Elf 101: Sometimes, You Need a Little Help

So, it's Day One of the elves. Ben is, of course, beside himself with excitement, checking on Mikey all day. When he awakens at 1:15am (yes, you read that right), he's laughing, pointing, jumping up and down. Finally, FINALLY, the day he's been waiting for. Keep in mind--we have been crossing off days on the calendar for this. It is big time stuff. Somehow, we get him to go back to bed (Eric and I hadn't even been to bed yet; that's a cleaning story for another time), and we smile, "Awww, he still loves the elves..."

5:00am. Listen, we're on vacation here, dude. Plus, your dad and I decided to clean out 35 years worth of hoarding last night. "Mom, why aren't the girls up? We should get the girls. They want to see the elves, too." I magically convince him that waking Sleeping Beauty 1 and 2 would NOT be a good idea and that maybe he should just crawl into our bed for a bit. Thankfully, it's still dark out, so he does go back to sleep for a little while, but not much.

Enter Thanksgiving dinner into the picture, and I realize why. Dinner Rolls. Plain old dinner rolls. You've had them every year at Thanksgiving, right? Everybody does. Yeah, everybody except little boys who have two personalities: one-a sweet, excitable kid on an all natural diet (Dr. Jekyl); two-an evil, vulgar maniac who has inadvertently eaten an artificial additive (Mr. Hyde). We had been sharing a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' home, the kids excited and playing with everything in my parents' house, the Lions actually winning the ball game, my mom's turkey and stuffing a moist delight. Before we ate, I even joked to my parents' priest (a calm, quiet 65-year-old woman who never had children), "Yup, this is my son on an all natural diet," because his normal voice is still quite loud (just not evil or vulgar). As we ate, Ben asked for another roll and--because it was Thanksgiving and we never have rolls because I am now gluten intolerant and he loves rolls and never gets them--we said sure. Picture that giant red X that comes up on "Family Feud" when somebody gives a dumb answer (but the family still tells them "Good answer, good answer!).

Before we left, the squabbling had begun, Ben was stealing books from Becca and giving Emma's name several syllables. In the car, he screamed when Emma looked at him, and said he was going to pee on his elf. Dinner rolls. Damn.

So, today. Well, yesterday, now. He has some fights with Emma, a massive temper tantrum in his room (wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, not grilled cheese), throws some toys, tells me "You are a very, very, very, very, VERY mean mom," and gives me a jab when I squirt him with water from the sink (because he wouldn't wait for me to stop scrubbing dishes to open the box of Annie's Organic Cheddar Bunnies-kind of ironic when you think about it). Anyway, not his best day. Not his worst, but definitely not his best.

Enter 3:00am. Our elf hunt begins. As we enter the kitchen hand-in-hand (Dr. Jekyl is back), he mentions, "I might be stuck," remembering his transgressions of the day. We turn on the light and he stops in his tracks. "Yup," he says, bottom lip quivering, "I'm stuck." He literally lies himself face first down on the kitchen floor and sobs. Great, heaving, a-loved-one-has-just-died sobs. I try to pick him up and console him, but he says, "No, Mom, we've got to go find the other elves," a brave solider in the line of battle. We hunt the living room, the bathroom, his room. He stops every so often, cries a little, wipes his tears (and blows his nose, since I have also shared this lovely cold with him), and keeps hunting. We find Bernard and The-Elf-Yet-to-Be-Named (Becca's) cuddled together in the laundry room on the shelf with the cookie jars, tucked in between Batman ("Because you're a friend, and you like Batman, and, as of today you're off the team.") and Mickey Mouse. Again, my sweet baby hits the floor.

This time, he lets me pick him up, pour him into my arms, and rock him. We fit together like puzzle pieces, and I am reminded of the time he spent in my womb, crammed into any empty spaces he could find, as our blood flowed in unison. We rock and rock, I wipe the tears from his face, and I repeat over and over, "What are you thinking, Bubba? Hhmmm? Can you tell Mom what you're thinking about?" He really can't. There aren't words.

After a while, he goes solemnly into the kitchen, turns the light back on, and faces his elf. "Mikey," he says, his voice breaking with emotion, "I'm just so sorry. So very, very sorry." He wipes his face with his sleeve, and starts to trek back to bed. "Hey, Mom," he stops, "remember how last night he flipped over [when we couldn't get him to go back to bed Eric flipped the elf over to make him look tired] and then when we got up he had flipped back up? Maybe if I'm good now--really, really good--he'll be able to move a little. Like, fly to over there. You think so, Mom?"

