I Believe in You

Photograph by Ross Yates.

I've always found summer to be magical in Minnesota.
The morning dew twinkles like crystal. The sun coaxes flower buds open and you can practically see Thumbelina posing on the stamen on her teeny tippy-toes. Spiders weave gossamer webs strung with diamond dew.
When I was a child, I not only read but lived in a fairy tale. I was one of those earnest bookworms who didn't understand that fantasy was different from reality. Real life magic all around me still casts its charm. I sometimes still find myself looking for fairies and pixies and sprites and brownies--those little folk that I'm sure I saw with my own eyes when I was younger.
In fact, one of the happiest parts of being a mother has been to plant my favorite fairy visions in the imaginations of my three children. Each of them, wide-eyed, has independently reported spotting a fairy house and fairy royalty. We have examined gardens, nests, holes, rock piles, woods, beaches and more in our pursuit of these elusive creatures...or the detritus they leave behind as they flee our curious gazes.
I'm down to just one child who is still buying what I'm selling and she's becoming a bit of a reluctant consumer all of a sudden.
However, the Lake Harriet Elf has gone a long way in keeping her Believer Status intact.
Mine too, in fact.
Do you know about the Lake Harriet Elf? He's been around for more than a decade, in his house just west of the steps on Oliver Avenue South.
He calls himself Mr. Little Guy, but does reveal that his given name is Thom. He and his family live in an unassuming ash tree in between the bike path and the walking path on Lake Harriet. The tree is unremarkable in that it is no different from scores of such strong and slender trees that line that stretch of lake.
What separates this tree from the others is the small door at its base. Cunningly fashioned of wood, it has a rounded shape and an infinitesimal doorknob. You need not be a student of the Brothers Grimm or Mr. H.C Anderson or Charles Perrault or any of the great purveyors of fairy tale literature in order to be familiar with this door. If you have ever once, even long ago, imagined that our world was jointly inhabited by Little Folk, then this door is familiar to you. It's a portal to something secret. And can't help but make you curious.
When we moved to Southwest Minneapolis two summers ago, the neighbor kids quickly led my then seven-year-old to the so called "ElfTree." I had heard of it, of course, had seen it, but was not fully aware of the lore and legend. I let my daughter take me there and allowed her to fill me in on the magical family residing in the tree.
Since then, we have been back many times. In keeping with tradition, my daughter left a note for the elf, asking about him and telling him about herself. Some days later, she got a personal reply from the elf, typed on silver paper about half the size of a standard business card. It still is fixed beneath a magnet on the family fridge.
I told her I could just see him, in his top hat, black suit and striped socks, typing away on a tiny typewriter.
My daughter looked at me like I was crazy. "He's half bald, Mom,' she informed me. "With red hair around the bottom. His suit is green. And he uses a little laptop."
With and without her, I have walked around Lake Harriet countless times and I always pause near the Elf Tree. In the summer, there are always flowers planted around it. Sometimes a wooden fence is installed to corral the flowers. There are always trinkets and treasures left there, and always letters. Children routinely drop off their missives and Mr. Little Guy issues his replies on those signature silver pages.
He and his family reside in the tree in the summer; he must be one of those prosperous elves who can make an exit during the cold months. He has been doing this for years, but has kept a low profile all the while.
It's enough to make me believe in him. As far as I can see, he has no agenda, no financial motivation. He is not trying to become Mr.LittleGuy, Inc, or market himself for the movies or commercial endorsement. He has never cashed in on his celebrity or the good will that he generates.
It's work, being Mr. Little Guy. Collecting those notes, writing back, all under the cover of the mist.
But imagine the payback.
The first walk I was able to take after my surgery, I hit the path at Lake Harriet and started walking with no destination in mind. I figured that once I got tired, I'd simply turn around and trudge home.
Without realizing it, my feet carried me to the Elf House. I plopped down on a nearby bench to watch the water and relax.
Instead, I spent a delightful half hour eavesdropping. Listening to young children, some squealing with curious pleasure, some wide-eyed and whispering in wonder. Some dropped off letters. Some talked to their parents about the details of the clothes the elf family wears or how their house must look deep inside the tree trunk.
While I was settled there, I saw three soldiers approach the tree. A woman, wearing an Army-green beret and fatigues, was accompanied by two men dressed identically. From the best my eavesdropping ears could make out (An aside: When you people are having interesting conversations, would you please SPEAK UP!) the woman was familiar with the Elf House and was sharing the story. The three of them squatted to study the door and the notes and the trinket treasures and each broke into child like grins. I resisted my urge to interview them (tragic professional liability) because I didn't want to interfere with their magical moment. I don't know if they have recently returned from a battle field...or are en route to one...but I know the men and women who wear the uniform need all the magic they can find.
I need my magic, too. I need to return to the ethos of my childhood, where I was deeply absorbed in possibility and had no interest or fear in the future. What surrounded me was simply enough.
I find rich pleasure in staring at that wooden door, knowing that someone who cares about magic lives behind it. It's true. He's real. He's goodness. He's helped me accept the wonder and joy that is all around us.
Mr. Little Guy and I have something in common, I have found. He gets letters and messages from complete strangers who express their fondness for him. That has been my experience as well this summer. Mr. Little Guy must keep going because it feels so good to get those good wishes. Feels so good to be believed in.
I'll sign this one off in homage to how Mr. Little Guy ends his notes...I couldn't say it any better than he can. To all of you who think of me, pray for me, send me your best and fervent wishes for health and healing, who believe I will beat this thing and survive to see the best that's ahead, I say, as he does:
"I believe in you."