Sittings Thirteen and Fourteen

Sitting Thirteen
The Lunch Crunch

Christopher Timmons crossed his fingers and nervously entered the lobby of the Marriott. He was hoping that Shelley would be there to meet him, but she was nowhere in sight.

So he made his way to the restaurant.

He hated this part of any luncheon appointment: when you walk into the restaurant and you don't know where your friends are and you have to feverishly look around the room to find them, only to discover that you are temporarily blinded, and it seems like everyone in the room is staring at you because you are "unmated" to a table, and even though your friends spot you and are waving their arms like they're trying to land a supersonic jet, for some reason you can not get your eyeballs focused, so they are forced to call your name across the restaurant, making everyone in the establishment look at you and notice your chubby body stumbling quickly to the table, while their curiosity is stimulated about what you might order in an attempt to keep from ballooning up even further.

Christopher had some issues.

Arriving at the table, Shelley reached over and shook his hand, which shocked him a bit since he was expecting a kiss, even if only on the cheek.

"Mr. Timmons, I would like you to meet my boss, Mr. Mankins."

Mr. Mankins reached out to shake his hand. "Just call me Ron."

"Okay, Ron. You can call me Chris."

He sat down, and both Shelley and Mankins began staring at their menus while continuing to talk.

"So, Chris, what do you do for a living?" asked Mankins.

Shelley answered for Chris. "Well, Ron, Chris is a writer."

Mankins continued staring at his menu. "A writer, huh? Anything I'd know?"

Shelley once again fielded the question. "Well, he's really just starting. You know, everything has a beginning long before it has an end."

Christopher squinted, curious if it would be necessary for him to participate in any way, shape or form. He ventured in.

"And in the holiday season..."

Shelley kicked him underneath the table. Christopher turned to her and she shook her head. Apparently he had said, or was about to say something wrong.

"What about the holiday season?" said Mankins, eyes still glued to the menu.

Fortunately, the clumsy conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress. She was bubbly and excited.

"Hi, there. My name is Treysha."

"Tricia?" asked Chris.

"No! Treysha. That's T-R-E-Y-S-H-A. My parents wanted a boy, and they were set on naming him Trey, so they saw no reason to abandon a good name."

Neither Shelley nor Mr. Mankins seemed to be aware of the waitress's presence.

"Well, let me start off by telling you about our specials today," said Treysha. "We are offering shark. Yes, shark. So if you order it, it will be 'man eating shark.'"

Treysha giggled, including a bit of a snort. Chris laughed politely, and then realized it was really quite funny and put a little more of his heart into it. Shelley and Mankins mirrored each other with menu intrigue.

"Have any of you ever eaten shark?" Treysha inquired.

Chris looked over at Shelley and Ron to see if they were going to respond and concluded that they were apparently mesmerized, so he answered. "Well, I haven't. What's it taste like?"

"Well, I haven't personally tried it," said Treysha. "But the cook says it is a very firm, white fish--just fatty enough that you might think it's steak from the sea."

Well rehearsed and well presented.

"Well, I think I'll have the shark, then," said Christopher, handing back the menu.

"Great!" said Treysha. "And how about the two of you?"

Mr. Mankins responded without even looking up at the waitress. "I would like the all-American blue plate salad without the baby corn, with extra tomato and your very lightest dressing on the side, please."

Shelley watched her boss very carefully and then said to the waitress, "I'll have the same except I want my baby corns."

"Comin' right up!" said Treysha, unconcerned with the general lack of attention.

As soon as Treysha left, an uncomfortable silence settled in like a hovering specter. There were a few sighs, sippings of water and then Shelley hit her knee against the table, interrupting the solitude with an, "Excuse me."

Christopher decided to permeate the bleakness with some words. "Well, isn't there a fourth that's joining us?"

Mankins looked down at this watch with some irritation. "Yes, Charrleen was due here ten minutes ago. She's late."

"Well, you know those creative types," said Shelley cautiously.

"But there's no excuse for being late," said Mankins.

"Of course not," responded Shelley.

"Well, I was four days late being born," said Christopher. "Of course, my mother found that quite rude."

His attempt at humor was greeted with a nod by Mr. Mankins. Christopher realized this was not going to be a free-flowing event.

The silence was graciously interrupted by the arrival of Charrleen, who breathlessly explained that she had been delayed by the arrival of an unexpected guest in her home. She shared that her Grandmama Eloise had arrived from Louisiana for a visit, and that she had to make preparations to care for her.

Christopher wanted to get more details about Charrleen's relative, but Mankins interrupted. "Well, it's like they always say--the trouble with relatives is that they're related to us."

There was a very brief pause as everyone tried to discern his remark. Shelley noticed a smirk on his face, assumed it was meant to be funny, so she choked out a chuckle.

Charrleen maintained a perplexed expression, and Christopher tried to follow Shelley's lead, and ended up with a half-choke giggle.

Undaunted, Mankins continued. "Well, there are three reasons for this meeting today. Let's see if we can answer three questions before we enjoy our repast."

Christopher smiled, thinking that 'repast' was a little pretentious for chomping shark and dressing on the side.

