ONE YEAR, THE GOOD-HEARTED elves of Santaville made a big mistake. Oh, they had the best of intentions, but the big satellite dish the elves gave Santa and Mrs. Claus for Christmas was a mistake through and through. It started well enough, though. And Santa was as happy as a carton of Smileypops.

As luck would have it, the satellite box for the gigantic TV they bought to go with the satellite dish was tuned to the I Love Lucy Rerun Channel. Well, that was just perfect. For weeks Santa would sit with Mrs. Claus (Ella is her first name) on that big red sofa beside the fireplace and watch reruns of I Love Lucy.

Mrs. Claus would snore through them all, of course, but Santa hardly noticed: I Love Lucy was a fine way to relax after a hard day's work walking around the vast toy shops burrowed into the icebergs of the North Pole. Sometimes he would even catch an episode during lunch break.

Santa's huge, jelly-belly laughs rang out through all the Santaville tunnels and caverns and made everyone there feel even more perfectly happy than usual. Elves, ice-gnomes, reindeer -- all of them -- would feel just a bit cheerier and more motivated hearing Santa's laughter.

The clever elves of Santaville enjoyed Santa's laughter so much that they found more shows that would make Santa laugh. His new favorites were Ozzie and Harriet, Father Knows Best and Eight is Enough. But he also had a special fondness for old Laurel and Hardy movies. And he had been heard to chuckle occasionally during Friends and Seinfeld episodes.

Along about mid-year things in Santaville were humming along like never before. Was it because of all Santa's joyful laughter? Maybe it was.
What we know for sure is that thousands of new toys got invented. That was the year they came up with Maurice the Talking French Snail and the Burp-Slop-Mop Babies and, yes, the fabulous Flinky-Hoppers. Who would have believed that an oversized rubber corkscrew could be so much fun?

Toymakers and their clever elvish machines were getting ready to start on the summer toy-building season when something very unusual happened. A nasty North Pole electrical storm came up and scrambled all the channels on Santa's satellite box.

So now instead of I Love Lucy, Santa's TV showed World News Channel One. And instead of Ozzie and Harriet was World News Channel Two. And so it went: instead of Santa's favorite old sitcoms, there was nothing but World News. As there were no satellite box repairmen in Santaville, Santa just lived with it and began to learn something of the trials and tribulations of the mysterious world beyond the North Pole.

The great gusts of jelly-belly laughter that had echoed through Santaville all that year disappeared as fast as you can say News ten times.

The residents of Santaville couldn't have said exactly what was different at first. And at first Santa walked around Santaville pretty much the same as he always did. He said "excellent" and "well done" and "absolutely first cabin" and "shiver my sugar-plums, that's wonderful" and all the other nice and encouraging things he always said. But a little of the twinkle in his eyes and a little of the roundness in his voice had disappeared.

Earnest, the old mouse who lived in Santa's cap was possibly the first to notice. As old mice go, Earnest was about as wise as he was old. He had seen a lot. He had seen I Love Lucy and Ozzie and Harriet and Father Knows Best and Eight is Enough. He had even seen Laurel and Hardy movies and a few episodes of The Beverly Hillbillies, Bewitched and The Munsters. Quite likely he had seen a few episodes of Friends and Seinfeld. For absolute certain, had also seen too much of all the World News Channels.

A few weeks later, the other residents of Santaville began to notice some obvious changes in Santa. For one thing, he seemed to be losing weight. His rosy round cheeks were getting pale and saggy. And occasionally, the inhabitants of Santaville heard Santa mumble strange words like "flood" and "drought" and "hurricane" and "famine." Not to mention "terrorist threat" and "war." Once, somebody thought they heard him say "ozone hole" and "global warming" in the same sentence. Nobody in Santaville knew what any of that meant, of course.

The Chief Elf Officer, Elomovordo, took it upon himself to confer with Mrs. Claus about the situation. Unfortunately, Mrs. Claus snored through the World News Channels just like she snored through I Love Lucy and all of Santa's other favorites. She only knew that Santa hadn't eaten a single sugar-plum bon-bon in weeks. Well, that's not quite all she knew: she had noticed that Santa had been mumbling strange words in his sleep. And maybe, just maybe, his love-handles were shrinking.

