Uncle Shorty was born in a hotel elevator in Washington, D.C., in January 1974.
I had two children then, one five and one three, who had just spent 10 long hours in their car seats, reluctant passengers on a tedious ride from Boston to our nation's capital. By the time we pulled into the parking lot of our hotel, they were moaning and groaning about car seats and booster seats, insisting that they would never use either again.
My kids had been penned in all day. They needed to run and play. But here we were in elevator, on our way up to the zillionth floor, only to drop off our luggage, then head back down the elevator to a fancy restaurant for dinner, where they would have to sit in another little seat and be quiet, again.
Uncle Shorty made all this doable. Like Frosty, he was pure invention, a sleight of hand. I needed my kids to behave. So I told them about Uncle Shorty, christened Amando Velucci III, born in New York City many, many years before to the brother of a man who was my father's (their grandfather's) best friend.
They listened intently as I weaved the tale.
"He's old, older than I am, older than Grandma and Grandpa and Nana. But he doesn't look old. His hair is thick and black and he doesn't wear glasses and he is very, very, very little, littler than you,'' I said to the 3-year-old, who was about the size of a fire hydrant back then. "He's so little that he has to sit in a car seat everywhere he goes and he has to use a booster seat every time he sits at a table. (You can see where this is headed, right? But my kids? They didn't have a clue. They were mesmerized.
Somewhere around the 20th floor, they were hooked.) "And you know what?" I continued at dinner. "He carries around a special ladder made just for him by Santa's elves so he can climb into any seat, anywhere, anytime, all by himself.''
"How can he carry a giant ladder if he's so small?'' my son, only five but already a skeptic, asked frowning.
That's when I told them the specifics about Uncle Shorty's "lumbrella,'' how it is the only one like it in the entire world, how it folds up just like a map into something little that looks exactly like an umbrella.
"It's cool," I told them. "Uncle Shorty carries it everywhere, so he can press all the high buttons in the elevators, so he can climb into seats at restaurants and so that he can change a ceiling lightbulb now and then. After both of you were born, when he came to the hospital to visit, he used his lumbrella to climb on so he could peek into the nursery window and get a good look at you."
"Where is he now?'' they clamored. "Why doesn't he visit? When can we meet him? Where does he buy his clothes?''
They ate that dinner and every meal for the next three days without once complaining about their booster seats. And on the long drive home, they didn't grouse either. Uncle Shorty used a car seat and he was cool. Car seats and being small were no longer issues.
I don't know exactly when Uncle Shorty landed at the North Pole and became head of the elves. He was living in Africa for a while, running safaris (His lumbrella helped him on to many elephants!) and after that he was as a concierge at the St. Moritz Hotel, next to Rumplemeyers. That's where Uncle Shorty met Santa Claus one November day just before the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Maybe it's because Uncle Shorty was so short that Santa took a liking to him. And maybe it's because Santa was, well, is Santa, that Uncle Shorty said, "Sure. I'll have an ice cream with you." So there they sat, Uncle Shorty in a booster chair, Santa across from him, each with a vanilla soda with chocolate ice cream and whipped cream and a cherry on the top, near the window at Rumplemeyers and they bonded. Two days later, Uncle Shorty packed his bag, (He traveled light), headed north and became an elf.
He wrote to my kids all the time, real letters, because this was before e-mail, about how the reindeer really, really liked Rudolph and never, ever made fun of him, about how the elves were teaching him to ice skate, (He said his backside was black and blue) and about Santa's amazing magic snowball, which was a crystal ball filled with snow, which Santa would look into to see if children were naughty or nice.
Uncle Shorty was part of so many Christmases for so many years. But children grow up. The North Pole slips off their radar. And Uncle Shorty slipped off mine.
A few Decembers ago, I walked into my daughter's house and my grandson came running. "Mimi!'' he shouted, taking my hand, leading me into the family room. "Look. Up there,'' he said, pointing to a little toy elf perched high on a bookshelf. "Do you know who that is?''
He proceeded to tell me. "That's the Elf on the Shelf, and you can't touch him cuz he's magic, Mimi. He watches us all day, and every night when we're sleeping he goes back to the North Pole and tells Santa if we've been good or bad. And when we wake up he's here again, only not in the same place. We have to find him!''
The Elf on the Shelf is a tale that Carol Aebersold told to her kids when they were little, and which she published a few years ago. The story is that in the weeks before Christmas, Santa sends an elf to every child's home and the elf reports back to Santa every night.
I looked at my grandson and thought how in a world where so much has changed, this hasn't. He was five. His sister was two. They believed.
It was a different story. They are different children. We live in a different time. But magic is always the same. I told them then about Uncle Shorty and how he got to be head of the elves. And they listened. And they listen still. They ask about him. They want to meet him. They want to see his lumbrella.
This is the magic of childhood, which is the magic of Christmas, too.
Find more thoughts about family and the holidays on Grandparents.com:
Home