I "#!$?ing" know so! "Maybe, Buddy. I know Mikey knows you're really sorry, and that today's going to be a great day."

"Yea." He stands and nods, staring at his elf, a footie-pajamaed Rodin's The Thinker, pondering how to make this right. "I'm sorry, Mikey," he whispers again, and retraces his steps toward his bedroom.

As I tuck him in, heartbroken, I think about all the stupid mistakes I make in the day, and I'm on anti-depressants. I say snotty remarks that come off way more mean that I intended. I bark at the kids, push the dog out of the way with my foot. I envy other people their seemingly perfect lives and ignore the little hiccups in life that come their way. I spray my son a squirt with the dish sprayer instead of taking the box of crackers and putting them back in the cupboard. Nobody's perfect, even on a great day. I want to be the tough mom, the one who makes him stick out this lesson, but I can't help but think as I tuck his Spiderman sheets around him that, maybe, he's gotten what he should've out of this, and somehow, I want to make it better.

As miracles would happen, he had fallen asleep on the couch last night, and we hadn't given him a sippy cup of water to put in his bed. "Mom, can you get me a water?" I consider it a sign from the angels.

I saunter into the kitchen, make a big play of noisily getting the cup, the lid, the water--and I move that damn elf over to the other shelf in the kitchen. Then, I run into Ben's room.

"Ben-Ben, Ben-Ben, you're not going to believe this!"

"What?" he is upright in bed, straight as a rocketship, ready to blast off. "Is it my elf?"

I grab him and we run together into the kitchen. He turns on the light and--SHAZAM!--he sees the empty shelf. "Ahh!" he screams (somehow no one else is awakened) and he turns. It is just as he thought, Mikey has moved--just a little, just across to the other shelf--but he has moved all the same. "Oh, Mikey! Thank you!" he says, and moves toward his elf. "I love you, so so so so much, Mikey." He turns and the light behind his eyes is blinding.

As I tuck him in for the second time, he is beaming, wiggling, gleeful and hopeful and full of the knowledge that he really can do the right thing. We talk about how everybody makes mistakes, and that sometimes you just have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and try again. Maybe it's lost on him, maybe he gets it. Maybe some people will think I cheated him out of an important lesson. But, as I kiss his cheeks, I know that I will sleep well, having taught my son the TRUE meaning of Christmas: God's unconditional love.

"Mom, did my elf move?"

When my husband was growing up, his parents bought two little toy elves, and used them to con their children into behaving through the holidays. Apparently, they should have patented the idea, as "Elf on the Shelf" has now taken off like wildfire. When our oldest daughter was young, we bought her a little elf--to whom she gave the name "Bernard" like the head elf off of the movie "The Santa Clause"--and we would move him about the house each night if she was good, keep him in his place if she made bad choices. We'd catch her staring at him for long amounts of time, hoping to catch a blink or a slight shift of an arm, but she never touched him. Em knew that, if he got touched, Bernard would lose his magic and have to go back to the North Pole.

My niece, eternally the bold one, touched her elf (poked is actually a better word, I believe), which sent not only her elf but those of her brother and sister off to Santa's workshop. I think the other two stopped talking to her for a while--not that Gracie cared--and eventually they were all given a second chance.

Emma once asked, after having a lengthy conversation at school with a child who did NOT have an elf, why we were so lucky. "Grandpa used to do Santa's taxes," Eric told her, and that satisfied any curiosity she may have had about whether this elf stuff was real or not. She would still stare for long periods of time, and sometimes I would even catch her whispering to Bernard, perhaps trying to justify any deeds for the day. Yes, Emma deeply believed in her elf, and in the magic of Christmas. I thought I had really seen what it looked like to fall in love with Christmas hook-line-and-sinker when I watched Em with that elf. Until Ben had his fourth Christmas.

When Ben was a toddler, then two and three years old, he didn't really get the elf thing. Not that it was his fault; he didn't really get the whole "walking on two legs" thing then, either. But his fourth year, shortly before he turned four, Ben's world exploded. The morning after Thanksgiving, Emma got him up and pointed out the elves (one each for her, him, and Becca). The previous year, Ben had been into "Toy Story," and had named his elf Woody. Upon seeing the elf this fourth year, he immediately decided that Woody would like to be called Mikey, after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (because what cowboy doesn't have a Ninja Turtle hiding deep inside him somewhere?). Ben watched Mikey all day, waiting for him to move. He brought him toys to see, told him stories, sang him little songs. He didn't want Mikey being bored, sitting there in the same spot all day.

