Sitting One
The Assignment
Shelley knew this was her moment. Well, at least one of those moments that stops off and quickly demands you board the bus or end up sitting on the bench hoping for another transport.
At twenty-four years of age, it was unusual for a prestigious public relations firm like Dunlevy and Markins to grant such a project to a newbie. She knew this. More importantly, they knew this. "They" being Mr. Roger Dunlevy and Mr. Ronald Markins.
Shelley didn't want to blow it. She needed to project the right balance of confidence and serious contemplation over the magnitude of the task. Did she understand the assignment?
Find a new commercial name for Christmas that merged the many existing holiday observances of a variety of faiths with the more traditional approach, while still emphasizing the Santa Claus imperative for the children and the marketeers.
A part of Shelley was saddened by the job. For years there had been a growing conflict between the religious and more conventional advocates over the holiday.
The believers wanted more "Jesus" included or emphasis for Hanukkah. Of course, then Kwanza came into play.
The rest of the country seemed to be looking for a festive season free of Middle-East theology.
Of course, the great problem was the money. This December season was a financial boost to business. Some retailers made as much as ninety percent of their funds in the twelfth month. Much on the line. A bottom line.
And for Shelley, a career maker.
She was informed that she could hire four other people for her team. She had already decided on her quartet.
Mike, from accounting, was an evangelical Christian. He could bring the perspective of the church community.
Lisa, an executive assistant, was Jewish. She should know about Hanukkah.
Charmaine, an admin...well, she was black. Chances are she might be able to tap the Kwanza sentiment.
And Timothy, a tech, was a Christmas nut--a historian of sorts concerning all things Santa, elf, North Pole and tinsel.
Shelley told her team that they had three weeks to deliver a report in front of the boss and major stockholders. Short fuse on a big bomb.
Here were the questions that needed to be addressed:
1. Will all the parties involved consider a new name for Christmas?
2. What can be retained, what evolved and what discarded of the traditions?
3. What is the best approach? A sudden transformation?: Or a gradual revelation?
4. Will it damage sales?
5. How can we make everybody happy?
Shelley decided to give the four of them ten days to investigate and deliver her a two thousand-word report on their findings. Simultaneously, she would troll the waters of all four environments to acquire a general consensus.
Shelley was nervous. It wasn't just the new assignment--she wondered if she wanted to be the Madison Avenue chick who snuffed out Christmas--at least the name. She envisioned herself in a Grinch costume, tallying numbers on an old-fashioned adding machine, as Baby Jesus was carried away by Children's Services and elves cried over "reindeer for sale."
She looked horrible as a green monster. Yet...it was her moment. A moment to enhance her personal profile and give Christmas a name-lift. She suddenly grabbed her pen and paper and wrote that down.
Name-lift. She could sell that.
It was a good start.
Sitting Two
The Investigation
Mike went home to Tarshift, Alabama, to do his research.
Tarshift was a suburb of Birmingham if you don't mind driving forty-five miles to get your hot buttered popcorn at the Metroplex.
Mike arrived in time to attend the worship service at the Community Faith in Action Non-Denominational church just four blocks from his homestead.
When Mike shared the nature of his present project, two old ladies and a grumpy deacon stomped out of the Sunday School class. The remaining faithful were respectful of their favorite son, but grouchy over the liberal West Coast atheists attacking Holy Christmas once again.
"Why cain't they just see that it's Jesus' birthday?" one woman snarled.
Yet persistent to a fault, Mike continued his questioning. "What name would you accept other than Christmas?"
Silence.
No one in the classroom wanted to betray Baby Jesus. So Mike asked the gathered to think about it and slip him a note or suggestion after church.
As he walked by the pastor, offering his appreciation, and headed to his car, Mike got three crumpled pieces of paper thrust into his hand, and one whisper in his ear.
The first note read, "How about Bethlehem Day?"
He unfolded the second note, which had scrawled, "I thought of Birth Boy."
And the final suggestion was, "Jesus Fest."
By the way, the whisper in his ear--Old Lady Wilkerson. She said, "I'm praying for you."
Lisa also returned to her home, which was in Connecticut, near Hartford. She went to synagogue. She hadn't been there since high school graduation. The new rabbi, Conrad Turtsky, was delighted to talk to her about Hanukkah. She explained in some detail about her task as the rabbi's countenance remained unchanged, sporting a reluctant smile.
At length she asked him what he thought.
"Well," he began hesitantly, "I have always been content with Hanukkah getting the crap beat out of it by Christmas. After all, candles being lit...well, don't hold a candle to angels, wise men and a heavy-set Dutchman giving toys to little ones."
He concluded their visit by giving Lisa a pamphlet on the subject, half of which was written in Yiddish.
Charmaine made a decision to go to the Internet and look up Kwanza on Wikipedia.
Kwanza: an African-American holiday first celebrated in 1966-1967 as an alternative to the "white" Christmas. It is one week long and honors African music, folklore and art.
Charmaine shook her head. She closed the program, rolled her eyes and went to her bedroom to take a nap.