By September, at the peak of the toy-making season, Santa's traditional red Santa outfit looked about three sizes too big. His face had lost all its pinkness and when he tried to smile, his famous dimples refused to dimple even a millimeter.

Santa's condition was a cause for great concern and there was much talk about it in Santaville.

"His eyes are so baggy; I wonder if he's getting enough winks. Maybe his mattress needs restuffing," wondered one thoughtful elfwoman. So she collected the down-feathers from a thousand geese and restuffed Santa's mattress with it.

"A good dose of Old Glonnick's Tonic does the trick every time," said a rugged old ice-gnome. So he brewed up a fresh batch from seal-whiskers, cod-fin butter and imported tundra puree (the traditional recipe) and presented Santa with a full bottle of it.

At least a hundred other residents presented Santa with their own special remedies. Santa thanked each one of them and dutifully tried them all out. Nothing helped. Every day he felt sadder than the day before. "I never knew…I just never knew," was what he most often muttered during his daily sojourns around Santaville.

Earnest was beginning to get his own idea about what Santa's problem was: too much news. He believed it was just possible that the dreariness of all that news was squeezing the Magnificent Jolliness and Impervious Hope right out of Santa's soul. (Mice, in case you didn't know, are immune to what some call Excessive News Syndrome. Probably this is because mouse problems rarely make the News).

By November, wrapping and packaging season was well underway and there was no time to spare for anything other than boxing and papering and ribboning and bowing. As much as everybody in Santaville still wanted to help, not one single elf, ice-gnome or reindeer knew what Santa's real problem was. Only Earnest even had a clue. Mrs. Claus was as baffled as everyone else and could only wring her hands and hope Santa would snap out of it before Christmas.

About then, Earnest had a shockingly rash idea. With great effort he pulled the power plug of Santa's giant TV out of the wall socket. The screen blinked and went black. It was black exactly fifty-eight seconds before Santa put the plug back in again; on went the dreary-as-ever news.

The next idea Earnest had was to first pull the plug and then chew the wire in half. This time it was not so easy to fix. Santa had to have one of the tech-elves come up to repair the wires. But soon enough, the News was back on again and Santa was moaning and pulling at his beard because of all the strife, unhappiness and dire portents he saw. Because Santa was so new to the news, he didn't know that lots of good things happen in the world, but for some unknown reason, nobody puts much of the good news on television. So all he saw was bad.

Earnest tried once more. While Santa was sleeping, he squeezed himself through a tiny hole and into the guts of the TV set. He pondered what to do for the longest time and finally chewed the Red Panvidic Zibronator into tiny red crumbles (Kids, don't try this at home). It tasted just awful; far worse than the fireplace ashes Earnest had eaten when he was just a curious mouseling.

Just to be absolutely certain that he disabled the TV set for a long time, Earnest also chewed up the Green Panvidic Zibronator, the Blue Panvidic Zibronator and the Purple Transpixel Algorithm Injector as well. His teeth, his tongue and his whiskers were very colorful for the longest time thereafter. The tech-elf who tried to fix the problem said it would be long after Christmas before the replacement parts arrived. The News was history.

Earnest scampered up and down the walls with joy. When he had exhausted himself he curled up in one of Ella's favorite gray wigs and slept.

Earnest's sabotage was too late. The time was now the first of December and Santa had become so weak that he needed two elves on each side to hold him steady while he made his daily Santaville rounds. And his mood was now lower than a snow-lizard's zipper. Would he be strong enough to drive the sleigh on Christmas Eve? In his current state, no way.

One early December day Santa, Earnest and the elves that were helping Santa get around visited the new members of the reindeer team — Radish, Flaxter, Comatowski and Kitten — to see how they were learning their "lefts" and "rights" and "ups" and "downs" and "dashaways" and so forth.

Watching the reindeer was one of Santa's favorite late-year pastimes. Right now, all four were in the Learning Ring. Olimarango, the Chief Reindeer Elf, shouted out instructions: Radish, Flaxter and Kitten moved accordingly.

Very precise, those three, thought Earnest from his comfortable spot in the white fur that ringed Santa's red cap. But Comatowski, on the other hand, seemed like a reindeer from another planet. Actually, he was from Siberia.