That night, I was awakened by a little hand shaking my face. "Mom, did my elf move?" It was Ben. Now, my kids do not get up in the night. I mean, maybe they wake up in the night, but they are just plain not allowed to come in our room and mess with us. Momma likes her sleep. If Momma don't sleep, well, it's ugly. So, Ben may occasionally have a nightmare or a bathroom incident, but he is quickly scuttled back into his room. It's always an "emergency" if you come into our room. It is not, I repeat, NOT to pull me out of bed to go look for some stupid stuffed toy.

"What?" I replied, groggy, and certain that I had heard him incorrectly.

"C'mon, Mom, get up. Did my elf move? We gotta look." He was pulling on my arm now, and heading out the bedroom door. He is freakishly strong in the night when I am still half-asleep.

"Dude, we are not-- Benjamin, seriously. It's 2:36am, Buddy. We are not looking for that elf!"

But we did look. We looked in the kitchen, the laundry room, and the bathroom. The elves, per tradition, had started out in the kids' stockings, so we knew they had moved. The search was on. That first night, they were in the kids' bathroom, hanging upside down from the shower curtain.

"Mom," Ben was gasping with laughter, "look at Mikey! He's so funny!"

Yeah, so funny I want to punch him in the throat.

But, then I did look. I looked at my son, at the glow behind his eyes, at the way his cheeks filled up when he laughed, at the pure joy in him. It was the joy of Christmas. Sure, it was the joy of Christmas at 2:36am, but it was the joy of Christmas just the same.

When Ben and Becca were infants, one of my favorite times with them was nursing in the middle of the night. It was special when I fed Emma then, too, but I was a single mom so Emma and I were always alone, and it wasn't quite the same. When I was up with Ben and Becca, the whole rest of the house was asleep. It was like a secret club to which only we belonged. We would rock, watch bad TV, and I would tell them about what the world be like as they got bigger. It was nothing short of magical.

By waking me up and bringing me on his elf quest, Ben had brought that magic back to me. I so remember being a young child, wiggling under my covers, hoping that I at least looked asleep so that Santa wouldn't pass by our house. I remember hearing my Grandpa McCord playing a tape (of course, I didn't know it was a tape at the time), of the reindeers' hooves on the rooftop and the jingle of the bells on their harness and thinking, "We have GOT to get home!" I remember writing letters, making wishes, thanking Santa when I opened that special gift Christmas morning. I remember believing so hard, loving the magic, feeling "in love" with Christmas.

So, each night last year between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, I got up at whatever godforsaken hour Ben came in, and we would hunt down the elves. Occasionally, someone's elf hadn't moved, and we'd discuss what the person had done to cause that. He would always, always remind me, "Mom, you don't touch the elves. It makes them lose their magic." We would creep through the house, sometimes just using a flashlight, and hunt those little guys down. Every time we'd find them, we'd laugh. "Mikey's so silly, Mom," Ben would say every time, and my brain would record it to play back someday when he was 16, and too old for silliness.

Thanksgiving is this Thursday, and I've been waiting. We actually had to cross off days on the calendar for Ben and make a little box around "elf day," he's been anticipating it so eagerly. I don't know who's looking forward to it more, Ben or me. Will my little boy still be in love with the magic of Christmas? Will he still include me in his gleeful elf hunt? I'll have to wait until 2:36am Friday to see.

"Hey, Mrs. Hall, look!"

This past summer, to be totally honest with you, I did everything in my power to quit my day job. I just plain did not want to go back to work. It was a combination of things, not any one thing in particular; but I really, really, didn't want to do it.

First, I'd had a rough couple of years in the classroom. I mean like screamers, criers, throw-a-pencil-at-my-eye kind of kids. I'd get up every day and think, "Hey, maybe today I'll get in a wreck and not have to go to work for a few months." I tried every trick up my sleeve, but some years are just like that. Some combinations of kids are just, well, tiring. So, there was that.

Also, I don't teach with Jill anymore. In fact, I don't even teach near Jill anymore. After 11 years of team teaching, 14 years of planning together, I don't have Jill to bounce all my ideas off of. And that has been so strange, so life altering, that I'm not even sure I could accurately describe what it's been like. And, since I kind of still teach the same thing, and she's moved to kindergarten, it's really felt a lot like we divorced-- and she left me. So, you know, there's that, too.

