Sittings Eleven and Twelve

Sitting Eleven

Everything's Coming Up

It was raining.

Not a pelting pouring, but more a determined drizzle that seemed to have booked the atmosphere for the day.

Christopher Timmons had invited Shelley to lunch. She requested they first stop off at Fenswick Park to look at a parcel of land she was considering for shooting a commercial for her company, employing Charrleen and The Jubilators. They were to meet at 10:45.

So Christopher was sitting on a park bench with an umbrella protecting him from participating in the precipitation.

He felt sullen.

He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the rain, or the fact that Shelley was late.

So he stared off at a point in the distance, and bore his glance in that direction, trying to escape the dreariness which was creeping into his soul.

Without him noticing, a little girl came and sat down on the other end of the bench. When she cleared her throat and coughed, he was shaken out of his trance and peered over at the little lady, who was completely encompassed from head to toe in a polyurethane rain suit, accentuated with pink flowers and yellow trees.

He nodded to her, and she peeked at him and then turned away, communicating that she had been well-trained in "stranger danger."

The sat in silence as the rain persisted.

For some reason, Christopher felt uneasy with the stillness, so he spoke up.

"What are you doing out in the rain?" he asked.

"Waiting," she replied.

"Me, too," he said.

Another bout of silence.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked with some renewed interest.

"My girlfriend," he answered. "Well, not exactly my girlfriend. She's a friend who's a girl, and we're dating, and I like the way it's going, but I'm not sure she does, so I'm not certain what to call our relationship, so ... Well, anyway, my girlfriend. Kind of."

The little girl nodded in complete disinterest.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm waiting for?" she said.

"Sure," Christopher replied, turning a bit in her direction. "What brings you out in the rain today?"

"I have a meeting," she answered.

"With a family of ducks?" he joked, and then realized that she didn't understand, thought about explaining, and decided to distance himself from his effort.

"No, they are not ducks," she answered politely. "It's two of my friends. We are planning things."

"Planning things?" repeated Christopher. "What things?"

The little girl suddenly turned to him as if energized by an electrical current and became animated. "Do you believe in dreams?"

"I have dreams," cited Christopher.

"I know that," she said. "But do you believe they have hidden messages? Do you believe that God is speaking through them? Or maybe not God... Because you could be an atheist. Are you an atheist?"

"No... not really," said Christopher, a little nervous with her manic energy.

"Do you know the song, Everything's Coming Up Roses by Ethel Merman?" asked the girl, leaping to yet another cliff of conversation.

"Not well," said Christopher. "I mean, I think I have heard it at some time or another."

"I love Ethel Merman," said the girl. "By the way, my name is Golda."

She held out her hand to Christopher.

"Christopher," he replied, shaking the tiny offering.

"Golda Linski. Now, I'm not Jewish, not that there's anything wrong with being Jewish," she added. "My daddy's Polish, and he came over from Poland for new opportunity in this new land."

She recited as if from a memorized speech.

"Christopher Timmons," he said. "I don't know what nationality my father was. I did eat a lot of sausage growing up."

"Polish sausage?" asked Golda fervently. "I bet it was! I bet it was!"

"Probably," said Christopher, readjusting the grip on his umbrella.

"Anyway," continued Golda, "in the song, Everything's Coming Up Roses, it starts off with, 'I had a dream.' It's so perfect for what's going on with me right now. Because I had a dream, too, and by the way, in the last part of the song...I bet you didn't know this...she sings, 'Everything's coming up sunshine and Santa Claus...'"

Christopher listened carefully, though he was getting a little nervous that he had stumbled upon a miniature wacko. He provided his best nod of approval.

She kept going.

"You see? That's my dream! I have a dream to write a Broadway musical about the North Pole, which will bring the sunshine of Santa Claus to the whole world! Do you believe in Santa Claus?"

"Well," said Christopher, mulling in his mind how much he should tell her, "I not only believe in Santa Claus, I also play the part of Santa Claus during the holiday season."

"You??" she shrunk back in a bit of horror.

"Yeah, me," he said, a bit offended. "Why? Don't you think I could be a good Santa Claus?"

"You're fat enough. But you're too old, right?" Golda partially asked, but mostly concluded.

