I was seated at the computer, trying to come up with an idea for next week’s column. Suddenly, out on the lawn there arose such a clatter that I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter. I saw a heavyset man in a fur-fringed red suit ambling along the road in front of my house. He had his hands in his pockets, his head down, and he was mumbling to himself. He looked familiar. Very familiar. No, I thought, it couldn’t really be…

"Santa? Is that you?"

"Dusty?" he squinted at me. "Little Dusty Rhoades, all grown up!"

"There are those who’d argue with that. But anyway, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be uptown at the Christmas Parade!"

He shook his head. "I can’t do it anymore, kid," he said dejectedly. "I’m burnt out."

I let the ‘kid’ thing pass…after all, the guy was 800 years old. "Sounds serious, Santa," I said. You’d better come in. Have a drink with me and let’s talk it over."

At the suggestion of liquid refreshment, he brightened considerably. I had figured that a tot of whiskey might cheer him up. You don’t get a nose like that from milk and cookies.

"So," I said when we had settled down on front of the fireplace with our glasses. "Tell me about it."

He shook his head. "It’s hard times in the Santa business, kid," he said. "For one thing, I’m not sleeping well. I keep having nightmares of getting blasted out of the sky by F-16’s."

"C’mon," I said, "You always file the flight plan with NORAD. They even let us know when you’re coming. Even with tightened air security, you’re the safest thing in the air on December 24^th. Believe me."

"It’s not just that," the no-longer-jolly old elf said. "I’m totally stressed. The production line is way behind. The Elves got a late start because so many of them took time off to go make that ‘Lord of the Rings’ movie. Half of them got the film bug and stayed in Hollywood to work on their film careers." Santa took another pull on his drink. "They call from poolside to tell me how they’re getting ready to ‘take a meeting’ with something called Dreamworks. They call me ‘babe’. I’m eight hundred years old, for crying out loud! Do you know how humiliating it is to be called ‘babe’ at my age?

"Especially by someone wearing pointed shoes."

"Exactly. Plus, the whole marketing section is in complete chaos. I’m not getting my mail because of all the anthrax scares. I don’t even know what half the kids want."

"That’s okay," I said, "they’re going to change their minds a dozen times by Christmas Eve anyway. But you’ve been through tough times before. I’ve seen the TV specials. What’s really the problem? "

"I tell you what it is," he said bitterly. "It’s the lack of respect. In New Zealand, they told some of my stand-ins that they couldn’t go ‘ho-ho-ho’ because it might scare the kids."

"Sheesh," I said. "Children being terrified of department store Santas is practically a Christmas tradition."

"And I have the pee-stained trouser legs to prove it. But I really hit bottom when I heard about that town in Maryland."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "I remember reading about that. Kensington, Maryland. They said you couldn’t make your regular appearance at the town’s tree-lighting ceremony."

Santa gestured with his glass. I took the hint and refilled it. "They said a couple of families had complained. Then they said they wanted a more ‘secular’ ceremony." He tossed off the drink in one gulp. "Can you believe it? I mean, what’s more secular than me?"

"Well, you are a saint," I said.

"I ain’t feeling real saintly lately," he muttered. "After that," he said, "I just gave up. I feel like I’m just going through the motions." He sighed. "I’m thinking of hanging up the red suit, kid."

"Wow," I said. "You’re serious." I thought for a moment, then got up and went over to the computer. The old man sat slumped dejectedly in his chair, watching the fire. Computer keys clicked. The printer whirred. After a few moments, I walked back over to the fireplace. "Here," I said, "read this."

"What is it?"

"It’s the update on the Kensington story."

He pondered the computer print-out for a moment. Then his round face brightened, even as tears of joy twinkled in his eyes. "You mean...this really happened?"

"Yep," I said. "Fifty guys showed up for the tree-lighting in Santa suits. All on their own. And the crowds cheered them on. They respect you, Santa. And what’s more, they need you. We all do. Now more than ever."

He sprang from his chair. "You’re right, kid!" he shouted. "And I’ve lots to do! First the parade, then I’ve got to get back to work! I’ve got toys to deliver!" And he bounded out the door, leaving behind only the sound of a hearty "Ho-ho-ho" and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

And that’s how your Humble Columnist saved Christmas.

You’re welcome.