Mankins forged on. "What have we learned so far? Number two, what's next? And number three, what more can we do to promote the idea of 'Great Jubilation?'"

He looked around at everybody at the table, as if revealing the secret of the Holy Grail. Shelley paused for a second and then leaped in.

"Well, let me start," she said. "So far we have recorded the song, 'Great Jubilation'--thanks to Charrleen and the Jubilators..." Shelley put her hands together and feigned applause without sound.

"Thank you," said Charrleen, placing her own hands together in some sort of pseudo-Buddhist pose.

"What's next," said Shelley, "is to make another great promotional video out in Fenswick Park. We chose it because it's very accessible and we weren't charged anything for the use of the area."

"Excellent!" said Mankins.

"As to what's more," continued Shelley, "I have my team working on that and have some good ideas brewing."

"If you don't mind me interrupting," said Christopher.

Once again, Shelley kicked him under the table.

"Or maybe I'll just wait," he added, grabbing his glass and taking a huge gulp.

"No, no," said Mankins. "Continue. I don't know who you are, but that doesn't mean you don't have intelligence."

"Thank you," said Christopher tentatively.

Shelley interrupted. "Christopher is a really nice guy, but he has some old-fashioned feelings about the holiday season."

Obviously, Shelley was anticipating what was about to flow from Christopher's mouth.

Charrleen jumped in. "I have some questions, too."

"Well, well, well," said Mankins. "Seems like we're going to have a lively discussion. Who wants to begin?"

Christopher nodded to Charrleen, to take her turn first. She smiled, took a deep breath, and began.

"Well, let me first say that no one could be more grateful than I am for the opportunity you have given me to record this song and see it climb the charts."

"Well, I'm no musician," said Mankins, "but it's a damn beautiful song. Don't you think so, Shelley?"

Shelley gulped. "Damn beautiful."

"I've only heard it once," Christopher inserted.

"Where you been, son?" Mankins demanded. "It's played all the time."

"Well, my taste in music..."

Mankins interrupted Christopher. "Well, anyway, Charrleen, you were saying..."

"Well," said Charrleen slowly. "Grateful as I am, I have to admit that I think our mission is...may I say? Faulted."

"Faulted?" frowned Mankins. "Interesting word, don't you think, Shelley?"

"Fascinating," Shelley mused obediently.

Christopher couldn't help himself. "If by faulted, you mean dumb, then yes."

Mankins ignored Christopher and turned to Charrleen. "What do you think is faulted?"

Suddenly Charrleen dropped her spoon on the ground, staring off across the room. "Oh, my God," she said.

"What's wrong?" asked Shelley.

"Are you all right?" inquired Christopher, concerned.

"How did she get here?" asked Charrleen in a mystical, breathy voice.

Everybody tried to look where Charrleen was staring, and discovered that her eyes had fallen upon an old woman about four tables away, sitting and facing them, with a cane in her left hand, sipping what appeared to be tea from a cup in her right hand.

"Who is that?" said Christopher. "Do you know her?"

"It is my Grandmama Eloise," said Charrleen, shocked. "I left her at home. I have no idea how she got here."

"She seems nice," said Christopher, trying to lighten the mood.

"Would you like to invite her over to our table?" asked Shelley.

"No!" said Charrleen with great intensity. "I mean...no, that's not necessary..."

"Perhaps this is a bad time for this meeting since you have relatives in town," said Mankins, trying to control the situation.

Charrleen stood to her feet. "I'm sorry. I'm going to have to...I'm going to have to do something."

She scurried away from the table and over to her Grandmama, took her by the arm, and the two of them left the restaurant as quickly as possible, considering the age difference.

"Well, that was interesting," said Christopher.

"Shelley, do you know anything about Charrleen's problems?" asked Mankins.

"Not a thing, Mr. Mankins. I thought she was really pleased with the coverage we were giving her."

"Well, I hope we don't have a problem," said Mankins.

Christopher could not wait any longer. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. She is probably just a little upset that you are single-handedly trying to destroy Christmas."

Shelley attempted to kick him once again, but this time Christopher had moved his legs. Mankins furrowed his brow.

"And why do you think we're trying to destroy Christmas? We're just trying to liven it up, freshen it, make it more available to all the masses. Update it!"

"Did you ever stop to ask yourself if any of that was necessary?" challenged Christopher. "And before you interrupt me, let me explain. There's an old saying in the military--'if it ain't broke, don't fix it.' Christmas ain't broke. There's no need to fix it. Oh, sure, some people get a little nervous with the religious overtones, or think it's over the top, but generally speaking, it is not only an emotional and spiritual success, but a huge financial boost that fills the coffers of our large corporations and gives them the profit margin to pay salaries for public relations firms like you, who deem themselves progressive by trying to kill it."

Mankins looked over at Shelley. "Well, you certainly have an interesting young man you've hooked up with."

"Don't blame her," said Christopher. "She's kicked me under the table four times, trying to keep me quiet. And by the way, how I earn my money for most of the year is by playing Santa Claus. That's what she didn't want me to tell you. So since I've become cumbersome to this conversation, I will excuse myself and let the two of you continue this discussion without my interference."

