Cookie crumbs scattered around the fireplace. M&M’s mischievously peppered through my fort of blankets. My Barbies dressed in mismatched outfits and placed throughout the house, even with their shoes crazily shoved on the wrong feet. However, the scene described wasn’t the aftermath of a party hosted by Ferris Bueller - it was the remnants from Santa’s elves.
The pint-sized guys and gals with some serious holiday spirit always visited my house the night of Dec. 23. Since my family and I always stayed at my grandparents’ house Christmas Eve night, my parents wanted to invite Santa’s favorite helpers for some cookies and milk. (Bonus: What better way to put your best foot forward for Santa, right?)
Every year my excitement for the elves’ antics battled my sleepiness and questions (not sugar plums) danced in my head: “I wonder if elves like sugar cookies better than snickerdoodles?” “Would the elves catch me if I used my spy gear to spy on them in the living room?” “Did they fly Santa’s sleigh to get here or just ride the reindeer from the North Pole?” “Who is their favorite reindeer?”
Just as my little mind started to ask another question, it was quickly silenced by the ringing of jingle bells outside my window. “Ahh! They’re here, they’re here and I’m not asleep!” I whispered to myself as I buried my face under the covers, hoping it would hide the obvious fact I didn’t listen to my parents about going to sleep. Just as the sound of the bells brushed my ear drums, my little Christmas-pajama clad body slipped into a slumber while the elves turned my living room into their personal playhouse.
Every year I woke up and sprinted with elf-like agility to my parents’ room. “The elves were here! The elves were here!” I yelled while jumping up and down on their bed. (Some rules are bent for such occasions.)
As the years passed and I grew, so did my doubts about the likelihood real elves were visiting my house the night before Christmas Eve every year. (I mean, come on Mom and Dad, that’s their busiest day of the year!)
The questions transformed from “Do elves like Starbursts?” to “Are these elves real?”
My parents reassured me they were, but that wasn’t enough. I needed to do some experimenting of my own.
So, I set up my Do Elves Exist? Experiment: An audio recorder strategically hidden inside my carefully-crafted fort. Right before bedtime I hit record and hoped my elf experiment would capture the facts. (No surprise to anyone I grew up to be a journalist).
The next morning I strolled into my parents’ room, doubts looming over my mind about what the cassette tape would reveal.
“Are you excited to see what the elves did?” My mom asked with child-like excitement. “Are you sure you guys aren’t really the elves?” I asked. (Always with the questions).
I skipped the stockings, glanced over the gifts and bolted to the vault of answers: an audio cassette recorder. (Hello, 1990s).
I took a deep breath before I pushed “play,” hoping I wouldn’t hear my parents’ voices.
The tape started rolling: High-pitched laughing. “Hmm. Definitely not my dad. Doesn’t sound like my mom” said the thoughts twirling through my mind.
Then it happened, the moment that refuted my doubts, I heard the elves’ voices. They were talking about cookies and candy, only interrupted by their own incessant giggling. I was in awe, my eyes grew bigger than the jumbo cookies they talked about gobbling up. They were real and I had the proof!
Santa had always been the star of the Christmas show, but from that moment on the elves stole the stage in my eyes.
Today, I hear stories about an elf who shows up at little ones’ homes the day after Thanksgiving and appears in different places every day, doing different things. Some ornery elves have even TP’ed the Christmas tree or were found in the kitchen sink taking a marshmallow bubble bath!
Whatever your elfy tradition may be, don’t stop when your kids’ beliefs do. Keep the tradition alive, keep the holiday spirit alive and long live the elves!
[friday]
Lindsay's column: 12.07.12 >> Long live the elves
- [friday]
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Facebooks threads into more than I expected
“Lindsay, what’s on your mind?”
I immediately thought, “I’d have to be pretty self-centered to think my ‘Facebook friends’ would care about such an answer.” So, the section stayed blank on my profile for far longer than most. -
Kokomo Speedway
After 18 interviews, copious note-taking, endless discussions and picture browsing for a story about something bigger than its parts — i.e. Kokomo Speedway — is nearly finished. To be honest, I’d never been to Kokomo Speedway until last year. I grew up watching the Indy 500 and picking a name from a hat, but my racing knowledge ended there. But, when you fall in love with someone who fell in love with Kokomo Speedway — most likely when he was still in the womb as his mom watched his dad race — your knowledge increases, exponentially.