Then there's the fact that, in June, I went to this awesome writing retreat (props, Wade), and got some serious work done on my novel. The novel that has been in my head for six years, but only ebbs onto paper in tiny increments, and then is put down for months (or years) at a time. Working on the novel, reading other writers' writing, it really made me feel ready for the next chapter of my life. The one where I am a full time writer. Where I plan out what part of my day I'm going to write, where I travel and do book tours at little independent book sellers like Saturn in Gaylord, where I have time to research what I want to say and do. I even tried desperately to get editing jobs (because editing is such a part of me that I often want to stop and change stores' signs or mail back edited versions of letters businesses have sent us), and I couldn't get it off the ground. Apparently, you have to have editing experience in order to get hired (and get some experience). So, then, there was that.

Put it all together, and I was one reluctant puppy come August. In fact, I don't think I even went into my classroom until LATE August. Normally, the whole room would be set up, I'd have cute boards up and new nameplates and arranged it all... This year I was lucky it got done by the time their little toes stepped through the door. But, step through the door they did and so, I'm back being employed as a teacher.

Every morning, at what I like to refer to as "the crap of dawn" or "five-freakin'-thirty" Eric turns off the alarm, turns on the light, stands up, and says, "Come on. Get up," in this just-this-side-of-mean voice. I really hate him then. I stay firm in the covers, wish him leprosy or a severed limb or something, and eventually get out of bed. It's still dark, very dark, at five-freakin' thirty, for those of you who are still slumbering, blissfully unaware. As I pull on my stinky work-out clothes and trudge down the steps to ride the exercise bike, I think, "I hate my life. This sucks," and I am not a teacher. No, I am a lump who moves the pedals, stares straight ahead, waits for the timer to go off.

After a quick shower, I dress my own kids for day care, eat a granola bar, make my coffee, chase my teenager around the house, and get ready to start the day. Still, I am mindless, hollow, aching for the other life, the one where my fingers are flying across the keyboard and my every idea is a masterpiece. I think about clothes I would wear to book signings, ideas I have for new stories, witty comments I would make to publishers. Then Em and I pull into the parking lot, we face the school, and reality sets in. I am not a full time writer. I am not home for the day or flying off to New York (though that part's probably good because planes scare the shit out of me). I am teaching a room full of 6-year-olds, and I better get ready.

At 8:05, my world completely changes. They come in. "Mrs. Hall, look at my new shirt." "I made this for you!" "Mrs. Hall, did you know that sharks don't have any bones? They're all just carnage!" (You mean cartilage, sweetie.) Hug. Hug. Love note. Funny story. Hug.

Yeah, they actually pay me to do this. I get to spend my whole DAY with these people. Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes they can really get under my skin. But, man, they are the cutest. Show them a new song? They'll dance it. Drop a marker on the floor purposefully? They'll laugh like you're an A-list comedian. Teach them a new reading strategy? They'll mimic you until they've got it right. Say words like "close to the moment," "schema," and "number sentence"? They'll use those terms like pros.

See, the great thing about teaching is that you always get a do-over. Maybe you start off with a bad attitude, but you can try again. Every fall, a new batch comes in, even if you're looping, and you get to start fresh. So, these people will laugh at my bad jokes and try out my tricks like they're brand new ideas. Because, to them, it's all new. They are little sprouts of what they'll someday become, and I get a chance to be the sun and water in their lives for a little while. Honestly, it just doesn't get much better than that.

A Clean Slate

I painted one of our bathrooms today. Just a little bathroom, not even a powder bath (no sink); it barely took two hours. But I still feel accomplished, excited, renewed.

I love to paint. You can take a place that looks drab, old, murky, and turn it into something completely new. I love starting with just the vision of what it could be--this new place. You think about colors, patterns, maybe what decorations you could add. Then, after taping (I really hate taping), you start to transform. To me, half the fun is stopping in the middle, checking my progress; like watching a sunset slowly slide into the horizon, I can watch the old walls slowly disappear and the new room begin to take form.

Sure, some of it is the high from the paint fumes. And some of it is the zen-like groove I get: dip the roller, make some Xs, roll to blend sideways, then finish it all with a vertical sweep to smooth the wall. Repeat. But, mostly, it's the possibility. I can turn this place into anything I want. And, hey, if I don't like it, I can just start again!

