First Snow Happy [FICTION]

Another winter began without that first hint of snow. Most years, our little town gets only a soft sprinkling of snow that makes the small hills look like powdered donuts poking up out of the landscape. Then the sun comes out and melts the frosted flakes of winter joy away. I contemplated this as I waited for the sun to come up and summon Elfis back to his place on our shelf. As the big day draws closer, his reports to Santa seem to happen later and later. Or maybe he gets drafted into last minute toy creation as the pressure increases.

As the sun rose, I gasped. The world outside fluttered with huge, fluffy, perfect flakes of snow. No confectioner’s sugar concoctions lay beyond the glass. Banks and banks of snow begged to be scooped up and compacted for use as a projectile or friend creation. As I thought this, two tiny voices cheered behind me.

“Snow!”

“Where’s my snow suit?”

By the time, Elfis arrived to sneak back onto his shelf, two tiny Eskimos stood before me, ready to brave the cold to make new friends from nature’s bounteous holiday gift. He beamed at us and launched into song:

“Snow happy, yes, I'm snow happy

Snow happy, can't you see?

“Every pile of snow looks good to me

What a crazy way-out way to be

I love a life of nothing but frosty white snow

Well I'm snow happy, yes, I'm snow happy

Snow happy, can't you see?

“Every time I see that icy lace

A snowman forms in that space

I need snowflakes to make my life worth living

Yes, I'm snow happy, yes, I'm snow happy

Snow happy, can't you see?

“I've been like this since I was just a baby boy

First winter snow stopped my tears and made me jump for joy

Don’t keep those snowflakes out of sight

I'm in a snowball mood tonight

I love a life of nothing but beautiful snowflakes

Well, I'm snow happy, yes, I'm snow happy

Snow happy, can't you see?

“I've been like this since I was just a baby boy

First winter snow stopped my tears and made me jump for joy

Snow happy, well, I'm snow happy

Yes, I'm snow happy, can't you see?

Snow happy, said I'm snow happy

Yes, I'm snow happy, can't you see?”