Timothy made a trip to Bronner's Christmas Village in Frankenmuth, Michigan--the world's largest Christmas store. He was in heaven, which he viewed as only slightly above the North Pole. Reindeer, elves, lights, tinsels, Christmas bulbs, Santa Claus, snow globes--row after row.
He asked one of the floor managers what were the biggest sellers?
"Anything with Claus, mangers or sparkles," he answered, as he hurriedly chased a little boy who had a huge box of ornaments in his grasp.
So Timothy decided to conduct his own experiment. He had personally compiled a list of six possible "safe" new names for Christmas. It was his plan to walk up to shoppers at Bronners, say one of the new names, and gauge their spontaneous reaction.
"Wonderful Winterfest!" A blank stare.
"Satisfying Santa Day!" A giggle.
"A Joyous Snow 'n Glow to you!" A frown, and then Grandpa stomped away.
He was particularly proud of his next incarnation.
He had formed an acronym of Santa, elf, Jesus, reindeer, Africa and Hanukkah.
"Happy S.E.J.R. A. H!"
The old woman stared at him with sympathetic eyes, reached into her purse, pulled out two singles and gave it to him, saying, "Young man, get a sandwich. You've got low blood sugar."
He only had one idea remaining. So Timothy decided to try it out on the in-house Kris Kringle; Father Christmas--Santa Claus himself. Arriving in the tiny workshop provided for the local jolly old elf, Timothy leaned into his face and said, "Great Jubilation!"
Santa squinted. He slowly tugged his beard and deadpanned, "Ho. Ho. Ho."
Mike prayed that Shelley had better luck. He had barely escaped crucifixion in Tarshift.
Lisa was baffled, although the rabbi did convince her to buy a Menorah and two raffle tickets for the Prius being given away to raise funds for the needy.
Charmaine was frightened--first to report to Shelley, and secondly about being black and not caring one tinker's dam about Kwanza.
Timothy was more optimistic. Or maybe just on a sugar high from a candy cane overdose.
The four of them headed back to headquarters.
It was time to report to Shelley.
Sitting Three
The Report
Catering.
Shelley read an article that catering a business meeting with delicacies was a great motivator and conversation-ignitor.
What to provide?
She considered her options: Mike Caruthers was a southern boy, barbecued and fried. Deep fried with a side of fried potatoes.
Lisa Lampoy was a vegetarian who occasionally consumed some exotic seafood if there was some plum sauce for the dipping.
Then there was Charmaine Thompson. She liked almost anything that wasn't fried, soul food, chicken or any other substance that stereotyped her as a black woman.
Timothy Barkins scarfed sweets.
So with all that in mind, Shelley catered shrimp cocktails, baked kale chips, salsa, cream-filled donut holes and mozzarella sticks. (It wasn't a compromise--just her favorites. She figured that someone might as well be happy with the selection.)
The two thousand word reports had been turned in from her team. She had read each one thoroughly.
Mike's read like an edict from a prophet, forecasting doom and gloom from Dixie if Baby Jesus even had his diaper changed.
Lisa's document was speckled with numerous details which failed to connect together to form a conclusion. Her closing sentence summarized the confusion: "You've got to be Jewish to be this unexplainable."
Charmaine, as it turned out, became quite anti-Kwanza, which made it difficult to achieve a truly informative reading. She repeatedly pointed out that although she was a black woman, she despised Africa. She shared that she once refused Broadway tickets to The Lion King because she didn't favor the plot or the locale.
Now Timothy's two thousand words were like bouncing bubbles of effervescent holiday intoxication. He was the most optimistic of the four investigators, but could only offer one example of a woman who was in favor of a name switch--and as it turned out, it was because her mother had named her "Christmas." "Christmas Jones." (So much for the theory of a mother's natural love...)
What was most absent from the pages of the reports were ideas for new names for the holiday. After eliminating some of Timothy's outlandish possibilities, it came down to four options:
Sowlstice (with the "w" for winter)
Joy Forever
Unitree
Great Jubilation
So as the "investigators four" perused the catered food, bemused, Shelley passed out paper and pencils for the discussion she hoped would ensue after the cream-filled donut holes (which became the preference of the gathered) were devoured.
She had prepared a speech but it seemed a bit too much for the casual setting. So instead, Shelley posed a question:
"In one sentence, would you please sum up your findings?"
Everyone glanced at each other, curious about who should start. After an awkward moment (made even more bizarre when Shelley spilled her coffee on top of the baked kale chips)
Mike spoke up. "People hate the idea."
Charmaine and Timothy nodded in agreement, so Shelley probed Lisa for her opinion. "Well, Lisa, what do you think of that?"
Lisa frowned. "Jews don't hate. It demands commitment."
For some reason, they all nodded an officious acceptance. Everyone but Shelley.
She sighed and continued. "Let's get to the names."
Lisa liked Sowlstice--her concoction, placing the "w" in the middle, to honor winter.
Mike, Joy Forever. His invention.
Charmaine? Unitree. You guessed it. Her contribution.
And Timothy, Great Jubilation, although he was a bit surprised that his acronym of S. E. R. J. A. H. (Santa, Elf, Reindeer, Jesus, Africa and Hanukkah) had not made the cut.
