A Visit from the Elves

(Editor’s Note: Sharon Aiken, a Jasper County High School English teacher has offered to share a little Christmas spirit with us in the coming weeks, and the light musings seemed appropriate during the holiday season.)

By SHARON AIKEN

Over the years, every English/language arts teacher at one time or other asks students to write a narrative essay about a favorite Christmas memory. The problem with asking high school students, especially seniors, to write about Christmas is that they are often so cynical and disenchanted with the whole notion of Christmas that they make Ebenezer Scrooge look like a philanthropic optimist. They are “too old” for Christmas, too sophisticated. Like Charlie Brown, they cannot see anything but a commercialized, materialistic Christmas that goes with early adulthood. They work through the holidays, deal with peer pressure and peer rejection, care for younger siblings, study for tests, prepare projects, find that there’s too much to do and not enough time. What’s there to be jolly about? Holiday spirit comes in a six-pack. How can they find their way back to the happiness and uncomplicated innocence of childhood?

Elves
Once upon a time, there was a cherubic-faced, though hyperactive five year old boy, with a tassel of blond bangs, huge, twinkling brown eyes, and chubby cheeks. He and his parents, had just moved into a new house, but Christmas was coming, and he wasn’t completely sure Santa knew where he was living now.

Despite his mother’s reassurances that his letter had gotten to the “jolly old elf,” the little boy was still somewhat fretful. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be sent off to school each day and tried very hard, though unsuccessfully, to “be a good boy.”

His mother, too, went to school every day, where she taught English to not so good 17- and 18-year-olds, who had long since stopped worrying about being “nice” and who now concentrated on not getting caught being “naughty.”

It was during one of her classes that one of her students, a lovely girl with a wild mane of red hair, asked about her son, and she explained the sole worry and concern of her child.

The red-head smiled, ruefully and sighed, “I wish that were all I had to worry about.” Her parents were in the midst of a painful divorce that was tearing her apart. “You know who came to see us, before Christmas, when we were small?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Elves.”
“Elves? What are you talking about?”

“Older cousins, uncles—even my Dad. They would hide outside, after dark, and tap on the windows. We’d never see them, but we saw the lights—flashlights, of course, but we were little and we thought… well, you know. And we heard jingle bells—they carried those, of course. It was great; better than sitting in Santa’s lap.”
“Elves, huh? So…were you ever an elf?”

The girl laughed, “No, I was one of the youngest, so I never had a chance to be an elf. Why?” And then the idea took root. “Oh! You mean…your son. I could get Greg and Margaret and Amanda…I don’t know if they have to work or what they’re doing, but I guess I could ask.”

Her friends agreed; the time was arranged; plans were made.

It was a late evening; there had been a play at the church and all returned home, three days before Christmas. The little boy had enjoyed the play enormously, but was happy to be home, though he still worried about whether Santa would find his house or not. It was just about his bedtime, when the phone rang; his mother answered it, then returned to reading his favorite Christmas storybook, Jolly Old Santa Claus.

They were interrupted shortly, however, for the boy spotted a sudden flash of light—and he distinctly heard something. Something that sounded like high-pitched laughter. Then jingle bells and running footsteps. They seemed to be everywhere: on the porch, on the deck, in the yard.

It took little encouragement to suggest that what he might be seeing were actually real, live, in the flesh ELVES. He flew to the windows in the mud room, his parents’ bedroom, the doors in the kitchen, his bedroom upstairs, and the playroom in the basement. He strained to peer into the darkness, and swore he saw one grow, then shrink, before his very eyes.

He flung open the front door. He turned on every light inside, but could see only darkness outside— and an occasional flicker of light, a laugh, and a jingle. Nothing more, and not for long; just a few minutes and there was nothing; only the sparkle and delight in his brown eyes.

“Mama! Mama! We had elves!!”
“I know, dear.”

“Mama! They’ll tell Santa Claus! He’ll know where we live! I’ll get toys!”

“That’s right,” his mother smiled.

“Oh, boy!” he literally jumped up and down with delight.

A very short while later, the doorbell rang; it was a group of carolers from school—his mother’s school. The boy answered the door, “Did you see them?”

“See who?” the girl with the wild red hair asked.
“The elves! We had elves! They were here—tonight.”

The girl gasped, “Elves? You mean…here? Oh! Well, then you must be Drew. We found this card and the candy cane out on your front yard. I guess they must have been for you. It’s got your name on it.”

Drew’s mouth dropped open. He held out his hand, breathlessly. “I’m not going to eat this candy cane,” he said solemnly. The group was asked in, where they ate cookies, took pictures, and listened to Drew recount his adventures of the evening, the eye-witness account of one who had seen elves and knew for a fact that they existed.

When he finally exhausted himself and went up to bed, his mother thanked the students with her whole heart, as she showed them to the door. She stood on the edge of her porch, watching, listening to make sure they made it to their cars.

“That was more fun than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah; it feels more like Christmas now.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad this year. Look—even the sky is clear tonight; there are even some stars out tonight.”

Indeed there are, the woman smiled.