Then he settled down, smile in place and went to sleep on his shelf.

~~~

Confess now. Does your elf sing to you? What would you do if they did?

Always Home for the Holidays [FICTION]

A week into our yearly invasion by our number one elf and I am ready to let sugarplums dance through my head while waiting for Santa’s arrival. Of course, I have another four and a half weeks of baking cookies on demand, singing carols, and being called…

“Mother!” A voice not of my creation summons me into the living room.

I blink at the sparkle of bright lights and so much glitter that I almost feel like every craft store in the area must be out by now. My son and daughter and their holiday chum, Elfis, greet me with smiling faces as I step through the door. Suspicion creeps in. I eye them all carefully, wondering what new craft or holiday tradition awaits me.

“There you are, Mother. I have the bestest news for you.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been invited…” he squeals with delight and begins jumping up and down.

The kids join him. I wonder if they are in on the secret or just picked up on his enthusiasm. Either way, three tiny people jumping up and down somehow has me feeling seasick. I take a seat on the nearest chair and wait for them to calm down.

“We’ve all been invited…” my son adds to Elfis’s puzzling statement.

“To meet Santa…” my daughter continues.

“At the North Pole,” Elfis sings.

I stare at them all in shock. “Really?” Now my voice squeaks.

“Really,” Elfis assures me, “And we need to leave right now since this is the first day of the busiest month of the year.”

“But what about my husband?” I bite my lip.

“Elfira has gone to work her magic at his workplace. He’ll be there with you.” Elfis beams at me.

I stare back, mystified. He takes that as acceptance of the invitation and grabs my hand. His other hand extends to my daughter who reaches out for my son, who eyes her hand as one would a rotten fish suddenly swimming at them and scoots closer to me. I smile at him when his hand connects with mine and his fingers entwine themselves among my own. Then the world around us goes fuzzy before coalescing into the perfect holiday scene.

An immense fir tree reaches toward the cavernous ceiling of the large room in which we find ourselves. As I ponder where one would find a tree so large, I realize that actual dirt forms the floor around it. Behind the tree, an immense array of glass windows looks out on a snowy vale with more lovely evergreens. The one before me, however, outshines them all with glittering lights and old-fashioned candle sconces lighting up millions of ornaments. Toward the top of the tree, delicate hand-carved ornaments dangle from the branches, while those on the bottom depict some of my children’s favorite characters cast in plastic. I could spend all day just examining each one, but my attention quickly moves elsewhere.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Finally, you made it back to see me,” Santa’s deep voice booms through the immense room.

I turn toward him, smiling as my heart fills with love and happiness, in short, the Christmas Spirit. “Santa!”

I am a child again not thinking as I race toward him and throw my arms around his neck. He giggles merrily and enfolds me in strong arms. The soft fur at the cuffs of his coat tickles the back of my neck as he releases the hug to grip me by the shoulders and push me back. He takes a good look at me. I hold my breath as his eyes examine my face. 

“All those teeth came back in, didn’t they, my dear? And you still have such a sweet smile,” as I beam at him, he looks past me toward my children who huddle together in awe, “And I bet you passed that smile on to these to youngsters. Come on Charles and Shirley. Don’t you want to give Santa a hug?”

He throws his arms open wide and they rush to him. As he enfolds them in his arms, he whispers to them. They whisper back and he nods, leaning back to stroke his beard as he contemplates me again.

“Yes. You have made some wonderful children. So nice to have a whole family on the nice list.”

At his words, I glance around the room, wondering where my husband is. Before I can ask, double doors open at the hands of two tiny elves. Each holds a gingerbread cookie about as tall as he is in one hand while holding the door for Mrs. Claus, my husband, and Elfira, who has set aside her standard wardrobe of black for crimson red and forest green. My husband has a cookie in each hand and a delighted smile on his face.

“Honey, she made your chocolate chip cookies,” one of said cookies completely disappears into his mouth as he closes his eyes rapturously.

“Yes, dear, thank you so much for the recipe. We love them year round,” she winks at me and holds out a tray.

The children and I each grab one. As silence descends except for ravenous nibbling, Santa waves for us to come closer to him. Then he gestures for Elfis to stand at his side, which the little imp does though he looks uncomfortable at the center of things.

“As Elfis’s human family, you should be here to support him at his first big concert.” Santa’s voice booms as he gestures toward one of the banners hanging on the snow flocked walls.

I contemplate the painted rendition of my family’s elf on the shelf while my children coo in delight. Elfis hangs his head shyly as Santa claps him on the back. My husband nods politely but I can tell all of his energy focuses on savoring every morsel of cookie.

“This is a big honor, Elfis. Your concert tonight will bring the Christmas spirit and help your friends and family here at the North Pole finish the last minute preparations for bringing happiness to every child in the world—no matter how old.” He turns to me at the last few words and winks before continuing. “I wanted to make sure he shares that spirit with his human family, too. I know some of you are already feeling the holiday blues brought on by so much activity. Hopefully, this helps. That and the knowledge that each of you will have a very special gift picked especially for you by my wife and I this year.”

The kids cheer. My husband nods happily. And I lower my head to surreptitiously wipe away a tear.

“And you get to be backstage and root me on,” Elfis says, grabbing my hand and my husband’s hand and dragging us along in his wake.

I hear Santa’s laughter reverberating through the large room as my daughter grabs the hem of my shirt and runs to keep up. Soon we are situated in comfortable chairs just behind the curtain, watching Elfis perform Christmas classics in the style of the King.

He starts with “Blue Christmas” and we sway to the deep tones of his voice as his voice pours out of speakers bedecked with mistletoe throughout the candy cane colors of the immense coliseum. Tiny, squeaky voices can’t resist joining him from the audience—mine among them. 

He closes with such a moving rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” complete with whole body wiggling worthy of the King of Rock and Roll that tears flow down my face, some of them for my grandmother, who adored him. Maybe, I am even beginning to appreciate his little elven double after all these years.

~~~

I spent the last month trying to tap out 50,000 words while the whole world took it upon themselves to try to distract me, so you’ll forget my mildly late post. At least I posted it on the right day, right? Hope you are gearing up for a fun but stress free holiday, dear readers.

Santa’s Little Thief? [FICTION]

I did not give in. I did not invite that little terror to live in my house and torture my kids or me. I did not make more work for me every day leading up to Christmas. I had enough to do with finding and wrapping presents and baking cookies and planning parties and putting up the tree and getting my husband to string up the lights and the garland. You know the lists that await us if we want our children to have the perfect holiday season. No wonder our mothers were so exhausted by the time the new year rolled in.

