His grandfather lived with my Memaw Mary. I remember him well. He was a dutiful elf. Actually, hyperactive, might be a better word. He was constantly in motion, jumping from plant to shelf to lamp, and back again. He got a great deal of amusement from sneaking up on us grandkids. The feeling was mutual. He would sit in Memaw’s plant. Arm confidently resting on a leaf. Legs crossed. Crooked little grin. Mischief in his eyes.
I’d see him and be filled with happiness and wonderment. Until I got distracted again by childhood endeavors.
“That damn elf snuck off again. Where’d he go?” (I was born in a small town in Indiana. Imagine if A Christmas Story was a documentary…)
We’d have to find him again. This could go on for hours. He never tired.
His son, my elf’s father, lived with me and my mother in my tweens and teens. No where near as hyperactive as his father, he was more content to lounge around for hours looking good. Head-to-toe red spandex…he had the figure for it… a matching hat with a cotton ball and bit of mistle toe at the rim. Oh, he was fly.
Sadly, he died of second hand smoke inhalation. (My mother was a smoker.)
Which brings us to our elf. Like his father, loads of style, though a bit more flair. He prefers candy cane stripes.
And like his grandfather, he’s stealthy, but he tends to fall asleep on the job. When he first wakes up for the Christmas season, it takes him a while to warm up. Once he does he’ll sneak around, but if he gets too cold, he uh, tends to nod off and sleep in the same spot for days.
That is until the kids wake him up with, “why are you sleeping? MOMMY, Elfie hasn’t moved for two days is he okay?!”
Well he WAS sleeping, but you woke him up. Scared shitless, awake, he’ll sneak around to a new vantage point. Then he’ll fall asleep again.
Our Elfie doesn’t get into cabinets. He doesn’t graffiti the bathroom with toothpaste or toilet paper. He doesn’t stay up drinking egg nog and pass out in front of the TV.
He plays a little hide-n-seek and he naps. When Santa comes, he enjoys some milk and cookies with him. We assume anyway, as we often find him passed out near Santa’s cookie plate. Crumbs all over his clothes.
He’s all joy, no hastle. And we freaking love him.
When we woke him up tonight, we asked him if he’d like some of those spiffy new elf accessories retailers are advertising as all the rage this year… He said, “is it a pillow?”
Angie, being Angie. A perfectly imperfect woman, daughter, friend, mother, and wife. I’m a lover and a fighter. I’m up, and I’m down. I succeed. I fuck up. (I cuss). I hope people see things here and in my writing they only think to themselves and are inspired to be unashamed of who they are.
Let’s live life… out loud.