Christmas vacation has ended, so I resumed mentoring today. Ernie and I spent most of our time together discussing elves. Of course, I’ve heard of them before, but never as he described.
Prior to today’s discussion, my understanding of elves had been limited. Christian kids in my neighborhood had described them as somewhat mischievous but largely benign characters. As I’d been informed, each child possesses a single elf that lives with him or her when not assisting Santa. Although they love their assigned children, the elves take pleasure in hiding themselves and performing harmless pranks on their charges. They typically remain invisible during the day but emerge at night to engage in hijinks.
As I understand, the elves aren’t imaginary. Rather, they’re actual figurines of some sort. I also have it on good authority that the children’s parents and not the figurines themselves move about the house and perform the practical jokes.
Like other children, my mentee owns an elf. “Baxter” has all the typical attributes of his species plus one more: clumsiness. As I was informed, Baxter accidentally ground his foot in the garbage disposal two years ago; and this past Christmas he lit himself on fire while helping Santa down Ernie’s chimney. Hearing this, I felt bad for Baxter. But more to the point, I drew a clearer picture of why Ernie needs a mentor.
The most surprising aspect of today’s conversation pertained to evil elves. As the lad informed me, not all the creatures are good. The good ones help Santa at the North Pole; while according to the geographically-challenged tyke, the bad ones live at the “East Pole.” My mentee’s friend, Joshua, apparently possesses an evil specimen. And unfortunately, Joshua’s creature has been gunning for Ernie ever since Ernie threw him face down on the floor. The boy told me that “Lester” even tried sneaking into his bedroom and strangling him on Christmas Eve, but the elf failed to gain entry.
I asked him what he would’ve done had Lester succeeded in attacking him that night. As I should’ve expected, the bloodthirsty psychopath-in-waiting replied: “I would’ve punched him in the face and ripped his arms off!”
I felt compelled to ask a follow-up question, to which Ernie responded: “Sure, I would’ve said ‘Merry Christmas’ after his arms were on the floor.”