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Earth Day: Experience it every day
“No litterers allowed,” stated the sign I drew up with peace signs and flowers with extra power that adorned my bedroom door as a kid. Growing up, I was a litter patrol lady. Toss a banana out the window? You were going to face the wrath of a 6-year-old. Leave a soda can at the park? Oh my, a mistake you don’t want to make. My cousins would purposely provoke such opportunities for nothing more than to get the entertaining spiel of keeping the Earth safe from a 6-year-old. I encouraged institutionalizing recycling in our household and double-checked trash cans to make sure recycling objects didn’t make their way into the wrong places.
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The Waving Girl
She was born on land, but her soul was given life from her love of the sea and the lives it carried. Her journey started simply and ended sentimentally. During the in-between, she was the symbol of home to the hearts of maritime travelers: At night, she was the illumination of guidance. At morn, she was the breeze the sea gently exhaled. For 44 years, she was ingrained with the Savannah River’s sand — just as she was ingrained in the minds who witnessed her waving handkerchief interrupt a sun ray’s storyline. S
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Never too late for April Fool’s Day
This will be my last column for the [friday] section, as Kokomantis has been promoted from corner-side spectator to Lifestyle Editor ... Just kidding, late April Fool’s Day joke! I look forward to writing my column every week just like I look forward to my favorite “holiday” every year. For 364 days, I plan pranks of all varieties for my beloved day that’s dedicated to flipping my family and friends out.
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The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
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Bracket Madness
As a Hoosier, it’s hard to believe Wednesday night marked my first bracket-building experience. Despite my love for sports, I never got into brackets. I’m a one-team-at-a-time gal so in the fall it’s the Colts; in the winter it’s the Hoosiers; and in the spring and summer I go to baseball games for the people watching and soft pretzels. So, I never learned the pros and cons of other teams and what makes them worthy of winning in a bracket.
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Reality is only as deep as our passions
When I was in seventh grade the “Real World” was a reality show I was forbidden to watch. The behaviors flaunted were borderline unfit for TV, let alone a 12-year-old’s eyes. However, that’s what older cousins were for, I suppose, because my remote somehow found its way to MTV a time or two and lessons in how to not live your life ensued. But, today Howard County 7th graders are getting a multifaceted look into life in the “Real World” — and not the kind that encompasses Jell-O wrestling and TV-censored bleeps interrupting 80 percent of a sentence.
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You belong among the wildflowers
It’s the kind of lyrics that wreck your heart and warm your heart all at the same time. The melody happily whistles well wishes while the fingertips of yearning for yesteryear slip over each note. It’s the kind of song that sounds like the simplicity of childhood and feels like the rare chance of finding and living a childhood-type happiness — even if the years between now and the date on your birth certificate say you’re an adult.
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Save IU School of Journalism
As the doors swing to a close, the pens held at the hands of journalists aren’t writing, the recorders aren’t rolling and the cameras aren’t capturing. The envelope of Indiana University School of Journalism’s future is unfolding, but the details are sealed tightly by Lauren Robel, Indiana University Provost, who recommended the school merge with Indiana University’s College of Arts and Sciences (COAS) last week — expelling the journalistic institution from its Ernie Pyle Hall home and potentially downgrading the nationally-ranked school to a program within the bigger-is-better school of thought.
- More [friday] Headlines
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Johnson: Don't Blame Islam or UK Policy
Raw: 80-Year-Old Climbs Mount Everest
Wash. State Man Arrested Following Ricin Scare
Chain-Reaction School Bus Crash Injures About 50
Raw: Scuffles in London After Hacking Death
Texas Students Coach Teachers on Fitness
New Forecasting Tool Eyed for Hurricane Season
Meet MJ, the Bike Riding Tabby Cat
Britain Attack Believed Linked to Radical Islam
Raw: Kevin Durant Tours Moore After $1M Pledge
Man Shot While Questioned in Boston Probe
Weiner Launches Bid to Become NYC Mayor
Okla. Teens Get Video of Deadly Tornado Overhead
School Storm Protection Spotty in Tornado Zones
9-year-old Tornado Victim Loved Family, Singing
Moore Native Toby Keith Tours Tornado Damage
Oklahoma Survivors, Heroes Survey Damage
Raw: Aftermath of Deadly Attack in London
Paperless Scanner, Vision of the Future
