Shoemaker, Shoemaker, Bring Me an Elf

Previously published in Coastal Illustrated, December 16, 2009





My daughter finally completed her Dear Santa letter. It didn't take much really; just two weeks, five rough drafts, and the paper made from two fifty foot trees. I'd love to share to whole thing with you, I really would, but seeing it's as long as the current Health Care Bill, I'll spare the newspaper the ink. Here's a sample:

Dear Santa,

I'm so glad it's Christmas! This is my Christmas list!
(See how she shows appropriate enthusiasm then, knowing Santa's a busy guy, gets straight to the point.)

1.) I want an electric guitar
2.) I want an iPod touch
3.) I want a Nintendo DSi (Here's where she realizes she might be pushing it.)
4.) Maybe you could throw in a few stuffed animals?
(But then, suddenly, knowing it's now or never, she goes in for the kill.)
5.) Oh, and this is my BIGGEST wish of all-- that I can have one of your elves. A real living, breathing one from the North Pole.......not the fake kind that sit on a shelf.

She goes on to describe what they'd do, the places they'd go, and all the things they'd build together. This is because she's also requested her elf come complete with a miniature, teeny, tiny workshop. And I'm fairly sure the teeny, tiny batteries won't be included, but beggars can't be choosers, now can they? That is, except for Liv, because she goes on to tell Santa it would be a good idea to dispatch another pint-sized little fellow for her elf so he doesn't get homesick. Why ask for one elf when you can ask for two?

The letter goes into more detail and is filled with at least 49 pages of the word "please" written over and over again. But she finally wraps it up (probably because her hand cramped up as it developed carpal tunnel syndrome) with a large "I heart Santa" and "You're the best!" underlined in pink glitter pen.

Now, if you exclude all the electronics from the list that could easily cost more than "Santa's" yearly power bill, the elf part isn't such a bad idea after all. Especially, if he can help keep her room clean and double-check that she has properly flossed and brushed her teeth. Who wouldn't mind having a super helpful, miniature elf running around, as long as he's strong enough to lift a small laundry basket and an industrial-sized can of Lysol? He could even untangle twenty to thirty feet of lights off the wrapping paper tube then string them back on the Christmas tree so my husband and I could stay married for one more year.

While he's at it, he probably wouldn't mind hanging all the tiny ornaments on top so I wouldn't have to lug the ladder up from the basement, knocking at least two softball size holes in my drywall on the way up. And when he isn't making miniature dolls and toys with Livi for her Littlest Pet Shop animals, he could keep the pine needles swept and fill the water in the tree stand after our dog has licked it dry.

Livi's request reminds me of the old Brothers Grimm fairy tale about the shoemaker and the elves. Do y'all remember how it goes? These two little elves help a cobbler and his wife who were down on their luck by making shoes while they slept, turning their business woes into profit. Seeing as the elves didn't own a stitch of clothing, the indebted couple made them outfits with stockings, hats, and teeny pairs of shoes. The elves were so delighted looking like "jaunty gents" they never felt the need to work again. The cobbler and his wife weren't sad the elves left, but joyful that they were able to make the elves as happy as the elves had made them. This story always reminds me that to give is better than to receive.

I know it's a little silly for a grown woman to hope for a magical elf given the times we're in, even if the pocket-sized little guy could take Barbie's jeep to the grocery for some eggnog and a box of Hefty trash bags. Like the cobbler at the beginning of the story, it's been a tough year for everyone. The things that seemed so important last year don't really matter as much. But what if this help we're looking for is something that doesn't grant magic wishes, or do our chores, or bring us fancy electronics? What if it's simply the people in our lives that offer support without worrying about reciprocation? I've come to realize I already have these "elves" near and dear to me....my friends and family that love me unconditionally, and I love them back just the same. So maybe there's no need to wish for elves after all, because the real ones surround us every day, and it is those people for whom I'm truly grateful this Christmas.

Table Talk

Can a kitchen table tell a story?

It is, after all, just a table -- an inanimate object that takes up a lot of space. Let’s face it, it’s something else around the house, like your kids and your bathroom sink, that needs to be cleaned, scoured, disinfected and wiped down on a regular basis.

It can’t talk, dispense advice, or pay the bills. It just sits there.

My kitchen table happens to be sixty inches round on a pedestal base. Since there are no corners, this means we can all sit as close as humanly possible to one another and still be able to breathe . . . sort of.

Sometimes, this is a bad thing. It’s hard to drink your first cup of coffee before it gets cold with a seven year old leaning all over you, demanding to know the capital of Egypt, while your eyes haven’t even fully adjusted to the sunlight yet.

Sometimes this is a good thing. It’s easier to hug them over a pile of textbooks if they’ve had a bad day at school. You’re close enough to wipe their tears from their cheeks and tell them that even if they don’t know it yet, everything will be okay.

My kitchen table is seven years old and was bought because it had lots of growing room. When it first came home, it had a high chair pulled up next to it and booster seats bumped up under its edges. The legs of the children who sit under it now are considerably longer and ganglier and, no matter how many times I ask them to stop, keep kicking its pineapple-shaped base over and over again with the toes of their shoes.

My kitchen table is made of solid oak. It’s sturdy, safe and practically indestructible. It holds things up: the things we use everyday like laptops, books, papers and pencils, food and drink. Sometimes, it even holds up things I’d rather it not, like cats, dogs, and pet caterpillars, smelly sneakers and chewed-up gum.

Over time, it’s weathered a bit. All right, to be fair, it’s weathered a lot -- there’s a big water stain in the middle from a science experiment gone awry; but at least now, my youngest knows how water condenses. There are a few burns on its side from a hot glue gun, but the Giant Squid made out of a 2 liter 7 up bottle and Saran Wrap actually made it to school on time.

Its surface is peppered with permanent ink stains, paint chips, glitter, glue, sticker remnants and pencil marks. It looks like one of those Rorschach tests I studied about in a college Psychology course. A Rorschach is really nothing but ink stains on a piece of paper. Its purpose is to not look like anything. It’s the interpretation of what the viewer thinks they see that tells the most about that person.

If someone looked at my table, I doubt they’d see anything particularly interesting: maybe a cluster of glitter clumps and paint stains in the shape of a donkey or of Ronald Reagan’s head. Whose knows? But when I look at my table, the picture I see is crystal clear. I see the seven-year span of a growing family.

It’s where my baby held herself up to learn how to walk, and where my oldest one lost her first tooth. It’s the place where both of my girls learned to spell their own names. It’s where they both learned to read. Sure, it has seen its fair share of drama, fights and tears, but it has also seen a whole lot more. If a home is where the heart is and the kitchen is the heart of the home, then the kitchen table is its pulsating center: the place where the heart beats the loudest and keeps it strong.

The other night my husband sat down to dinner and started trying to dig up a glob of glue with a paper clip while he waited. I was about to tell him to stop, to leave it the way it is, but one of my girls beat me to it.

“Forget it Dad,” she told him from across the table. “The table is as old as I am. There’s really nothing you can do to it to make any better.”

She’s right. It’s perfect the way it is.

I’m glad we all love it this way. When I look at all of its scratches, divots, and dents, I don’t see flaws or defects, stains or spots. I don’t really even see a slab of 60 inch round wood on a pedestal base either. When I look at my kitchen table, I see a story. I see the story of us – of a family, imperfections and all, growing more resilient, like our oak table, every day.

When you look at your kitchen table, what story does it tell you? I’m betting, like mine, it’s a pretty darn good one.