Christopher nodded his head to Shelley and then to Mr. Mankins. "Shelley. Ron. Thank you for an interesting time."

Christopher rose from his chair and walked out of the restaurant with a bit of righteous confidence.

Mankins looked at Shelley and Shelley back at Mankins.

Just then Treysha arrived with the tray of food.

"Now," she said. "Who was the brave 'man eating shark?'"

Sitting Fourteen 

The Pop Quiz

 Ever since lunch, Christopher had tried to reach Shelley on the phone, only to get her answering machine ten times.

He left ten messages.

Each one was a little different. The first three might be considered frantic. The next three were a little defensive, trying to explain why he had made his stand with Mr. Mankins. And the last four had increasing degrees of groveling, begging for her forgiveness.

No response.

So Christopher was grateful that he had the diversion of going to Fenswick Park for the 10:45 meeting with Golda and her friends, to discuss their dreams. As he walked toward the park, he felt a bit confused about the whole rendezvous.

What did he think he was trying to do? How would his presence be perceived by these unknown children?

He arrived at 10:40 and promptly at 10:45, Golda came walking up to him. Standing about twenty yards away was another girl, and a boy was sitting on the ground, grabbing little sticks and stones and casting them forward in a profile of obvious disgust.

As Golda walked up, Christopher asked, "Why are your friends staying over there?"

"Because of you," said Golda.

"What's wrong with me?" asked Christopher, still a bit bruised from the luncheon calamity of the previous day.

"I tried to explain to them that I had a great conversation with you, and you seemed okay, but they just can't believe that any grownup could be trusted, of any good or of any help," said Golda.

But I'm not a grown-up," insisted Christopher. "Not a typical one."

"I'm sorry, but they just don't believe me," said Golda. She started to walk away.

"Wait!" said Christopher. "Tell them to give me a chance."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," said Christopher. "Test me. Question me. Something."

Christopher was a little surprised at his own persistence.

Golda paused.

"Tell you what," she said. "Let me go talk to them again. I'll be right back."

Christopher watched closely as Golda reasoned with the others. He tried not to be too intently observant lest he scare them away, but still peered in their direction to find out what would be the end result.

The three argued and fussed, and Golda finally put a finger on each of their noses, making a final point. They nodded their heads and she slowly made her way back to Christopher.

"So what's the word?" said Christopher anxiously.

"They want to test you," said Golda.

"Test me?" asked Christopher.

"Yes. A series of four tests, to see if you're really different, or if you're just an average grown-up, trying to pretend you care about kids."

"Okay," said Christopher, uncertain but thrilled with the opportunity.

Golda motioned to the two kids to come over. As soon as they arrived, the boy stepped in and took over.

"My name is Harry Ventner, and I will be in charge of your test. This is Shanisse Martinez, and she helped me come up with the questions."

Shanisse folded her arms across her chest, glaring at the hapless adult.

"So what do you need to know?" asked Christopher.

"Question one," said Harry. "Name Santa's reindeer."

"Let me see," began Christopher. "What was the song again...?"

"You can't use the song!" interrupted Harry, wagging his finger in Christopher's face.

"Oh, that's mean," said Christopher. "You are tough. Okay. Here we go. There's Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Comet, Cupid, Donner..."

"That's six, mister. There's two more," challenged Harry.

"Okay," said Christopher. "Let me start again. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer...VIXEN! There's one."

He continued. "Comet, Cupid...I got it. Donner and Blitzen."

"He got them," said Shanisse, surprised.

"It took two tries," added Golda.

"Give me a break," said Christopher. "I think even Old Man Claus might forget sometimes."

"He is not an old man," said Harry. "You are."

"Right," said Christopher, realizing he needed to be more careful. "And don't forget Rudolph!"

"Rudolph is retired," said Shanisse.

"He's been replaced by his son, Randolph," added Harry.

"Randolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?" queried Christopher incredulously.

"Yeah," said Golda. "What's your problem?"

"No problem," said Christopher. "You know what they say about Rudolph. He is...or was...Santa's designated driver when Mr. Claus had too much egg in his nog, making for a foggy night."

Christopher laughed. Alone.

"Was that supposed to be funny?" Golda asked.

"No," said Christopher. "Just an anecdote."

"Part two!" announced Shanisse. "Follow me."

Christopher rose and followed the children across the playground over to the slide.

Harry spoke up. "We want you to climb up the slide and slide down it."

"What?" exploded Christopher.

"I told you that's what he'd say!" exclaimed Shanisse. "A real child would never say 'what' to the chance to go down a slide."

"Then neither do I," concluded Christopher determinedly.

He carefully put his big feet onto the steps and maneuvering his chubby bottom onto the slide. He pushed off, getting caught halfway down the descent because he was too thick. All at once there was a cracking sound.

Golda ran over, waving her hands in the air. "You didn't make it, and you broke the slide!"

Christopher struggled, finally freeing himself from the apparatus and rising to his feet.

"The issue was not whether I would make it all the way, but whether I was willing to go down the slide. Am I right?" he questioned.