Yet here I sit, staring at Elvis, the elf on the shelf. Grandma bought him and grandma named him. And he does look a little lonesome tonight, hanging out on his shelf in blue-suede shoes I made myself because why wouldn’t I? But I have a feeling our little friend has been up to more than just sitting on the shelf and not because I am planning to plop him into a giant mug for a faux cocoa bath before the kids get up. Something just isn’t right about his cheerful blue eyes. Is there a hint of mischief? A taint of guilt?

I shake my head. This is ridiculous. No matter what yarns I spin for the children, that elf does not move. He also has nothing to do with my current dilemma. This is the second day in a row that I have opened my wallet to find it is short a twenty dollar bill. What on earth would an elf do with twenty dollars, especially a stuffed one? But it couldn’t be my toddlers. I didn’t take them anywhere to buy anything and my feet are painfully familiar with every toy cluttering up our house, so where did the money go.

I open my wallet again, shuffling through its contents one more time to be sure that it has gone from five twenties down to two in the past three days. “That’s so odd.” I mutter to myself, glancing at Elvis as I set my wallet back down on the counter.

Did his lips just twist into a smirk for a fraction of a second? I shudder and shake my head. I don’t dare ask my husband if he borrowed the money. I don’t want him to think I am losing my mind. Of course, I might be, since my plans this evening involve sneaking downstairs to spy on an inanimate object. For the moment, however, I must return to the task at hand.

I select a giant blue mug shaped like a grinning penguin and gently place Elvis inside. I sprinkle a little cocoa powder around the rim and carefully place a few cotton ball marshmallows in his lap. I pat him on the head.

“Enjoy your bath.”

No response from my tiny friend. “I really am losing it.”

“Yes, you are.” 

I jump. 

“Calm down. It’s just me.” My husband says from behind me as he steps in to kiss me on the top of my head. 

“Sorry. I was just focused on making this perfect.” I assure him.

“I know, honey, but the kids don’t care if it is perfect. You could just put him on a different piece of furniture every day and their imaginations would fill in the rest.”

“Says you.” I turn around to stick my tongue out at him.

“Can we go to bed now?” He asks.

“Of course.” I follow him up the stairs, taking one last peek over my shoulder before Elvis is out of sight. He smiles back at me unflinchingly from his fake cup of cocoa.

I wait until my husband’s even breathing morphs into light snores and slowly slip out of bed. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and listen. No noises interrupt the evening calm. I tiptoe down the stairs, hugging the wall to avoid any creaky steps giving me away.

A voice in my head nags me the whole way down. “This is ridiculous. You are sneaking up on a toy. You are going to end up in the mental hospital.”

That voice disappears instantly as I reach the bottom of the stairs and peek into the kitchen. On the counter, Elvis sits with his legs dangling over the edge. He has a tiny cell phone pressed to his ear. My face wrinkles in distaste as I give a moment’s thought to where he might have been hiding such a thing. Then a frown takes its place I realize he has tossed his blue suede shoes aside.

I hear soft shushing sound that must be his voice, but I can’t make out any of the words. They stop and he closes the cell phone, hopping lightly down from the counter and taking long hopping strides toward the living room. I fully expect him to disappear up the chimney, but he waves his hands while mumbling something and the cat door flap opens for him. He slips through and out onto the street.

Should I follow him?

More importantly, did anyone think I wouldn’t? I peer out the long skinny window next to the door to see what he is doing. He bops his head up and down.

“Huh?” I clap my hand to my mouth to squash the sound.

Elvis doesn’t notice. He looks up and down the street quickly to reassure himself that all the good boys and girls have retired to their beds. He doesn’t look around again after that first glance. As he passes in front of my neighbors’ house, I open the door as narrowly as I can and still squeeze through. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I dressed in navy blue jeans and a dark sweater.

While Elvis struts down the sidewalk as if nothing terrible could happen if anyone saw him, I slink through the shadows. I even appreciate the overgrown bushes at the intersection that normally make me fear for my safety since no one can see around them. He never turns around. He never stops bopping to whatever tunes he has chosen for this late night meander.

