Brownies in the Boat

Brownies in the Boat

Christmas is wrapped up in a mishmash of flavors, textures, tinted hues, and bright surprises. It smells of pigs in blankets, sounds like sleigh bells ringing for tiny hearts beating with excitement, and it looks like a weather balloon strung with colored lights, marking the way for Santa to find our house. Mama has adorned our front room picture window with a jaunty, hand-painted panorama of a grand and snowy winter scene. It is filled with crazy snowmen and happy children, all wrapped up in warm and colorful coats, hats, and gloves. The telltale sign of a budding and talented artist at home. Dad adds his own version of Christmas with giant, green painted plywood pine tree cutouts, decked out with flashing red and green lights, backed by shiny aluminum, star-shaped ornaments. The towering sentinels stand guard over our humble front door. However, one of my most enduring and favorite recollections of this season will forever be of … “the Brownies.”

I actually saw them. I just know I did. And now, even many decades later, no one will ever convince me otherwise. They were out there, spying. They were miniature, sneaky, tricky, and oh, so speedy. It seemed like all of my friends, and everyone else, called them “Santa’s elves”. But I knew better. They were the “Brownies”, different from those pretenders at the Mall. They came out the day after Thanksgiving. B-Day. Brownie Day. That’s when we kids had to start being good. I’m not admitting that I wasn’t a pretty good girl, anyway. Like any ordinary kid, I was getting a little restless for Christmas to come. It’s just that now I have to be especially good and on my best behavior. Teasing my little sister was “out”. Cheerfully helping clear the dinner dishes was “in”.

When it came to a child’s behavior, the Brownies were the reward, the guilt trip, the enticement, the punishment, the bribe of the season. If I were really good, the Brownies would go and tell Santa. If I were even a little bit bad, the brownies would go and tell Santa. The scale of justice weighed more heavily on the side of being good. The Brownies could see me, but I could not see them. They witnessed everything I did, and they remembered everything, as well. It’s no wonder I was a wreck by the time Christmas Day arrived. Sugary treats, brightly wrapped presents, whispered secrets, and Brownies. The perfect storm for this little six-year-old.

The day I saw the Brownies is etched quite vividly in my mind. It was a sunny day, with bright blue skies. Clear as a bell. Whatever that means. I was randomly staring out of our front window towards the sugar beet field across the street. The sparkling, frozen ground was covered with knee-deep, fresh, pristine snow. I was fascinated by an old, overturned wooden boat that someone had left abandoned by the now-empty irrigation canal. Wait! What was that! I saw movement. Just a flash. What did I just see? A cat? A dog? One of Stoddard’s runaway rabbits? I don’t think so. In my child's mind’s eye, it was a Brownie! So… that’s where they were hiding! I was always keeping my eye out for the Brownies, just so they wouldn’t catch me doing something wrong, and scurry off to tell Santa. But I was never clever enough to catch sight of them. And now, there they were. Under the boat, in the field across the street. At that very moment, a plan began to unwind in my head.

After weeks of stewing and hemming and hawing over a most important decision, I had suddenly found the perfect spot to leave my Christmas letter to Santa. I would carefully place my precious and very secret missive under the weathered old boat, where the Brownies were certain to find it. The only problem was, I was six years old and not allowed to cross the street by myself. With great purpose and solemnity, I confided my dilemma to the one person whom I believed could help me get the job done. My dad. Of course, his only desire was to make me happy, and, having been a kid himself, he totally understood the seriousness of the situation.

That evening, after dinner, and as the sun was setting, and the sky turned a somber gray-blue, Dad walked me across the street, hand in hand, where we trudged through the frosty stillness of the sugar beet field. Heading for the boat, I tingled with excitement. Along the ditch bank we went. Holding tight to my letter, I questioned the validity of my decision. What would I do if I saw an actual Brownie? Would I be too scared to leave the letter and just run away? I carefully looked for their tiny footprints, any sign of their comings and goings. I was sure they were watching me this very minute. What would they tell Santa when they gave him my letter? Would they think me a clever girl for finding their hiding place?

I’ll never know what the Brownies thought of my invasion of their secret spot. I do know that when Dad walked me back to the boat the next morning, to check if the Brownies had found my letter, it was gone. All that we could find in the emptiness were a few cookie crumbs and candy wrappers. And, strangely enough, it seems that Santa had a pretty good idea of my wish list for that year. To this day, I am still totally convinced that the Brownies are real. At Christmastime, when I think of them, I want to be good and do good. I want to be happy, and I want to bring joy to all those around me. I am glad to know that someone is watching over me and cheering me on. Come to think of it…maybe it would be a good idea to think of them all year long. What could it hurt?