The kids looked at each other and had to agree.

"Next question," said Golda. "It's dinner at your house. You hate vegetables. But which vegetable would you rather have your mother serve? Broccoli? Asparagus? Or carrots?"

Christopher paused, thinking deeply. "Well," he said. "Asparagus is too weird. Carrots...uh...I don't think so. All right. Broccoli."

The three children burst out laughing.

"I told you he was just a grown-up," said Harry.

"Wait!" Christopher objected. "Doesn't broccoli taste better than carrots or asparagus?"

"They're vegetables!" said Shanisse. "You don't plan on tasting them."

Golda stepped in. "The issue is which vegetable can you slip into your hand easily under the table and have the dog eat without your parents knowing."

Harry concluded. "Any kid would know that dogs don't eat asparagus or broccoli. Your best chance would be carrots."

The three children nodded in unison.

"Good point," said Christopher. "You got me on that one. I am learning."

"I think he's flunkin'," said Harry.

"C minus," offered Shanisse.

"Let's give him one more chance," said Golda. She faced Christopher. "Why does Santa bring toys?"

Harry jumped in. "And be careful. Don't give some dumb grown-up answer."

Christopher wanted to win this one. He wanted their acceptance. As silly as it seemed, the past few months had been difficult for him--especially since he had started dating Shelley, who made him feel immature because she didn't share many of his desires.

So he walked back over to the park bench, followed by the three young ones. He sat down, looked at them, and said, "I suppose I could tell you that Santa brings toys because he loves children, but everybody says they love children. But not everyone brings them toys. I suppose some people think Santa brings toys because he's copying the gift of the Wise Men, who brought gold, frankincense and myrrh to little baby Jesus. But it's more than that. Then there's the idea that Santa isn't real, and we use him as a way of making a holiday of gift-giving, so big companies can make big money. But I don't believe any of those to be true. I think Santa brings toys because he's still a child himself and he just likes toys, and he's looking for other people who like them, too."

A quiet settled on the park as three children considered the fate of a grown-up. They looked at one another and agreed.

Harry stuck out his hand towards Christopher. "Good answer. Only a kid would have known that."

Christopher took the hand of the little fellow and then shook each hand as a confirmation of their union.

For the next hour they talked. The children shared their dreams. They told of additional dreams, where they were being prompted to hurry and make their night visions come true.

Christopher revealed some dreams of his own.

Soon there was a unity only experienced by those who share a common heart. The children forgot that they were too young and Christopher forgot that he felt rejected by the adult world around him.

At the end of the visit they agreed to meet back in three days to put together some plans to make all their dreams come true. As they left they held hands and made a promise, reciting these words:

"May we work together to let Christmas be Christmas."

That said, the children ran away to their homes, and Christopher ambled down the path alone, towards his car.

Emerging from behind a tree, dressed in a navy-blue wool trench coat and a matching fedora, with a beard that lay upon the coat like freshly fallen snow was an aged man with a cane.

He watched as the foursome departed, and then chuckled to himself. He turned and walked away, with an intermittent giggle punctuating his pace.

 

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.

JOIN US TO CONTINUE THE STORY ON FRIDAY, APRIL 24TH!

Sittings Nine and Ten

Sitting Nine
Park It

 
Fenswick Park was only two blocks from Harry Ventner's home.

It was named in honor of George Robert Fenswick, who donated the money for the parcel of land from his fortune, derived by manufacturing rubber bands. A trust was also provided for upkeep and bi-annual improvements.

Harry was in a hurry on this morning. He gulped down the smoothie his mother had prepared for breakfast, begged to be excused and then ran out the door toward the park, barely hearing his mother's final request, "Be back for lunch!"

Ever since awakening an hour earlier, he had been thinking about heading for the park to try to fulfill the dream which had encompassed his night life.

Such a dream. It was about the North Pole, Santa Claus and his beard, and a great race.

For such an endeavor, he would need to immediately begin training. After all, sometimes dreams come true. And maybe it would happen more often if we knew how to run the first mile.

Likewise, Shanisse Martinez arose early. So early in the morning that her mother yelled at her and told her to go back to bed. Rather than complying, she grabbed two of her favorite board games, meticulously counted the pieces to make sure everything was in place and in order, and then sat in a big, leather chair near her desk, staring up at the ceiling fan, waiting for the time she could finally leave her room and head off to find the venue to hold her boardgame extravaganza, which would include thousands--maybe millions--of people, in pursuit of sharing grilled cheese and tomato soup with Mr. S. Claus.

This had been her dream from the previous night.

Not certain exactly where to head, Shanisse took off four blocks down the road, to the largest open area she knew that was available--Fenswick Park.

Golda Linski awakened, enlivened by her dream, sitting straight up in her bed, with the lyrics of a Broadway tune from a musical named North Pole rumbling around in her head, begging to be sung.

North, north, north

We must go

To a land filled

With ice and snow

South, south, south

Bring the toys

To good little girls and boys.
 

East, east, east

Hop the sleigh

Fly with Santa

For just today

 

West, west, west

Chase the star

Never complain

About how far.

