Ellen Herrick

Author of The Sparrow Sisters

I Have No Elf on a Shelf

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My children are grown now so we missed the Elf on a Shelf extravaganza. And, no I am not sorry. Not that we didn’t have our own, certainly less KGB, elf tradition. It began with my father. But really, it began with his five sisters and three brothers on a tobacco farm in 1930s North Carolina. There wasn’t a lot of money in this big family but there was a lot of love. The older children looked out for the younger right down to making sure the magic and mystery of Christmas, elves and all, was never forgotten. They are all gone now; my father was the last. But, they left me with a lasting love of the season and an unshakeable belief in the power of family love.

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Weep No More, My Lady

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Here is something you should know about me.  I’m not a crier, not really.  I do not cry about sad/bad things happening in my life.  Ever.  I didn’t cry when my mother died.  I’m not a hard-hearted Hannah, I just don’t cry about the big things.  I do, however, weep copiously when small children sing at school concerts.  I cry when I see a little person lost in the supermarket.  I cry when I see a balloon floating away in the sky.  I have been known to cry at that 1970s ad for some do-good organization that features a kid in group home writing a letter to Santa asking for a puppy.  Does anyone remember that ad?  One kid says “Santa won’t bring you a puppy!”  And then, the do-gooder volunteer/ Secret Santa/postal worker guy reads the letter.  On Christmas morning, the kid finds a puppy waiting for him.  Of course he does.  The look on his face?  Priceless.  The look on the pooh-poohing kid’s face?  Oh, the humanity!!

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Riding in Cars with Boys

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In the mornings, after everyone has gone to school, I make my way through the house.  I pick clothes up off the floor, stack notebooks, flush toilets and yes, make beds.  Now, while it’s true that my children make their own beds, I remake them.  I wonder if, when they are in their rooms at the end of the day, they look at their beds and marvel at how the duvets are smooth and unruffled, the pillows piled just so. Do they think, damn, I make a fine bed?  Do they silently thank me for my controlling ways?  Probably not.

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Care and Feeding

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One of my first jobs was at a not-for-profit think tank.  I figured out pretty damn quick that I needed profit to live in New York City.  I also noticed that at 23 I was too easily distract–oooh, something shiny!–ed to do much of the thinking thing.  So, wisely, I went to work in publishing.  I mean, I read walking down the street, surely I would really focus if it was my job.

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