My mother considered herself a Christmas elf. She was a no-nonsense, practical woman who also happened to be 5 feet, 11 inches tall. Not exactly a pixie. But every December, as the month wore on, she got a bad case of Elf-ism while scattering her pixie dust.

Wearing a Santa hat, she loved to surprise her friends with little gifts or baked goods, or just sit, twinkle, and talk to a shut-in for an hour. Could she help it if she happened to have a banana bread and a dozen Christmas cookies with her? No. She couldn’t help it.

Sometimes six or eight loaves of her banana bread went into a sack she drove to a Boston soup kitchen. She then worked an eight-hour day serving the homeless. At age 80. She believed in the “reason for the season.” Her faith propelled her to care, and do, and give.

But it was also her happy season and she reveled in it. A lot of what she loved about the holidays was looking the part. Most of the month, she wore Santa hats of varying lengths in red or green velvet, and elfin hats as well. “Gee, Mom, we need to get some of those pointy elf shoes for you,” I offered.

“Nope, they don’t make them in my size.”

“You already checked?” I asked.

“Of course. But nobody makes any cute, size 12s for Christmas. Just those ugly black Santa boots, and I gave those away with my Santa suit.”

Oh, yeah, I remember that outfit. She wore it for many years. She loved playing Santa at senior citizen organizations. The men all resisted, and the women were too small. “I took care of that problem,” she said when she ordered the Santa suit with all the trimmings. She rounded out her belly with two pillows, found skinny glasses for the end of her nose, and extra rouge for the round cheeks. She even bought a bottle of Old Spice at a yard sale – for a quarter. “Santa can’t smell like Chanel No. 5. I have to be authentic.”

She did struggle with Santa’s deep, gruff voice. She practiced, so she could fool the senior friends. She knew all their names, teased them with personal comments, and they still didn’t know who she was. Pixie fun.

I wore that Santa suit two seasons and remember how difficult it was maintaining that deep, gravelly Ho, Ho, Ho. The second Christmas, a particularly insistent 5-year-old jumped up and down in front of my sack screeching, “I wanna present. I wanna present.” I kept reaching into the bag praying the next package would have her name on it, and when I read another child’s name, the shrieking continued. Thirteen presents later, at the bottom of my sack, I finally found the present with her name tag. She grabbed it, ripped off the ribbon and wrapping, and yelled, “I don’t want this!! You didn’t listen!”

I can’t say I was sympathetic. I was too mad. And then I thought, Wait, you’re supposed to be Santa. Loveable, understanding, Santa. This thrashing, squealing brat is still a little girl, a 5-year-old who believes.

I stayed in character, but my basso profundo was rapidly passing up through baritone to tenor. Placating Miss Insistent had taxed my vocal cords so much that they could only be soothed with spirits. The liquid kind.

Eventually we donated the Santa suit. I wasn’t unhappy to see it go.

When Mom wasn’t impersonating the greatest elf of all, she loved being decked out in her Christmas finery. Many holiday sweaters cycled through the month. Naturally, the Christmas earrings, necklaces, and pins adorned the festive outfits bringing on the elfin twinkle in her personality. She treasured her bejeweled fancy brooches that brightened a dark coat or a red dress.

I wore her favorite Christmas brooch to a party just last evening. The green “emerald” wreath surrounds a “diamond” candle, lit with a polished “amber” flame – all topped off with a “ruby” ribbon bow. After a friend commented how pretty it was, I think I’ll wear it more often.

Mom dressed for every season or holiday. “Your clothes are boring,” she told me one day. “You wear entirely too much black.”

“Mom, I like black. I lived in New York City. I feel secure, comfortable – plus, it’s slimming. I’m going to wear black until they invent something darker.”

“Well, you won’t catch me running around in widow’s weeds. I like color.”

I knew that, all the way back to my childhood. She did have lovely things she wore during the non-seasonal days of the year. She loved dress-ups of every kind.

I’ve decided to wear her Christmas brooches on my “drab” blacks this season. They should sparkle brightly … especially coated with all that pixie dust.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com