"How old do you think I am?" he queried.

"Thirty?" said Golda.

"Close," said Christopher. "I'm 35."

"That's even older!" Golda inserted.

"Yeah, but how old do you think Santa Claus is?"

"Silly," she smiled. "Santa Claus doesn't have an age. He's a spirit. He lives forever."

"My mistake," apologized Christopher. "I guess because I'm fat enough they overlooked the fact that I'm too old. Anyway, I have the pleasure of getting to play Santa Claus for all the boys and girls each year."

"So you might get it," Golda said. "You might be able to understand why we're meeting."

"First of all," said Christopher slowly, "who is we? Because right now, all I see is you."

"Yeah," said Golda. "But I'm willing to believe you have a girlfriend even though I don't see one."

"Good point," said Christopher. "I guess what I mean is, who are these two other people you're speaking of. Is it two?"

"Yes, it's two. One is a boy who had a dream about a race and saving the reindeer. And the other is another little girl about my age who wants to have a gigantic board game tournament, with the winner getting a special lunch at the North Pole with Santa Claus."

"So," said Christopher, "let me get this straight. The three of you are meeting here in the park to discuss your dreams and... And what?"

"How to make them come true," said Golda with the seriousness of a funeral director. "You see, the dreams haven't stopped. They keep coming. They keep filling our minds with more ideas. Every night I can hardly wait to get to my bed and close my eyes to see and hear the notions from the spirit world, telling me how I can make...well, make something great."

Christopher was captured.

Part of him was completely disinterested in the conversation, frustrated that Shelley had left him out in the rain and ready to launch into a tizzy fit. But another portion of his being was intrigued with this little girl and was curious if he had perhaps been brought to this bench to hear her story.

Yet a silence settled in at this point.

Maybe the little girl felt that he was just another grown-up who was too busy to think about dreams. Or maybe she thought she had said too much and had shared a good portion of her heart with someone who was heartless.

He knew it was up to him to continue the conversation.

"I remember Ethel Merman," he said. "She had a real big voice."

Golda looked over at him with a big smile. "Yes. It was a real big voice. 'Everything's coming up roses,'" she sang,"'for me and for you.'"

Christopher joined in. She moved closer to him.

The rain continued to fall without mercy, equally and fairly.

"What are you going to do about your dreams?" asked Christopher.

"Well, that's the problem," said Golda sadly. "No matter how much we plan, no matter how much we get excited, we're just kids. Who will listen to us?"

"I'm listening."

"That's because you're a lonely grown-up sitting in the rain waiting for a girl you don't even know whether she's your friend or not, who plays Santa Claus in a world that doesn't believe in him."

Christopher was startled. This young lady was either wise beyond her years, or a witch. But she had pretty well capsulized his condition. He was mostly adult, but with just enough child to annoy his counterparts, and just adult enough to look like a pedophile when he hung around children.

"I don't think my friends are coming," said Golda.

"Why do you say that?" asked Christopher.

"Because they're not here and it's raining, and their moms probably didn't let them come out, and they probably don't have a cool rain suit like me."

"It is a cool rain suit," admired Christopher.

"I like your umbrella, too," shared Golda. "Maybe your friend that's a girl decided not to come out in the rain, too, and figured you would know not to show up."

Christopher realized that Golda was probably right. He grabbed his phone and called Shelley. Shelley answered on the second ring. Christopher put it on speaker phone so he could hear better.

"Where are you?" Shelley shouted through the phone.

"I am in the park--where we agreed to meet," said Christopher, unable to hide his petulance.

"It's raining," shouted Shelley.

"I know that," replied Christopher.

"I just figured you would know not to meet me in the park in the middle of a rain storm," punctuated Shelley, exasperated.

Golda leaned over. "Told ya'."

Christopher waved her off. "Well, it would have been nice if you had called."

"Called and said what?" screeched Shelley. "'It's raining?'"

"No," said Christopher, frustrated. "Just told me that you weren't going to come out to the park today in the rain, so I would not be sitting here on the bench, clutching an umbrella."

"Well, thank God. At least you have an umbrella," said Shelley, relieved.

"What?" wailed Christopher. "Do you think I'd be sitting here in the rain without an umbrella?"

