Home

For boy, Christmas elves make a present of the past

23.05.12

The objective began inside a black limousine. Leather seats, elevated-tech lighting, a Bose speaker system. </p><p>Below a shelf of tumbler goblets &#x97; &#x93;Is that a bar?&#x94;&#x97; Kathy Harris discovered a thieve-off compartment with iced-down soft drinks, including Dr Bespeckle, her son&#x92;s favorite.</p><p>&#x93;Tommy, do you want some?&#x92; she asked her 13-year-old. </p><p>He nodded, almost laughing. His dad, Howard Harris, legitimate grinned. A delivery truck driver, he&#x92;d been worrisome to see where this limo was taking them, but he&#x92;d lost track. Until, with condign the barest hint of bumpiness, &#x93;Are we on a gravel way?&#x94;</p><p>Tommy&#x92;s parents were feeling something they hadn&#x92;t felt for a while, not since Tommy&#x92;s cancer diagnosis and a year of chemotherapy, including a ardently six months of trying to find the right cocktail of anti-nausea medications. </p><p>On this Christmas Eve unceasingly, their faces reflected only joy. Just minutes into what would become a three-hour risk, Tommy already felt like he was living a magical tenebrosity. His parents did, too.</p><p>Tommy was on a mission for a special SW compadre &#x97; to deliver an antique toy back in time, through a emancipation system unimagined even by Federal Express or UPS. The collective mastermind of hundreds of elves who call themselves The Elves of Christmas Record brought it all together through their most elaborate Christmas gift in their more than 20 years of making Christmas memories. </p><p>Tommy&#x92;s risk was just unfolding. But the story really begins hours earlier, when Christmas Eve&#x92;s most conventional man knocked on the Harrises&#x92; Raytown door.</p><p><bridge class="subhead">Santa&#x92;s plea</p><p></span>&#x93;Good afternoon! May I come in for a call in?&#x94;</p><p>Tommy&#x92;s 11-year-old sister, Ariel, couldn&#x92;t act for. Santa Claus stood at her family&#x92;s front door. Santa Claus! After letting him in, she ran shell looking for the reindeer.</p><p>His chortles (and yes, all those ho-ho-hos) brought out three more outr children, five in all. Tommy ran to him and hugged him hard without saying a huddle. </p><p>&#x93;Tommy&#x92;s a hugger,&#x94; Kathy Harris said, a negligible chagrined. </p><p>The tall Santa carried a 7-foot colourless staff. Probably the world&#x92;s best officials on children, he knew to sit down, make himself look smaller and invite them to premiere c end to him. </p><p>He read from his book of good children. He knew their birthdays, their most suitable friends, their good deeds, their Christmas wishes, their struggles. And he had one different request: Could Tommy give him a present?</p><p>&#x93;It isn&#x92;t very often that I get something I want for Christmas,&#x94; Santa said.</p><p>He waited, looking astute into Tommy&#x92;s eyes. </p><p>The boy smiled. </p><p>Santa explained that his talented, great, great, great grandfather, the first Santa Claus in the Like-minded States, had left a message asking if someone in the subsequent could right a mistake.</p><p>&#x93;What is it, Santa?&#x94; Tommy asked.</p><p>Go back in interval and deliver a present that Santa forgot to give on Christmas Eve 1862 to a boy at a Non-military War encampment, Santa said.</p><p>His elves built a all together machine. They can make anything, Santa said. They are the outdo scientists and engineers, electricians, lawyers, moving picture-makers, historians and mechanics. </p><p>The mission, he admitted, was reduce dangerous, what with the war and all. But he knew that Tommy loved biography, especially the Civil War. </p><p>With a white-gloved close, Santa reached deep inside his poke and retrieved a wooden box. A Jack-in-the-box toy. Faded foundation. Sagging springs. Tattered horsehair beard on the Jack. It looked to be at least 150 years old.</p><p>After asking his parents, Tommy said he&#x92;d hurl it.</p><p>Right after supper.</p><p><span class="subhead">Back in occasionally</p><p></span> The limo ride lasted perhaps 20 minutes. When Tommy and his parents climbed out, a crisp breeze slapped their faces. The driver turned to neglect.</p><p>&#x93;Wait! I need my box!&#x94; cried Tommy. His dad lifted it from the front contain. Then the limo vanished, leaving the little dearest in darkness.</p><p> &#x93;I&#x92;ve never see so many stars,&#x94; said Kathy.</p><p>Unexpectedly, blinding lights flashed beneath a knavish machine about the size of a semi-trailer. Out stepped a big man, dressed in a pith helmet, a long red military covering, cowboy boots, sunglasses and wearing a hefty clock on his chest.</p><p>He introduced himself as Commander Charles Boggle, &#x93;from another formerly and another place and that&#x92;s all I&#x92;ll tell you about me!&#x94; He hurried Tommy&#x92;s kindred into the machine. </p><p>&#x93;It&#x92;s perfectly safe,&#x94; he assured, as the kinsmen stared in awe. More than 2,000 lights twinkled from ceiling to Nautical, like a galaxy of stars. Six passenger seats were bolted to the conquer. The control panel looked like a fire machine dashboard.</p><p> &#x93;Sometimes the controls get a little off,&#x94; Boggle warned as he snapped switches on and off. &#x93;If we overshoot the yet, don&#x92;t worry. I&#x92;ll bring us back.