Santa's Workload

Far be it from me to say anything bad about Santa Claus, especially this week. But children today have a right to know that the man in red has changed over the years.

Sure, Santa still performs his core duties well and with good cheer. In the run-up to Christmas, he tirelessly works the malls and private parties, posing for millions of photos with the runny-nose set. On the big night, Santa is magnificent. He still zips around the world on his sleigh, with the requisite team of flying reindeer, diving down chimneys and delivering toys to good little girls and boys.

But there was a time when Mr. Claus - Father Christmas, Ole St. Nick- did so much more.

A very long time ago, when Eisenhower was president, TV shows were in black and white and movies weren't rated because they didn't need to be, Santa brought the family Christmas tree.

At least to our house. Maybe we were special. I did know families that had Christmas trees up weeks before Dec. 25th.

Yep, that's right, he dragged our tree down the chimney along with the toys. Then he set it up, tossed on the lights, hung every ball and draped every icicle. And he still found time to eat a plate of cookies.

What a guy.

There is nothing quite like getting up on Christmas morning and casting your little eyes on your tree all aglow.

For those first magical moments, the tree was grander than all the packages under its boughs. It even overshadowed the Dougherty family's most treasured Christmas accessory: the fake fireplace. A must in a hearthless house. Ours had a black cardboard mantel and an orange tissue paper "fire" with a blinking light behind it. If you squinted hard, it actually looked like a flame flickered there.

Forgive me, I digress.

One year, I can't remember which - I learned later it was when our toys became more complicated and required hours of Christmas Eve assembly - Santa phoned my folks to tell them we'd have to start getting our own tree.

We were stunned. We had to supply or own tree. What was next, our own gifts?

"Why?" my brother and I chorused.

My father thought for a minute.

"Santa joined the union," Dad replied. "Dragging around trees and lights and tinsel aren't in his job description anymore."

We were living not far from a steel town. We didn't know diddly about fireplaces, but we knew all about unions.

"What union is he in?" I asked suspiciously.

"The reindeer teamsters," Dad replied.

"Well, shouldn't it just be new houses don't get their trees put up by Santa anymore?"

"Nope," my dad said. "This is it. He's no longer doing trees. He says it takes too much time. From now on, it's up to us."

"It's not like his job is that hard," I sniffed. "He works at Christmas then he sits around the rest of the time drinking cocoa."

Dad indignantly reminded me that Santa ran the world's biggest toy shop and worked there all year long. On top of that, he had to deal with all those rambunctious elves.

The tree tasks were killing the old guy.

Then my father dropped the bomb. If we refused to take on the tree duties, he warned, there was a chance St. Nick might go on strike.

Santa had us.

From that year on, trees were our business. But each time we dragged an evergreen across the rug, we'd reminisce about those enchanting times when the fully illuminated tree just appeared in our living room on Christmas morning.

Back in the olden days. Before Santa got his union card.