 

She was breathless. She felt inspired. She was compelled by a force beyond herself to write a tribute to the North Pole. She had never even considered writing a song of her own until this moment. She was completely satisfied to sing the tunes of other musical greats, pleasing herself in the joy of their words.

But now, suddenly, she was a composer. And the subject sacred to her soul--Santa Claus, North Pole, elves, reindeer, throw in a little Star of Bethlehem and baby in a crib to satisfy the adults, and then step into her role as Marjorie Claus, the secret benefactor and inspiration of all things Christmas.

She absent-mindedly ate a bowl of Rice Krispies, which seemed to add a percussive background to her creative thoughts. Snap! Crackle! Pop! they agreed. She was so preoccupied that her mother was concerned that she might not be feeling well.

But Ms. Linski, the aspiring poet, musical genius-in-training, and the soon-to-be toast of Broadway, was feeling quite fine. She headed out the door as her mother told her to return by one o'clock that afternoon. She needed someplace to write. She needed even greater focus.

Where could she go, where there would be a constant reminder of her affection of her storyline?

Then all at once she remembered that Fenswick Park had constructed a big pole in the ground, where they hoped to someday build a complete playground for the youngsters who made their way to run and rejoice.

She needed a pole. It would remind her of its Northern counterpart. So off to Fenswick Park she went, loudly singing her new song, her first song--the opening song of a musical which would set the world on fire, ablaze with the good cheer of the Christmas season.

Shanisse was sitting at a picnic table setting up both of her board games, trying to figure out how much space would be necessary for forty thousand such placements, all over a huge stadium.

As she tried to concentrate, a little boy came running by, over and over again. Each time he flew by her position, he screeched, "Swish, swish, one, two, three... Get that beard!"

The words were so full of nonsense that Shanisse became distracted and soon accidentally did something that had never happened before in her life. She took the shoe piece from her Monopoly game and accidentally laid it on the board of the Sorry game next to it. She was mortified. How could she have done such a thing?

"Pardon me," she said to Sorry.

"I will return your shoe," she apologized to Monopoly.

Then there he was again. "Swish, swish, one, two, three... Get that beard."

In a fit of frustration, Shanisse reached out and grabbed the little runner, bringing him to an unexpected halt. She whirled him around, looked into his flushed face and screamed, "What are you doing, crazy boy?"

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Harry replied, "I'm in training. So I must train."

He tried to wiggle from her grasp, but Shanisse held tightly to her captive.

"You made me put my shoe on the Sorry board."

Harry gave her a confused squint. "Sorry...?"

"It's a board game! You know? Have you ever played one?"

"What I meant was, I'm sorry...I, uh, confused you," he said sincerely.

"Why are you running?" asked Shanisse.

"I'm training for a race. A great race. The greatest race." He was so elated to finally share with someone who might actually understand, since she was sitting at a picnic table setting up board games in the early morning light.

"What race?" inquired Shanisse.

"You haven't heard about it because it hasn't been thought of yet, except in my dream, where it was not just an idea, but an actual happening. But of course, dreams don't really work out unless you can take them and make them real. Am I right?"

Harry paused. So did Shanisse.

"I had a dream, too," she said.

"Was it about a race?" questioned Harry.

"No. It was the world's biggest board game tournament with nearly everybody alive--at least everyone who still wants to have fun--and the prize...Well, the prize..."

Harry interrupted Shanisse.

"The prize in my race is to get three hairs from the beard of Santa Claus so I can save the reindeer from being sent to Lapland."

Shanisse huffed and puffed. "You interrupted me. The prize in my contest is lunch at the North Pole with Santa Claus."

"Cool," said Harry.

Just then, another young girl walked up and inquired, "Do you know where that big pole is that they stuck in the ground?"

"What big pole?" asked Shanisse.

Harry jumped in. "I think she's talking about that tall pole out near the wooded area, where they're going to build some sort of jungle gym or something. I don't know the details."

"That sounds right, " said the girl.

"Why do you need a pole?" asked Shanisse.

"Can you keep a secret?" replied the girl.

Both Harry and Shanisse nodded their heads emphatically.

"My name is Golda--Golda Linski."

Shanisse countered. "Oh, I almost forgot! My name is Shanisse Martinez."

Golda continued. "Remember my name. You're going to need to know it someday when they interview you on television about the first time you met the great playwright and composer."

"Who?" asked Harry.

"Me! I am going to write a Broadway musical. You want to hear part of it?"

Golda didn't wait for their consent. She launched into the words of her new song. She was right in the middle of the "west" part when Shanisse interrupted.

"How can a little girl write a musical for Broadway?"

"Yeah. Or...how can a little girl think she's gonna put together a board game for thousands of people in this park?" sneered Harry.

"I like board games," shared Golda.

"I like musicals," agreed Shanisse.

"I don't like either," cited Harry.

"So who shouldn't be here?" said Shanisse, with a sly smile.

"I don't want to be here," replied Harry. "I'm training."

Golda turned to Shanisse. "What's he training for?"

"He's training for a great race to the North Pole, to...I don't know. Why don't you explain it to her?" Shanisse turned to Harry.