Eventually, the residential neighborhoods give way to a city street. I stop just under the last row of trees and observe him. He stops dancing and pulls the tiny cell phone out of the little pocket on his plush red coat. He squares his tiny little shoulders and marches boldly into an establishment called Carl’s Karaoke. I cross the street slowly and stand outside the door. 

I let a couple more minutes elapse before I muster up the gumption to open the door and step inside. A fog machine works overtime giving the room a smoky ambiance. As the door closes behind me, I peer into the darkened interior, hoping I haven’t already been spotted. After playing “Where’s Elvis?” for a few minutes, I finally spot him. He stands on a table at the front of the room, peering into an open binder as a portly gentleman in a white t-shirt and sagging khakis turns the pages and points at a line on the page. After a few page turns and brief arguments, they finally agree. The portly gentleman steps to the microphone.

“He’s back again, ladies and gentlemen, the king of karaoke, Elf-is. And he says he has a new Christmas classic for you.” His voice is deep and resonates through the room, waking up a woman who was dozing in the corner.

He leans down to lift Elvis, Elf-is, to his shoulder and raises the microphone to his tiny toy mouth. He motions to a pimply-faced college student hunched over a laptop and the first strains of “Jailhouse Rock” pour out of the speakers. I take a seat in the back and watch mesmerized as Elvis begins to sing in a disturbingly reedy voice.

“Santa threw a party on the workshop floor
The reindeer band was there and they began to wail
The band was jumpin' and the joint began to swing
You should've heard them merry toy makers sing
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Elfie Gumdrop played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from train-carving went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Candy Cane Gang
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Gingersnap said to Cranberry
"You're the cutest little elf I ever did see
I sure would be delighted with your company
Come on and do the Workshop Rock with me"
Let's rock…
Misty Toes was sittin' on a block of stone
Way over in the corner sippin’ cocoa alone
Santa Claus said, "hey, shorty, don't you be no square
If you can't find a partner, whittle one over there"
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Fizzle Cake said to Hugs, "For Heaven's sake
No one's lookin' now's our chance to take a shake"
Hugsy turned to Fizzle and he said, "Nix, Nix
I want to stick around a while and get my kicks"
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock”

He finished the song to a smattering of applause and one drunken request for an encore. As he stepped down from the stage, his eyes rested on me and his triumphant smile faded. He slowly turned his head all the way around, sending a shudder up my spine. But he didn’t run. That bold little sack of cloth hopped down from the stage and came to greet me.

“I see you found me out, mom.” He calls out to be heard from the floor.

“Don’t call me that.” I pick him up so we can be face to face.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t resist. “What would you like me to call you?” He grins.

“Um… I don’t know.” I say. “But I do want you to stop stealing from me.”

He sighs and pulls my most recent missing twenty out of his shirt and hands it to me. “It was good while it lasted. At least I have a ride home after this, my final performance.”

I sigh. “Maybe it won’t have to be your final performance.” I offer as I head toward the door. “The kids would love to hear your songs, I’m sure.”

“Leaving without buying an elf a drink?” He asks, turning to gaze longingly at the bar.

“You shouldn’t be drinking.” I turn my head to frown at him.

“But their cocoa is so good…”

“Because they put a shot of something in it?”

“Oh, yes, cream?”

“Do you mean crème de menthe.”

“No. Crème de vache.” Now he is looking at me like I am crazy. “Or as you would call it, milk.”

I am carrying on a conversation with a doll, so he isn’t wrong. “Oh. I can make you that.”

“Would you?”

“To keep you from stealing from me, sure.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

I step out onto the sidewalk and as the door closes, he announces dramatically, “Elf-is has left the building.”

~~This is due on Friday, which is actually Christmas Day. It occurs to me that my dear readers might be buried under piles of cookies and wrapping paper after spending the day doing exciting things, with family even if only virtually. On a side note, I claim no ownership of the fine musical works of the non-Elf Elvis. Feel free to buy an album with the song or movie of the same name that was mentioned within this fun story from a legally licensed seller. If I weren’t worried about copyright law and people suing me for traumatizing them for life, I could make a video of my rendition of this Christmassy version of the song though. Maybe I should stop and wish you a Merry Christmas before you flee this page.~~