"Well, honestly, Chris, you were dumb enough to sit in the rain. The absence of an umbrella wouldn't be that shocking."

Golda giggled. "She's funny..."

"So..." continued Christopher. "What do you want to do?"

"Are you there with someone?" asked Shelley.

"Yes, I'm sitting here with a little girl."

"My name is Golda!" shouted Golda towards the speaker.

"Why are you with a little girl, Christopher?" challenged Shelley.

"I'm not with a little girl," explained Christopher. "I was sitting on the bench and a little girl came and sat on the other end of the bench and we've been talking."

"I had a dream!" shouted Golda.

"Are you interpreting little girls' dreams, Christopher?" said Shelley, obviously worried.

"Listen, you're not going to turn this on me," said Christopher. "You are the crazy one for not telling me that you were cancelling the park meeting."

"Interesting," observed Shelley. "I'm the crazy one? I am sitting in my dry apartment, and you are sitting in the park in the driving rain, menacing a little girl."

"What does menacing mean?" Golda once again yelled at the phone.

"It means shut up!" said Christopher, completely annoyed.

"Did you tell that little girl to shut up?" asked Shelley angrily.

"No. I mean, yes. Kind of," fumbled Christopher.

"Don't worry!" said Golda, projecting her voice. "I didn't listen to him. I never shut up."

"Good for you!" said Shelley, trying to match the volume.

Christopher took a deep breath. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well," said Shelley, "I would like to have our lunch, but if you don't mind, it has to be at the downtown Marriott, and we are going to have other people there... if you don't get angry... because it needs to be a meeting... because Mr. Roger Dunleavy, one of my bosses...is bringing in the singer, Charrleen, to talk about the promotion we're doing in the park, where you're sitting, and I still want us to have lunch so we can be together, but...it kind of has to be this meeting. All right?"

Christopher paused. "Do I have a choice?" he asked.

"Not if you're hungry and you want to see me," Shelley replied. "By the way, what is the little girl like?"

"You realize she can hear you, right?" Christopher explained.

"Oh, that's right. You've got the phone on speaker," Shelley said.

Christopher thought for a second.

"What is she like?" he repeated. "Well, she is either a reincarnated gypsy act from Old Vaudeville, or a midget."

"O-h-h-h," said Golda, rebuking him. "You don't call them midgets! They're 'little people.'"

"She's right," said Shelley. "They're 'little people.'"

"Oh. My mistake," said Christopher. What time should I meet you at the Marriott for this private luncheon which has now gone public?"

"You seem upset," asked Shelley innocently.

"No," said Christopher. "I passed that long ago..."

One o'clock," said Shelley. "See you there, sweetie."

Shelley hung up before Christopher could say anything else.

"I think she likes you," said Golda. "She called you sweetie. Of course, that's what my grandma on my mother's side calls me, and she's usually pretty mean."

"Listen," Christopher interrupted, "I'm a weirdo. Not in the sense of chasing little girls or anything like that. I'm weird in the sense that I believe... Well, I believe in things. So answer me a question. When is your next meeting with your two friends?"

"We meet every day at 10:45 A. M., right here in the park."

"Can I come to the next meeting?" asked Christopher.

"Why?" asked Golda.

"Because you're kids. And you might have something to say. And you just might need a grown-up to help you."

"Do you know one?" asked Golda, wide-eyed.

"Well, Golda, I was thinking of me," said Christopher dryly.

"Oh. You," said Golda. "Well, I guess it's a start."

"Then it's a date," said Christopher.

"I'm not allowed to date," shared Golda seriously.

"I'm sorry. Poor choice of words. I'll meet you here tomorrow at 10:45. And tell all your friends to bring their dreams."

"We always do," said Golda, kicking her feet and splashing a puddle of water into the air.

Sitting Twelve

Eloise

 Charrleen stared at the green, gooey, half-frozen mess in her cup. She wondered when the fad of drinking these healthy smoothies would finally pass and she could return to sausage gravy and biscuits.

But this morning, she faithfully put spinach, blueberries, pieces of carrot, apple juice and two small clumps of kale into a blender with some whey, protein powder, two squirts of honey and ice cubes, let the blender whirl it around, and now found herself reluctantly pouring it into her mouth.