"I already explained this once," said Harry, annoyed. "I have to race to the North Pole as quickly as I can to take three hairs out of the beard of Santa Claus and bring them back so the reindeer won't be shipped off to Lapland."

"Where's Lapland?" asked Golda.

"I don't know. It was just what the guy said in my dream," replied Harry, shrugging.

"Hold on a second!" said Shanisse. "Let me get this straight. I had a dream. This boy had a dream..."

"My name's Harry," he inserted.

"Nice to meet you, Harry," said Golda.

"Don't interrupt my deep reasoning," said Shanisse, scolding the pair.

"Yes, mother," said Golda sarcastically.

"Where was I?" mused Shanisse. "Oh, yes. I had a dream. Harry had a dream. And you had a dream."

"Golda Linski. I told you to remember the name. You can probably sell an interview to the Daily Post."

"Right," said Shanisse, deep in thought.

"Well, I already told you I had a dream--about writing a Broadway musical," added Golda.

Harry scratched his head. "So I don't get it. What's the point?"

Shanisse looked at the pair in front of her. "Well, I may be the youngest of the three of us..."

Harry interrupted. "I'm eleven."

"Well, I'm twelve," said Golda with some gusto.

"As I said," continued Shanisse. "I am the youngest of the three of us--ten-and-a-half but darned close to eleven--but I'm putting it all together. We all three had dreams. Last night?" She paused for a response.

Harry and Golda nodded in agreement.

Shanisse continued with great authority. "We all three had dreams. They all had something to do with Santa Claus. And look at us. We've all ended up here at the same park on the same morning, having never met each other before in our entire lives."

"So? What's your point?" Harry said, bewildered.

"My point it that Dream World is trying to bring us together!" said Shanisse.

"Is there such a thing as Dream World?" asked Golda.

"I don't know. You come up with a name for it," countered Shanisse.

"I will admit it's a little freaky, but it's like my Uncle Jackson once said. 'One person's miracle is another person's lucky penny.'" Harry stood back proudly with his proclamation.

The two girls paused and then turned to Harry and wailed in unison, "What?"

"What I mean," explained Harry, "is that maybe it was just one of those things."

"Or...maybe it's a thing that only has one," said Shanisse.

"Oooh, that's deep," admired Golda.

"Deep in stinky-poo dumb," said Harry as he turned away from them and walked over to the bench to look at the game boards.

"Stay away from there!" said Shanisse sharply.

"Why?" demanded Harry. "You said there was gonna be a whole bunch of people playing these games."

"But not yet," objected Shanisse. "I'm still thinking through the thoughts."

"I know what you mean," said Golda. "Words keep popping into my mind but they just don't want to glue together to bloom my second song."

"Are you two joining together to pick on me?" questioned Harry.

"No," said Shanisse. "Don't be such a...boy."

Suddenly Golda sat down on the ground, put her elbows on her knees and both of her hands under her chin, as if deep in thought. Harry and Shanisse stared at her for a moment and then joined her in the seated position. Golda just hummed.

Harry turned to Shanisse and quietly said, "What do you think she's doing?"

"Humming," replied Shanisse.

"I know that," said Harry. "Why do you think she's humming?"

"I'm trying to get some music with the universe, so we can stop our arguing and see if there's a reason why we suddenly are together," said Golda in an out-of-body voice.

"So you feel it, too!" said Shanisse.

"I do," she replied simply.

"Then I do, too," said Harry, not wanting to be left out.

They sat for a long time--at least, it seemed to be a long time in the realm of the minds of those who are too young to want any time to pass without a thrill.

Finally Golda spoke. "I think I've got it."

She pointed at Harry. "You had a dream about Santa Claus."

He nodded his agreement.

She pointed at Shanisse. "You had a dream about board games, but the prize was time with Santa Claus."

"I guess so," Shanisse responded, a little bit perplexed.

"And of course, I had a dream about writing the best musical ever--which involves..." She held out her hand, waiting for them to respond.

"Singers?" offered Harry.

"No!" said Golda impatiently. "Santa Claus."

"So...we all share Santa Claus in common?" surmised Shanisse.

"Yes, I think so," said Golda.

Harry jumped to his feet. "This is getting spooky! All I know is that I'm supposed to train for a race!"

Shanisse also got to her feet and walked over to the table with her board games. "Well, all I know is that I'm supposed to plan this huge competition with board games."

Golda remained seated. "Calm down. I have to write my musical, too. But you can't miss what's happening now by thinking about what may happen next."

Harry was about to run off, but instead put his hands on his hips and replied, "So what's going on here?"

"I don't know," said Shanisse. "Remember? I'm only ten."

"So now you choose to act like the baby," replied Golda.

"I know this is going to sound weird," said Harry, slowly choosing his words. "But for the first time in my life, it might be nice to have a grown-up here to help us figure this out."

Sitting Ten

A Spirited Discussion

 Lit was the last to light into the gathering, literally bouncing his way across the room, illuminating with a sparkle of personality and flair.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," he beamed. "I was busy telling a joke to the North Star."