I think part of me likes this about teaching, as well. Each new school year is like a room I've just painted. It's bright, fresh, new; now, what do I want to do with it? Each school year starts out with the possibilities of a great class, of hilarious moments, of teaching kids something that didn't think they would ever learn. Each year I have new techniques, new ideas, different plans for how I want to change things up. I can't imagine looking around at the same, boring walls each year, saying the same speeches, doing lessons the same way. Each year I have to pick out a bright color, a bolder way of looking at things, a different game plan that will fit with this group of kids. Like painting, teaching has a way of making the old new, of wiping out the bad or out-of-style decor from before, and giving me hope of what could be.

Sometimes, a project requires sanding, spackle, sanding some more, maybe even replacing some of the wood. Sometimes, a class requires breaking bad habits, molding better behaviors, maybe even completely changing a kid's perspective on his/her own way of maneuvering through life. But when you see the finished product, when you hear someone else say, "Oh, my, what a change," it's always worth the extra elbow grease in the end.

My father-in-law just got me a really cool present (a Miguel Cabrera plaque!), as a thank you for work I've done on the family cabin--painting being one of the jobs I've personally enjoyed the most. I also just got a thank you note from a former student, a girl I've followed from the time she entered my classroom at age 6 until her graduation, this past June. The plaque and the thank you note are sitting together, front and center on my desk in the living room, a reminder of how others can be affected by what I do. But in both cases, the thanks aren't necessary. The reward is sitting back and looking with pride at a job well done, at how a little paint can make a difference one stroke at a time.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Depression can feel like an old, comfortable lover. You don't want to see this guy. But he comes around and--as much as you avert your eyes, walk in the opposite direction, try to put obstacles in his way--you can feel him coming for you.

He follows close behind you for days; he whispers into your neck, "You know, it will feel so good."

And it can. Depression can lay upon you, cover you with its dark, fleecy blanket, pull you deep into its nothingness. If you've never had true depression--that deep pit of sadness for no particular reason--then you may not know how cozy it can be.

Like the old lover, depression calls to you, "Come back to bed. Just one more hour won't hurt anyone." The curve of the pillow beneath your head, the softness of the covers around your neck. The mattress swallows all that ails you: that list that never gets finished, the extra bit of work you brought home, that frustrating behavior you can't cure for your children, the laundry, the bills, the little snippy words that people have said that settled upon your heart.

In your life, you can make a commitment to stay away from depression, just like you would avoid that old lover in your marriage. You take your medication, practice positive thoughts, list all the reasons to be happy; the way you would delete the old lover's emails, walk away from him in a store, tell him "Not interested," and try to move on.

But the draw is always there. Depression is like the old lover who lurks behind corners; you can see his eye peering at you from behind a cupboard, the reflection of his face in the corner of the bathroom mirror. You open a book, and there's a picture of the two of you together, snuggled, joined as one. But the next page has your beautiful family, your husband, your children, and you know I will not go there. I will not let you pull me in; I will not fall into your chasm.

Sometimes, though, you cannot resist. Your shoulders get heavy, your feet are made of lead, your legs won't move; your body is working against you, pushing you into the bed. The lover folds his arms around you, and all you can remember is the sweet taste in your mouth, the satiny feel of his skin against yours, how you fit against one another like two pieces of the same puzzle. You relish in the gloom, look at the world through gray colored glasses, carry depression in your pocket to take out and rub between your fingers until you can get back into your bed. The whole world seems different--the opposite of when you're falling in love--as though each person, each encounter, is specifically designed against you. Song lyrics have new meaning; your children's actions, your husband's words, your boss's agendas--they're all meant to push you farther into the hole. You sink down, down, feeling it press upon you, and nothing about you wants to fight it anymore.

There are people for whom depression wins. Suicide. Accidental overdose. Divorce. Child abuse. Grumpy bitches who bite your head off for the least little thing.

I, however, will not be one of those people. I will turn around, confront the old lover face-to-face. I will tell him off, remind him of all the reasons he is wrong for me. I'll punch him if I need to. I will climb from the tomb of sadness, dig my fingers deep into the mud and pull myself up the sides. I will hug my children, read them stories, play games with them. I will tease my teenager and listen to her stories of what middle school is really like. I will slide my arm across the bed in the night and find my husband's arm--hold tight--and stay afloat. I will do ridiculous dances with my students in my classroom, and find ways to put my own spin on the top-down directions for how I'm supposed to teach. I will find the joy in the day.