&#x94;</p><p>First, everyone needed to modulation into 19th-century clothing, he said, to blend in. </p><p>Howard Harris found a top hat and crave suit coat. Kathy Harris picked out a great cotton dress and apron. Tommy put on a checkered wool for and a Civil War kepi cap.</p><p>Boggle asked Tommy to further him. The craft hummed and whirred. Lights blinked. Needles wavered. Boggle gave Tommy a joy melt.</p><p> &#x93;Don&#x92;t touch anything else except what I tell you,&#x94; Boggle ordered. Tommy nodded. The occasionally machine rumbled.</p><p>Through the windshield, the travelers saw images of each decade zoom by. In the twinkling of an eye, a dinosaur appeared, followed by loud roars. Boggle reversed the thrusters. The apparatus eventually stopped: Christmas Eve, 1862. Agree fiddle music filled the air. </p><p>The door opened.</p><p>Prosperity!! BOOM, BOOM!</p><p>Everyone jumped.</p><p>&#x93;Hurry, urgency,&#x94; Boggle ordered. &#x93;We landed in a struggle!&#x94;</p><p>Outside the door, shouts and gunfire. Yankees and Confederates. Dominance flashes. Thundering hooves. A horse raced by, about invisible in the blackness. A single voice cried out.</p><p>&#x93;They&#x92;ve ran off, sir! Should we observe them onto the ridge?&#x94;</p><p>Another voice told them no.</p><p> &#x93;We have civilians! Let the pickets conscious we found some civilians and will bring them into camp!&#x94;</p><p>Hands reached out to fortify the Harris family, helping them over the uneven base and sticky muck.</p><p>&#x93;We have a wagon, if the civilians would like to humbug into our camp. &#x85; We think you&#x92;d be safer there, folks, principally with these Johnny rebs around.&#x94; Tommy and his parents climbed into a horse-pulled wagon. Someone offered them a wool blanket.</p><p>The voices carried Irish accents. A captain explained they were the Missouri Irish Brigade. </p><p>In a clearing, canvas tents gleamed under the darkness sky. Dozens of soldiers gathered around a large fire, where two hunks of charred victuals roasted.</p><p> &#x93;We liberated a Confederate&#x92;s pig tonight,&#x94; said one soldier, who chuckled. The other soldiers laughed. </p><p>Kathy Harris asked how elongated they&#x92;d been camping here. </p><p>&#x93;Two months,&#x94; one said. &#x93;We&#x92;re here until we get orders to set off. &#x85; We came with 100 men, and the sickness has whittled us down to 87.&#x94;</p><p>The bantering stopped to sum up, as a wave of sadness passed. Soldiers missing their own families. Soldiers wistful, especially this special night. </p><p>Newspaper artist Thomas Nast, an illustrator covering the war for Harper&#x92;s Weekly, sketched the participate using the glow from the fire as his light.</p><p>Twigs snapped in the woods. Several soldiers jumped up. They tranquil when they saw it was one of their own playing Santa Claus, passing out socks. Tommy leaned over to his dad and whispered: &#x93;This is when we can give him the box.&#x94;</p><p>Father and son edged shut up and placed the box gently near his other gifts. In moments, Santa picked it up and handed it to a boy named Johnny, about the same age as Tommy.</p><p>The boy opened it and out jumped a kind-new Jack-in-the-box, not the tattered old one. Tommy noticed the variation. Grinning, he whispered to his dad, pointing.</p><p>The rest of the evening raced by. Tommy buckshot two muskets. Farmers arrived, bringing some Irish soda bread, mess, oatmeal cookies and coffee. Tommy&#x92;s dad infer from aloud a letter from one of the soldier&#x92;s sisters.</p><p>More twigs snapped neighbourhood. Tommy sat up. &#x93;Guys! I hear someone coming!&#x94;</p><p>Identically two dozen Confederates asked permission to record the camp. Skinny and hungry, with bandages covering their unshod feet, they wanted food.</p><p>Because it was Christmas, the Yankees said OK. At one go out of one's way to, a lone voice started singing. A fiddler joined. And there under the unencumbered night sky, a concert of about 50 voices softly sang &#x93;Still Night.&#x94; </p><p><span class="subhead">Returning cuttingly</p><p></span> But time unfolds the same whether in 2011 or 1862. And scanty boys still get sleepy. Tommy told his mom he was dog-tired.</p><p>Again, a wagon ride. Zipping through time. Boggle toe-hold the door. This time, they saw a mailbox. Inside, a combination for Tommy.</p><p>Someone sent him five musket balls, a vacant top and a newspaper dated Jan. 3, 1863. A very real Harper&#x92;s Weekly, with a garb illustration by Thomas Nast showing Santa Claus&#x92; first U.S. show.</p><p>Tommy stared at the drawing. A Civil War encampment. Yankee soldiers. Two bit boys in Kepi hats, one grinning afield at a Jack-in-the-box, the other watching his joy.</p><p>&#x93;That&#x92;s me. That&#x92;s me,&#x94; he told his parents.</p><p>&#x93;I didn&#x92;t necessity this evening to end,&#x94; Kathy Harris whispered. &#x93;This was a proficient night.&#x94; She blinked back tears, significant that before Tommy could crawl into his bed, he&#x92;d take one anti-nausea remedy, then two chemotherapy ones.</p><p>On the ride home in the limousine, nurturer and father smiled at each other, shaking their heads in disbelief. Three hours of news and camaradarie and effort, by dozens of strangers &#x97; and that was upstanding the ones they saw.</p><p>&#x93;All these people helping Tommy,&#x94; Howard Harris said. &#x93;I&#x92;m so amazed that on Christmas Eve, so many people would do this for us. &#x85; We&#x92;ll reminisce over this the rest of our lives.&#x94;

Source: Kansas City Star