It was a price of fame. For after all, a young singer in her twenties would not dare embrace the breakfast of her southern upbringing in a climate of careful consumption. She was in the middle of her fifth gulp and cautious swallow when there was a knock at her door.

This was strange.

No one ever knocked on her door. There were door bells. There was even a door man downstairs, who usually rang to inform her of the arrival of a guest.

Charrleen was a bit spooked. She carefully made her way to the door and whispered, "Who's there?"

"It's me, dear child of God," came the voice from the other side.

Even though it was the last voice she expected to ever hear, she knew exactly who it was.

It was her Grandmama on her father's side--Eloise Chezvant.

She was a character in the sense that she had maintained her Cajun accent, inclination to suddenly burst into profanity in beautiful Creole, and was completely out of step with all tides and trends of the world around her.

Charrleen, completely freed of any fear of an intruder, flung the door open, and in a gasp, released, "Grandmama Eloise! What are you doing here?'

Eloise came into the room and began to survey the surroundings without any hesitation or invitation.

"I'm here to see my granddaughter, who apparently has forgotten how to write a letter."

"A letter?" questioned Charrleen, closing the door and giving a quick hug to her Grandmama.

"Yes," said Eloise. "You know what a letter is. Pen put to paper with personal thoughts, sent through the mail and arriving at your home, usually demanding a response."

"I'm sorry," said Charrleen nervously, motioning to a chair for her Grandmama to sit. "I don't get my letters. They go to my fan club."

"Your fan club," said Eloise. She took her cane and brushed it against the chair that had been offered in an attempt to remove invisible dirt. "I'm not your fan, dear girl. I'm your Grandmama."

She eased herself down onto the seat.

"I know that," said Charrleen, sitting down next to her and hugging her again. "Why didn't you text me?"

Eloise continued to look about the room with an air of disapproval. "Even if I knew what that was, I probably wouldn't do it. I am a letter writer, as you well know."

"You could have called," offered Chaarleen.

"I can't figure out the new phones," explained Eloise. "And my old phone has a broken cord and I can't get anybody to replace it."

Eloise suddenly looked at the green clump of fluid in the cup on a nearby table. "And what is that, my dear?" she asked, using her cane as a pointer.

"That, Grandmama, is called a smoothie," said Chaarleen, rushing to grab it and pour it down the sink.

"Is it?" asked Eloise.

"Is it what?" queried Chaarleen, heading back to sit down next to Grandmama.

"Is it smooth?"

Chaarleen laughed. "Well, no. Matter of fact, smooth would be the last word I would use for it."

"I see," said Eloise.

She leaned back in her chair and tilted her head back as if readying herself for a nap.

"So, Grandmama," said Chaarleen, "how did you get here?"

"I took a bus," said Eloise.

"A bus?" Chaarleen was shocked. "Why didn't you fly?"

"Well, my dear," said Eloise, "I don't have wings, and I don't particularly favor the metal ones they insist can take you from place to place."

"You've never been on a plane?" said Chaarleen.

"I have," shared Eloise. "Just don't plan on repeating it. The only time I want to get that high in the sky is when I'm on my way to heaven."

Chaarleen had to giggle. "So how long did it take you to get here on a bus?"

Grandmama Eloise gave it some thought. "Well, my sweet, I don't think about the passage of time. I got on the bus, and enjoyed conversations with people so much that all I can tell you is that it was two candy bars, three cups of coffee, four trips to the potty, a terrible egg salad sandwich, a meal of meat loaf and a bag of potato chips before I arrived at your bus station."

Chaarleen hugged her again. She loved her Grandmama very much, even though the old lady was very opinionated and not exactly her greatest fan.

When Chaarleen decided to move to Los Angeles to work on her music career, Grandmama called the local priest and invited him to the house, insisting that Chaarleen was infested by some sort of demonic force that was calling her away to be tempted by the spirits of darkness. (Fortunately, the priest was intelligent enough to realize that the old lady was just sad about the departure, and opted to forego a full-fledged exorcism.)

