching, and missing” vagrants in His image, which also gives THEM incalculable, eternal worth in His eyes–equal to yours, and that He sent His beloved Son to die for their sins to offer them the possiblity of redemption, just as much as He did for your sins and to offer you the possibility of redemption. I have spent time with such people, and once you get to know them and hear their stories, you begin to realize they are human beings who are hurting, who’ve made bad choices, yes, but are beloved by God for all that, and are not there for you to use as comical props for a story or to demean. Proverbs says that man judges by the outward appearance, but God judges the hearts. That so much effort and aggravation would be involved in trying to create the illusion of an imaginary figure, and that almost no one BUT lost and destroyed men would even be willing to do it–doesn’t that raise a question about the value of the whole “Santa Clause” enterprise? Maybe we should instead invest all that effort and labor into reminding others and one another what the actual origin of this holdiay is and what actually invests it with real meaning: “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that WHOSOEVER believes in Him, might not perish, but have everlasting life.” May the true joy and peace of this season be yours today, and for the rest of your days.
– Bernie Meyer
Thank you Bernie for this helpful reminder.
Thank you for our article. I have a question, would you by any chance still have that page of instructions you handed out to parents?
Not after all of these years. The process is actually quite simple. You don’t force your child to sit with Santa. Instead you hold the child while standing at a safe distance (one where the child isn’t frightened). You then talk about what nice Santa is doing–asking the child to make observations as well. While doing this you slowly edge closer–never advancing if it makes the child nervous. You continue this gentle, positive, slow process until the child is willing to draw close, touch his costume, etc. It usually takes around a half an hour or so.