Depression, you had your chance with me. We are never, ever, ever getting back together. Like, ever.

The Queen

Hello there. To all of you who do not know me (and really, dear, how did you let it go this long?), my name is Carolina, and I am the West Highland White Terrier who owns the Halls. The Halls do refer to me in several other Peopletalk words: Carolina Pine Forest, Piney, Pineapple Snapple, and (this next one is new from the little person, Becca) Kiney. I, on the other hand, prefer to just think of myself as "The Queen." We live together in a lovely home in Indian River, though it is not truly a palace, which would befit a terrier of my grace.

I do not come from humble beginnings--my given name is Green Valley's Miss Molly--but did have a rather rough start to it all. It began with my mother, a highly respectable Westie, and was taken home by a couple who--through no fault of mine--decided that they could no longer reside together. I have been told that, at this point in their relationship, the dastardly duo decided I should be put-down, rather than decide with whom I should reside. As fate was my fortune, a kind, frizzy-haired man rescued me, and brought me to meet Eric (the one the little people refer to as "Daddy").

Eric and I made fine bedfellows, living first in a very small cottage.  It had a lovely view, but he had a peculiar habit of putting up a fence for me to climb in order for me to be able to enter the main living area.  There was also an unfortunate incident with this odd contraption that would occasionally make rhythmic noise; I believe the word Eric used to refer to it was "music." This machine turned on one day while Eric was away, doing whatever it was that he did in the human world. I had apparently angered the machine, because the noise was louder than usual. I barked, but this machine was not to be trifled with. Barking did not phase it, so I knew I would have to result to brute force. A bump of my nose, and it became more angry, more loud. Again, I barked and nosed; again the machine grew louder. In fact, now it shook the floorboards with its anger. Well, I was no timid puppy, this machine was not going to win. I backed up, set my eyes square on the machine's jowls, and attacked. The machine screamed. It shook the house and wailed until I thought we might both go up in flames. Then, with one final, tremendous blare, the front of the machine blew forward, and the noise stopped. I had won. I believe this taught a lesson to all other contraptions in the house, as nothing else has given me trouble since.

I was pleased when Eric moved us from the cottage into a modest home in Cheboygan, where there were no odd fences or barriers in my path. In the evenings, I would allow Eric to be in the big bed, where he wrapped the covers around me.  In the days, I would alert Eric each time danger approached--in the manner of an automobile passing by the home--by using my gift of a fine, shrill bark. And so we passed our time together for four years, waiting for something interesting to come along.

Then came Laura (the one that the little people call "Mommy") and Emma. I am sure, if you are reading this, you have met Laura.  You know what a delightful human she is. Well, she loved me at first sight. I made a point to follow her around, sit behind her head when she sat on the couch, give her my bark of approval whenever I could, because I could tell that she adored me. She had clearly been lacking a White Terrier in her life, and I was willing to take that position, for prosperity's sake. I knew, for instance, that she immediately loved me, because she was always speaking to me.  She would say things like, "Carolina, get out of my stinking way," or "Would you please shut up? You are driving me nuts!" Now, I do not understand much of Peopletalk, but I could tell from her loving tone that, in Laura, I had found my pet for life.

When Laura became pregnant with the first small person, the one the people refer to as Ben-Ben, I could tell right away. I became more diligent in my watchings of her, following her heels closely with my snout. When she would sit or lie down, I would place myself next to the growing baby, guarding it with my own life. Occasionally, I would get uncomfortable, as I would have to get deep into the covers at night to lie directly between Laura's legs, but I knew it was my duty as the caretaker of the home. I had to protect my people, even before they were born.

If I did have one complaint about Laura, it would be that she is often tardy in attending to my needs. As my pet, it is her function to ensure that I am fed, that I am let out to relieve myself, that I am groomed and coddled as needed, and that my water is refreshened when I deem necessary. There are just many times that Laura is, well, sitting. It really began when that Ben-Ben was taken out of her womb and released into our home. The least little sound from him would require Laura to pick him up and then promptly sit down in the green recliner with him snug close to her. Often, this happened just as I needed one of my duties attended to. If I attempted to climb into the chair with Laura, I would actually be shooed away (I hate to have to admit this about my darling pet; but, it is the truth.). If I barked, signaling my need for fresh water or a trip around the yard, Laura would not put that Ben-Ben down and attend to me. I know it sounds rude and inconsiderate, but I really have to believe it was due to some maternal hormone making Laura act strangely. There are times now, too, when she just does not seem to understand how important my needs are. For example, again in the green chair, Laura will sit with that Ben-Ben and the new one they call Becca, doing nothing but saying some Peopletalk from things the little people call "books." How something from one of these useless looking items could be more important than scratching behind my ears is absolutely beyond me.