For some reason, all of the spirits gathered for the occasion found this completely hilarious--everyone but Everett Green.

"Is it possible for you to arrive on time?" grumped the aggravated trunk.

"Well, to be completely truthful and on point, there is no time here, so therefore, he could have been early and we completely unaware," said Kris Kringle.

Everett glared at the jolly old elf.

"I do keep time," said Christmas Carol. "And by the way, Holly Sprig is unable to be with us today."

"Why?" barked Everett Green.

"No need to be nasty, Everett," replied Christmas Carol.

Kris Kringle stepped in to alleviate some of the tension. "Oh, she's being a bit of a Mother Hen. Her earthly holly children are in a difficult phase--they're just sprouting their red berries--and she gets a little fussy."

Christmas Carol nodded in time.

Everett stared over at Santere, Mary and Joseph. "Why don't they ever speak?"

"Well, technically, they do from time to time, but they are the older, more experienced spirits of our troupe--over six thousand years of experience among the three."

"I don't understand. What's that got to do with it?" asked Christmas Carol.

"Well, they don't need to speak anymore. They just pass thoughts from one to another, and communicate in that way--which speeds things up," explained Lit.

Everett Green frowned. "Wait--aren't you older than they are? I mean, weren't you there at the very beginning of Creation?"

"Yes. Third thing off the top of God's head. Let there be light."

"So why don't you just...think your way along?" asked Everett, still sprouting a bit of a perturbed profile.

Suddenly the arena brightened. "Because I like to beam," Lit said with a huge sparkle.

"Pardon me for asking, Everett, but you seem a little bit out of sorts," queried Christmas Carol.

"Yes," said Kris Kringle, chuckling over his own upcoming joke. "For an evergreen you seem somewhat blue."

This caused Christmas Carol to giggle in harmony and Lit to flash and blink.

Everett Green, still stung by being made fun of, tried to calm himself down and responded, "I'm fine. It's just that I don't exactly get it. And before you ask me what I don't get, I'll have to answer, 'Almost all of it.'"

Kris Kringle, still chuckling, replied, "Well therefore, maybe it would be quicker for us to discuss what you actually do understand."

Christmas Carol just chorused with more laughter. This time she was joined by Santere, Mary and Joseph, who also seemed to be mocking the frustrated fir.

"What are they laughing at?" challenged Everett, pointing one of his branches in their direction.

"Who knows?" responded Kris. "I guess when you've been around for six thousand years, you have a lot of private jokes."

"What we were laughing at," inserted Santere, "was how you new spirits become so impatient with how the whole process works."

Everett, trying to regain some of his prominence, countered, "Yes, do please explain to us sprouts how this works, because I'm confused. The world is about to give up Christmas in favor of some new name and we spend a few minutes in Dream World with three kids, and then can't really see what they're doing, and we're supposed to dwell in our eternal bliss of ignorance, waiting for these mortals to stumble into some sort of inspiration through their haze of dullness."

"Yeah, that's about it," said Mary quietly.

"Well, there's more to it than that," said Joseph.

Kris Kringle moved forward, intrigued. "Tell us more about the more."

Joseph paused, turning to Mary and then Santere, who bowed out gracefully, allowing the Carpenter to spin the yarn.

"Well, I guess they've left it to me. Let me explain the best I can using my common-man and common-laborer logic and understanding. We are spirits. Therefore the spiritual is our reality. I was once a mortal. When I was a mortal, I touched things. I saw the earth around me in the physical world as being real. When people spoke to me of angels, heaven and even the Father Which Art, I donned a confidence of belief, but hidden in my soul was an aggravating and gnawing doubt about whether that which could not be handled or seen could actually exist. Now that I've graduated to the world of spirits, the entire universe is at my disposal. The unseen becomes my daily vista, and now it is very difficult for me to comprehend the physical world. Nearly as impossible as it was for my carpenter self to ever dream of one day talking to an eternal evergreen such as yourself, Mr. Everett."

Everett Green spread his boughs, trying to understand a bit better. "So you're saying that because we're of the spirit world, everything vast, universal, eternal and spiritual seems real to us. And the physical world seems to be...how should I say?..."

Christmas Carol trilled, "Illusive and unseen."

"Well said," agreed Kris.

"I am the mistress of lyrics," she intoned.

Santere spoke up, assisting Joseph. "As we have had the opportunity to view the workings of the Creator over these many centuries, we have learned to discern small stirrings in the cosmos and interpret them as the real happenings on the physical world of Earth."

Mary added her heart. "It's just like when I was a woman, living in Nazareth. When I prayed, I would sometimes feel and sense that my words were being heard and that the answer was on the way. I had no proof, but there was this tickling in my soul that made me believe I had made a connection that was far beyond my worldly comprehension."

"Well said!" thundered Santere.

"She may have said it well, but I'm even more confused than I was before," complained Everett.

Suddenly, in unison, Santere, Joseph and Mary giggled.

"What are the three of you laughing about? Can you let us in on the inside joke?" Everett was not amused.

"Well, it was a private exchange," said Santere a little nervously.