But Chaarleen respected the old woman. Her Grandmama Eloise had lived in New Orleans all her adult life, marrying a Greek Orthodox man who had once owned a business consortium in Istanbul. He had moved to the States, where he fell madly in love with Eloise, who was the proprietor of what was referred to as "The Salon."

The nice folks of the town knew it to be a place of relaxation and a good location to receive a massage. But the more critical members of the community deemed it a den of iniquity, where more than the massaging of egos was frequently performed.

Eloise was a character--an enigma wrapped up in a paradox, with a huge question mark fastened on the top.

Chaarleen decided to take it nice and slow and let her Grandmama provide the insight for the visit.

Eloise requested a little bit of brandy, which Chaarleen did not have, and instead offered her some red wine.

The old lady sat patiently, waiting for her refreshment, and when it was delivered, she took two sips, set it on the table, drew a deep breath and began.

"I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to see you."

Chaarleen remained silent, knowing there was a speech forthcoming which she didn't need to interrupt.

"I've been following your career," said Eloise. "You make very beautiful music."

Chaarleen beamed. Praise was hard to come by from the lips of her Cajun relative.

"But I be a bit concerned about your latest song."

Grandmama Eloise peered at Chaarleen as if looking into her deepest soul, as only the aged woman could. "I believe it's called... something about jubilation."

"Great Jubilation," said Chaarleen quietly.

"I am concerned," said Eloise.

"What concerns you, Grandmama?" asked Chaarleen tenderly.

"Did I ever tell you about my life as a girl--a child in the old country?"

"I don't believe so," said Chaarleen, taking her Grandmama's hands in her own.

"I was a Catholic girl, living in a Protestant world, surrounded by intellectuals. We celebrated Christmas. We did it in our own way. But gradually, because there were so many different interpretations of the season, disagreements ensued, if you will. Someone came up with the bright idea that Christmas was the problem--that if there were no Christmas, we all could peacefully get along like we did the rest of the year. Do you hear what I'm saying, girl?"

Chaarleen nodded her head.

"But it went further than that," continued Eloise. "During the September meeting of the town council, they voted that this particular year, in our little town, there would be no celebration of Christmas. No recognition of a Savior born. No decorations. And no pretty candles."

"Really?" said Chaarleen.

"Yes, really, my dear. Everything is made possible by human will. So we can will to celebrate, or we can will to deny one another the celebration."

She continued. "I was just a small lady. At first I didn't think much about losing Christmas. I enjoyed the holiday, but it had become predictable. Same songs. Same decorations. Same story.

"So I joined with the other children in ignoring the season, with a plan for our village to live through a year without Christmas. When December arrived, a fresh snow fell from the heavens as it always did, foretelling of the coming of the Yuletide. But instead of responding to the chill in the air by bringing in the evergreen and displaying the holly, each one, in his or her own way, denied the cold and the snow and tried to live on, pretending there was little reason to be involved.

"It was the worst month of my life. The earth did not swallow us up, nor did the sky speak disapproval. No. What we lacked is what we, ourselves, decided to do without. The possibility of kindness, the giving of a gift, the sharing of a meal..."

Chaarleen interrupted. "Grandmama, I'm not trying to get rid of Christmas..."

"Please, let me finish!" Eloise said sternly.

Chaarleen nodded obediently.

"The day before Christmas, such a sadness hung over the town that one of the local churches broke rank and had their organist softly play Christmas carols, while opening the doors of the church so the town could hear. I have never felt such a healing in my soul, provided by a simple melody.

"People sat in their homes and wept as the organist played one hour--two hours. Or was it three? And even though we did not celebrate Christmas that year, on the afternoon of December 25th, the City Council met together and voted down the injunction against Christmas.

"The following message was printed and placed on the doorstep of each household: 'We are sorry we lost Christmas. We will not do it again. Christmas is not a season. It is a way of life.'"

As Eloise finished, her eyes filled with tears. She squeezed Chaarleen's hands and said, "The song is beautiful, my sweet. But Christmas is not an option. It is the food that is required for our souls."

Chaarleen welled up with tears. She didn't know how to explain to this well-seasoned woman the nature of the music business, the emotions of the country, nor the promotion that was garnering her great finance.

So the two of them embraced, crying softly, letting love have its moment.

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