In addition, I do have to mention a second complaint. In the night, I have to occasionally make a guard run, where I survey the front porch and yard to make sure that dangers are not approaching us. When I awaken Laura to open the means of entry and exit, I often have to use a mild bark, a more forceful bark, and--embarrassingly--a high-pitched yip before she will exit her bed. Then, as I am performing my survey, she says words that I can only assume are unkind ("Car-o-li-na, would you just go potty?!" or "Hurry your little white butt up!"), as her tone is harsh. I am certain, though, that, if she could only understand the importance of my task, Laura would return to her adoring self, my favorite pet.

All-in-all, it is a good life. I am well fed, I do get to visit Eric's mother (who truly understands the needs of a queen), and I have my pets. I could have done without the last two, those little people, as they often grab my fur or try to get me to chase after ridiculous items. I know that biting these little people is below me, thus a low growl or a well-spaced snap is all I ever use to warn them. This usually gets them to understand that Lily is actually the dog in this family. Lily will chase sticks, fetch toys, chew rawhides, and roll over to have her belly rubbed. No, this is not for me. It is important that all the Halls always understand that I am Carolina and I am The Queen.

There's No Place Like Homes

A day at the cabin begins with a sunrise and ends with a smile.

I don't know who wrote it.  Eric bought me one of those cute little wooden-box knick-knacks that has that saying on it. I am one of the lucky people in the world to know the truth in that statement.  Some people have to camp in tents or trailers. Some people live in apartments or "the projects" or a hut somewhere in the world and never even get the chance to stay in a cabin. Some people--gasp!--don't particularly care for "Mother Nature" and all she has to offer. But me, I am one of the lucky few... and I am even lucky enough to have had two cabins in my life.

The Promised Land
When I was twelve, my parents and I went to look at a place on the Jordan River, in East Jordan. While I was exploring its mosquito infested yard, checking out what there was to do (not much, in my twelve-year-old opinion), my dad was floating down the river in a camouflage inner-tube, checking out the fish.  He passed by a different cabin on this float, a brown log place with a little sign out front that said, "The Promised Land" over the screened-in porch.  This place was also for sale, so our realtor took us to this new "cabin in the woods."

We walked in the back door to see knotty pine walls, a giant wrap around fireplace, and wooden stairs leading to a loft. Despite the velvet tiger painting above the fireplace mantel, the orange macrame curtains, and the olive green cupboards, my mom turned to my dad behind the realtor's back and mouthed, "I want this." We all did.

The loft upstairs came with two log twin beds, one of which had a mattress so old that I was swallowed into its softness as soon as I laid down. There was a little half wall, so that I could peek out to the kitchen below, but feel like I was in my own world. My best friend, Sheri, and I would play Pictionary, do puzzles, read books, talk, giggle, play darts from bed (it was a pretty small loft), spy on my parents, listen to music, and just be up there throughout my teen years. In the winter, the loft was the warmest spot, and there was nothing more comfortable than getting into my bed, layering on blankets, and hunkering down. I have never slept better any place in the world.

In the summer, we'd canoe, tube down to the bridge (a 15 minute trip), take hikes, walk the dogs in the nearby field, and occasionally fight the mosquitoes to sit in the hammock and read. Swimming in the river was RARELY an option, as the water was frigid.

One summer, we re-stained the outside of the cabin, but lost water from the pump. Since we couldn't shower--and, boy, did we need it--we decided a dip in the river was warranted. My dad went in first, the shock on his face almost enough to keep me out.  As we stood together in the icy flow, Dad whispered, "Don't tell your mother. She'll never get in--and she stinks!"

So, when Mom came out into the front yard and asked, "How's the water?" we both lied.

"It's great," we said, "come on in!"  We made a big play of bouncing around, splashing a little with our blue-tinged arms.

Mom ran and jumped--and screamed!  "Charles Daniel, you are a LIAR!"  She didn't stay in very long.

