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PLYMOUTH — It’s a good thing the Elf on the Shelf wasn’t around when I was a kid.
By that, I mean good thing for the Elf.
The kids in my neighborhood would never have stood for that little rat being around their houses, spying on us and ruining our Christmas holiday.
Hey, we were accountable to the only elf that counts — Santa Claus. We would go to wherever Santa was set up, wait in line and sit on his lap to tell him all we wanted, not expected, for Christmas.
Santa would listen attentively, then before releasing us back to our parents, he would issue his warning.
“OK, now be good, or you will get coal in your stocking! Ho, ho, ho!”
For a 9-year-old kid, that was enough for us. We did not need a tattletale elf to spy on us. We knew Santa was watching — always. He knew when we were naughty and nice.
So, after watching “The Irishman,” I thought about how we might have handled the Elf on the Shelf in the ’60s in Plymouth.
The neighborhood gang would gather: Chrissy the Crier, Wally the Wailer, Willie the Whiner, Stevie the Sniffler, George the Drummer and Mikey the Kid.
We would hold a clandestine meeting outside, near the woods. We would make sure nobody was around.
“So you all got one of dem Elfs on the Shelf in your house?”
All would answer in the affirmative.
“You know he’s a rat, right?”
Again, all nod their heads in agreement.
“Now whatever is said here, stays here, right?”
Right, they say.
“OK, here’s the plan.”
We all wait for the right moment when our parents are distracted and we grab the Elf, that sick little rat, and we return to our meeting place. Now, we must decide how to dispose of these spies.
“Stevie, you got a burn barrel in the yard, right?”
Stevie confirms he does.
“OK, Stevie, go get a fire started in the barrel. Leave your Elf here. We’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
Stevie leaves to start the fire, leaving us to think the plan through.
One of the gang is hesitant. He asks if we’re doing the right thing.
“He’s an Elf from Santa,” he says. “I mean, he comes from the North freaking Pole. He’s sort of a friend.”
We explain this must be done — that the Elf, well, he’s no friend of ours.
One suggested we just bury the elves in our yards.
“We can’t have freshly dug graves in every yard,” I say. “We gotta get rid of the evidence.”
After more discussion, we agree.
“Look, we tried everything with this guy. We tried hidin’ him from our parents, but they always find him. Every morning, we wake up and there he is — staring at us like the spy that he is. We can’t do anything or go anywhere without him being there.”
And then this.
“He’s gotta go.”
It’s unanimous. We all walk up the street to Stevie’s yard, each of us with our Elf on the Shelf tucked under our sweatshirts. We gather around the burn barrel, which has flames shooting out.
One by one, we toss our Elf on the Shelf into the fire. It’s done.
Stevie’s mom shouts from the back door, “Hey, what are you kids doing out there.”
“Just keeping warm, mom,” Stevie answers.
We wait until the fire is almost out. We look into the barrel to assure there is no evidence of what had just happened.
We join hands and we smile a crooked smile at each other and we return to our Elf-less homes, relieved and proud of what we had done.
As soon as I walk in my house, my mom would ask me, “Have you seen the Elf on the Shelf?”
Who me? No. Last time I saw him, he was by the telephone, looking into my room.
I decide the best way to handle this is to act as normal as possible. So I go into the kitchen, get a glass of milk and some of my mom’s cookies.
I sit on the couch and ask my dad what’s on TV. Soon, my mom joins us. Ed Sullivan is on. Topo Gigio is a guest, followed by a guy juggling a dozen dinner plates. “Bonanza” is coming on next.
The Elf on the Shelf was never mentioned again. Our plan worked.
The next day, the gang gathered. Each told a similar story. No more Christmas spying. Santa, after all, is all-knowing.
Then it hit us — what’s Santa going to do about what we did?
We all worried for the next couple of weeks until Christmas morning.
Apparently, we dodged a bullet. Santa came and delivered plenty of presents to all of us.
And so, that’s the way the Elf on the Shelf concept might have been handled in the ’60s in my neighborhood. Probably in yours too.
Maybe they’ll make a movie about it.