"No, really," said Everett. "Tell me what you're laughing at."

Mary peered at Santere and then Santere at Joseph, who realized it was his turn to pipe up. "Well, it was a rather quick exchange among our intellects, but basically, Santere thought in our direction that maybe, Everett Green ... that maybe...you're just a pine cone or two short of understanding."

Joseph could barely finish his sentence before laughter overtook him. Santere joined him and concluded, "And Mary thought that perhaps we should be nicer ... and stop needling you."

Everett Green turned his branches away and pouted. "So this is supposed to be super-spiritual, mature humor."

"Listen, Everett," said Mary tenderly. "The more spiritual you become, the more childlike your perceptions."

"So I guess that would make me the most grown-up one here," said Everett, green with envy.

Kris Kringle intervened. "Well, I know that we are incapable of arguments--because that would be foolish and beneath us. So let me try to steer this 'spirited discussion' in a more profitable and helpful direction."

All the gathered took a deep breath and exhaled, ready to move on and find better thoughts.

Kris proceeded. "Let me try to answer Brother Everett's questions while simultaneously giving a report on our present situation. I do believe we all understand the limitations. We are welcome to influence. We are welcome to bring to remembrance. As spirits, we're encouraged to edify. But as you well know, we are not allowed in any sense to intervene and rob the humans of their free will. If the Father wouldn't even consider stepping in to rescue his Son when ignorance was prepared to nail him to a cross and terminate his mission, we must understand that no toleration will be granted for us to manipulate the minds of men, but rather, to use their hearts to try to enliven their sometimes-dormant spirits to think lively again."

There was a hum of agreement among the spirited gathering.

"So what should we do, or perhaps I should ask, where are we in all of this?" sang Christmas Carol.

Santere spoke up. "When I was alive as a man, they called me wise. It took dying to find out how ignorant I truly was. But there were little pieces of knowledge eternal which peppered my temporal mind. Those exist today in the people we are trying to help. Let me assist those of you who are younger in the spirit to understand what is going on, and update you on the progress. We have found three children whose hearts are prepared to take a nightly dream and turn it into a vision of hope."

"How delightful! What are the names of the little ones?" shone Lit.

Everett, still stinging from the previous joking, countered, "Excuse me, Lit. Are you ever depressed? Do you ever lose sight of your goal?"

Without any pause whatsoever, Lit replied, "That would be foolish. After all, everyone's heard of being 'lit up.' But not 'lit down.'"

A great laughter filled all the heavens over such a silly reply.

At length, Santere continued. "Now, as to the children. Let us know them by their first names. There is Harry, Shanisse and Golda--three very different children of God, who have just enough connection with the supernatural that they're able to believe that it can be translated into their natural surroundings."

Everett Green again spoke up, hoping to overcome his image of growler. "So explain to me, what do they know, what can they do and what can we do?"

Joseph piped up. "I'll take the first question. What do they know? Just that they've been given an exciting idea in their dreams, which right now is still intact in their conscious minds because nothing has come along to steal their belief."

"What can they do?" continued Mary. "Now there's a good question. Many spirits have become aggravated throughout the eons of time over trying to rush human beings toward some sort of completion. Here's what they can do if they don't lose faith: they can stall a lazy process long enough for people to think better thoughts. It's similar to when a few souls questioned slavery, and eventually slowed things down enough that others could catch up with their hidden angels and realize the truth of the universe--which is that no one is better than anyone else."

Santere paused for a moment, allowing the beauty of Mary's words to have the honor they deserved. "I guess it's up to me to answer the third question. What can we do? We can do exactly what the Son taught us. In our patience we possess our spirit. Yes, we can lose our spirit by becoming impatient with the human beings that God loved so much that He gave His only Son. No one has a right to be angry at the runners just because they are slow of foot in the race. What we can do is continue to offer encouragement, opportunity, mercy and just a few simple signposts which will remind those who are working diligently among mortals that they are not alone. Hope is real, faith has a substance and the answers are on the way."

Kris Kringle stepped in. "If you will allow this old Dutch toymaker to offer a bit of advice, I was once one of the human walkers myself, and still understand their plight. We all must remember, if we can, that doing good is not difficult. It just is viewed by evil as being self-righteous and by those who are starved for the good as being not enough. A piece at a time. I know some of us may feel foolish for believing that three children can affect a world of calloused grown-ups, but it will only be the faith of the young that will save the spirit of Christmas, as it took a single new-born babe to bring angels, shepherds, wise men and a star all together at the same time, in the same place."

There was a sweet silence that followed the speech of the one called Santa Claus.

"Won't we need some sort of grown-up?" asked Everett, trying to be honest without appearing cantankerous.

It was Lit who offered a final thought. "There is one. Such a precaution has been taken, and another soul who is not limited in year has been enlightened."

"Who?" asked Christmas Carol.

"All in good time, my dear," said Santere. "It is our joy as spirits, if we learn our mission, to not be in any hurry for human beings to become smarter."

 

WE WILL CONTINUE OUR STORY ON

FRIDAY, APRIL 10TH, 2015. 

PLEASE JOIN US THEN!