In the winter, we'd cross country ski, snowshoe, play board games, do crosswords, watch bad TV, read books, and sleep the sleep of the dead.  Sometimes, the road would be so blown-over with drifts that we'd have to load the toboggan with our bags and plod through the snow down the private road.

Most times, when we would get there, it would be so cold inside the cabin that the temperature would not even register on the old-fashioned thermometer.  Dad would start up the hot water register heat, make a fire in the fireplace, and celebrate with a beer when we could finally see the red needle rise in the thermometer's window (forty degrees!).  I would be up in my bed, snuggled under my covers, book in hand, and smile when I heard the tell-tale crack of the can.

One New Year's Eve, my parents got sick and went to bed--their bedroom being the space next to the "living room" area.  I remember calling out to them from my papasan chair (there were two, they were bamboo, and, yes, they came with the cabin, too) "Happy New Year, guys!" Our dog wagged her tail from my lap and licked my face.

A muffled reply came from under the covers, "Happy New Year, sweetie.  Sorry you're out there alone!" Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.

To this day, when I pull down Thorsen River Drive, I can hear our dog begin to whine in my mind (and my dad smacking him with a ball cap to get him to knock it off).  As I drive down the wooded driveway, trees dragging against my windows, I feel like I am driving into a magical tunnel.  When I open the front door, I smell that woody, slightly musty smell, and I feel that cabin feeling.  I am thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty.  I hear my dad laugh, I feel the warmth of the fire on my feet, I see my mom doing cross-stitch in front of the television, I see canoers passing by the porch--I am home.

Clear Lake
As an adult, I waited around and did a grand search for the perfect guy for me. Eric proved to me that he was, indeed, THE ONE, by taking me away for any evening to his grandparents' cabin. Now, don't be thinking all hanky-panky here. At this point, Eric and I were just "frietentials" (friends with potential). We were not dating; he was not my boyfriend; we had never kissed.

Eric invited me to come on a mystery evening. Bring a sleeping bag, a bathroom bag, a sweatshirt, (a used q-tip, an eldelry person, a half-marked BINGO card, and a vial of deer urine) and prepare for fun. At this point, I didn't know whether or not Eric was even interested in me. We went out to dinner, took a four-wheeler ride past Joe Louis' old cabin, played cribbage, took a rowboat ride.  And then, heck ya, I kissed him in the rowboat under the stars.

We were married at that very same cabin, down at the waterfront, the sun shining, the Beach Boys playing, the loon swimming around in the background.

In the spring, the first thing I want to do is go clean the cabin, and stay the night.  Ben gets a little crazy--When are we staying at the cabin? When can we swim?--and I swear I do, too.

In the fall, when the leaves are changing, I love sleeping on the porch, heater going, snuggled under the blankets with my hubby. But in that same moment, I am sad, because I know that, soon, we will close things down, and we'll have to wait until spring again to come back.

Time stands still for my family when we are at the Clear Lake cabin.  We take boat rides, we fish, we swim, we make fires in the fireplace, we snuggle on the couch, eating popcorn and watching old Disney movies. We catch frogs and read books and eat cereal out of those fun little boxes.  We stay away from the rest of the world, and we hang together--us Halls--soaking up fun that we cannot seem to capture at home.

I have nursed two babies in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching the sunrise through the fog over the crystal glass lake. I have read wonderful novels, played countless games of cards, watched my babies go from toddlers who sat in the sand to swimmers who sprint off the dock, written blogs and portions of my novel there. I have learned to row a boat, drive a pontoon, play Hand and Foot, and become a wife--all on the tiniest lake you've ever seen.

Our dog, Lily, loves Clear Lake as much as any of us. She leaps from the car, runs to the shore, waits for someone to throw a stick. When we're all in the water, she'll come and swim past us--checking on us--making loops around all of us. She'll run and jump off the dock to fetch countless sticks, and, when we go on a boat ride, we have to take her with us or she'll just keep swimming after us. The dog can swim forever. Then, at night, she curls up in a little wet ball, and sleeps a deep sleep, dreaming of another day in the lake.

When we drive down Old State Road, my heart beats faster when I see "two trees" (or is it three?). As we drive down the driveway, I can physically feel myself begin the process of letting go of all the stress of real life--school work, the bills, the housework--and the magic of the cabin taking over.  Once we have all of our stuff put away--the fridge stocked, the beds made, the toys laid out--I go out onto the porch and I look through the trees at the lake, our lake, and I am home.