Comatowski was bigger, stronger and more athletic than the other three. But he was also very erratic. If the command was "up," Comatowski might go left or right or even backwards. If it was "dashaway," he might just as often sit down right on the spot.

Santa laughed in spite of his sad mood; Comatowski's antics reminded him of some Laurel and Hardy movies he had seen.

The elf Olimarango just shook his head and tried again, but little progress was made that day. Finally, the session was over.

The next day Santa, his helper-elves and Earnest went again to observe the reindeer training. Radish, Flaxter and Kitten were nowhere to be seen. Olimarango was working just with Comatowski, whose head was fitted with an odd apparatus.

"I call it a Rethinkerator," explained Olimarango with elvish pride. "Young Comatowski here has plenty of talent, but being fresh from Siberia a few months ago, he doesn't understand much Santarese yet. That's part of why he's so erratic.

"A bigger problem is that he has absorbed some unhelpful ideas on account of watching too many Russian redubs of old American cowboy movies on Cable Siberia."

Olimarango bent close and whispered in Santa's ear: "Just between you and me, I suspect he thinks of himself as the Lone Reindeer. That's where my Reindeer Whisperers come in."

Santa frowned a perplexed frown (he had never been a big fan of cowboy movies).

"You see these wire baskets tied over his ears, Santa?"

Santa nodded.

"See the clever mice in these baskets?"

Santa nodded again, now completely confused.

"These mice are my two best Reindeer Whisperers. Not only can they translate my Santarese instructions into Lap-Russian so Comatowski can understand them, they are also trained in what I call Rethinkerating. They help Comatowski adjust his thinking away from Cowboy Mode to more of a Team Mode. He's very serious about being on the first team this year, Santa, and since he asked for my help, we're doing the best we can for him."

"Very interesting," mumbled Santa. Something about Rethinkerating rang a little bell inside his head.

Something about Rethinkerating rang a bell inside Earnest's head, too.

That night, while Santa sat on the red sofa just staring at the empty TV screen and Mrs. Claus snored next to him, Earnest whispered his ideas in Santa's ear. Santa first frowned, then nodded in agreement several times, then smiled. Then, feeling more hopeful than he had in months, he ate two handfuls of sugar-plum bon-bons.

Between bon-bons, Earnest did a little more whispering in Santa's ear. Santa chuckled a small chuckle (his first in months), picked up the Elf Hotline and placed an emergency request for an extra-large Everything On It Pizza and the latest Captain Underpants book.

On December 24th that year, there was a special barbecue held just before Santa and his reindeer set out on their annual Christmas Ride. Everyone in Santaville was invited.

The barbecue was Earnest's idea, and Elomovordo, the Chief Elf Officer, orchestrated it perfectly. The satellite dish was put to a new use as a serving platter for barbecued ice-winkles drenched in codfin-butter and sea-garlic, a favorite of Santaville elves and ice-gnomes alike.

The huge TV set with the ruined Panvidic Zibronators and such was now a huge aquarium containing a huge family of well-fed rainbow eels that cavorted with great, colorful enthusiasm.

The reindeer arrived, towing Santa's magnificent, fully loaded sleigh. At a cue, Olimarango, piloted the team through a marvelous set of aerial maneuvers that drew enthusiastic cheers and applause. But where was Santa?

At the perfect dramatic moment, Santa swooped over the crowd on the back of Comatowski, threw handfuls of sugar-plum bon-bons over the crowd, did a couple death-defying aerial cavorts and landed right next to Mrs. Claus on the dais. Santa was back, rosy cheeks and dimples included. It took many minutes for the cheers to die down.

A fanfare of winterhorns introduced the next event. Mrs. Claus, wearing a mountainous gray wig wrapped with tiny blinking lights, formally presented Earnest the mouse to the gathering. Earnest received a medal proclaiming him as Official Santa Whisperer and a plaque declaring him to be the Unofficial News Uncaster. Earnest received a well-deserved round of applause and bowed so deeply that he nearly tumbled from his post in the fur of Santa's cap.

I'm willing to bet that not one person there noticed the well-worn copy of Captain Underpants vs the Grinchy Schoolmarms from Pluto that was tucked into Santa's back pocket. Just in case.

THE END