The Summer of 1968
by Roberta Beach Jacobson
Under the blistering July and August sun, I was one of Santa‘s elves.
At 16, I was eager to be part of the elite group working at the small
Midwestern theme park. I didn't mind wearing the Kelly green tights
and curly-toed slippers, not even the ridiculous felt cap.
We sold
admission tickets, assisted lost kids, made popcorn. We had respect.
We were elves. Our pay? It was $1.60 per hour.
You usually think of Santa‘s helpers shivering at the North Pole, but
this is a myth. We were under the midday Illinois sun, toiling
outdoors at a park called Santa's Village.
Some elves got really
cranky, but not me. I loved my summer job! If I worked both Saturday
and Sunday, I could earn $25.60 a week Not bad money for 1968.
Santa had an outdoor workshop so the young visitors could see the
dolls and wooden soldiers on display.
You could imagine old Mr. Claus
was sweating under that itchy beard of his. And most of the time Mrs.
Claus looked mean enough to explode.
We elves paraded around in shorts that clashed with the tights because
they were so faded from hundreds of washings you could hardly see the
green anymore.
But we waved for the parents‘ cameras and were careful
not to step on the choo-choo tracks or to stumble over any kids.
We never complained. It was easier work than fast food, our only other
summer choice.
For jobs in stores, we had to compete with college
students and they usually got selected. So we figured we had the best
work we could get.
We worked our way around the park, all smiles, no
matter that it was 90-plus degrees and hadn't rained for weeks.
We were tired. We were dressed like complete idiots. But we had
respect. We were elves.