Voting seemed futile. Debate would be comical and clumsy. Shelley needed to make an executive decision.
"I favor," she began, peering at the list before her. "Well...Sowlstice or Great Jubilation."
She blurted it out in near-exhaustion, as if she had just finished a lengthy race.
"I prefer Christmas," spit Mike with his arms folded across his chest, as all the patriarchs, disciples and priests of history mumbled their approval from the celestial realms.
The others concurred with varying facial expressions.
"Well, we need something," surmised Shelley. "I'm stickin' with it."
The rest of the meeting was spent planning the division of activities and duties leading up to the Big-Wig convention. Also mingled in were growling objections to kale chips, shrimp and salsa.
Shelley looked around the room, feeling a sudden rush of doom and gloom, as Timothy blithely popped the last donut hole into his mouth.
Sitting Four
Flipping the Big-Wig
Shelley knew she was in trouble when she arrived in the Grand Ballroom of the Hilton Hotel and the food on the banquet table included shrimp and kale chips.
She was early.
She liked arriving first. Time to think. In this case, quality time to worry. Very soon she would be presenting her findings before the two big bosses, seven executive vice presidents, fourteen core managers and one hundred and twelve stockholders.
One hundred thirty-five people in all.
Two hundred and seventy eyes on her--and one common demand. "You better make it good, girl."
What was she going to say?
She wasn't quite sure because she wasn't positive what she was looking for in the first place. Her heart wasn't in it.
Although she was not a religious person, she did like Christmas--the season, the traditions and even the name. Especially when you added a "Merry" to it. "Merry" brightens up anything. (Except, she supposed, an operation. "Merry Amputation" does not take away the sting.)
Yet her mission was to provide a new promotable name for Christmas and suggest ways to advertise it.
With this in mind, she added a third possibility to Sowlstice and Great Jubilation--of her making. Not that she had come up with anything better. She just believed that three options sounded more "corporate."
Her possibility was Winterfest. It wasn't ingenious--barely passable. Yet, if they ended up liking it, she would claim complete credit. And if not, she would insist that it was the winner of a contest of fifth graders who were asked to join into the renaming process for fun and prizes.
It seemed like she had everything covered.
People were beginning to trickle in slowly. Three of her committee came sheepishly through the doors. They cautiously explained to her that Mike was refusing to participate due to religious objections and was at his home, fasting in protest.
Shelley sniffed disaster in the air. It was a mixture of an overheated room, shrimp which had set out too long, and perspiration odor emanating from her body.
It stunk.
Yeah. That summed it up.
While she was contemplating her business suicide, the room suddenly was completely full and ready to go. A time to convene.
After some opening remarks from Mr. Dunleavy, he turned, with extended hand, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you our spearhead, Shelley Claibourne."
Mr. Dunleavy turned to her and said, "The floor is yours."
Shelley didn't want the floor unless she could use it for passing out. Yet this was her job. Doggone it, her future. She began.
"Christmas means different things to different people. Even to some, it means nothing. Therefore, is there a way to give it more of a universal interpretation?"
She paused. They were very still, staring at her. There was the obligatory coughing spree from the back row, giving her a much-appreciated delay. At length, she continued.
"I had four of my cohorts investigate all the possibilities. I want to ask them to sum up their discoveries. There are only three here. The other one. well ... is home. Can't hold anything down on his stomach. Anyway, let me start with Timothy, who was sent out to peruse and interpret the traditional market."
Timothy leaped to his feet like he was attempting to catch a departing bus.
"Does anyone like candy canes?" he posed. About half of the room slowly raised hands.
"Me, too," he said. He stood, smiling at the gathered, stalled.
Shelley stepped in. "Tim, tell them about your journey."
Tim nodded. "I went to the world's largest Christmas store. Thirty-four acres. Fifty thousand items. Do you realize, you could feed a city of six thousand people with the crops that could be grown in one season in that particular space?"
Shelley felt the need to interrupt.
"Wow. Crops and feeding. Great, Tim. Could you tell them a little more specifically about what you uncovered concerning Christmas?"
Shelley smiled at the audience, attempting to convey continuity.
Tim, on the other hand, looked puzzled. "What I uncovered...? Well, I tell you right now, Santa Claus needs to have a real beard or the kids will lose faith in his prowess."
An ugly, agonizing pall fell over the room. Shelley turned quickly to Charmaine.
"Charmaine! Charmaine Thompson! How about you?"
Charmaine slowly rose to her feet, conveying the reluctance of a fourteen-year-old ordered to clean her room.
"She asked me to check out Kwanza, because...let's see. Oh, yeah. I'M BLACK! I hated it. Don't bother about that Kwanza thing unless you like Africa. Any of you white folks dig the Dark Continent?"
Fewer hands.
"Let me step in," said Lisa with some uncharacteristic gusto.
"Thank God," said Shelley under her breath.
"Jews are grouchy, Hanukkah's too long, I don't know Yiddish and a menorah has too many candles. I ain't gonna be lighting all of those."
Lisa sat down to a surprising smattering of applause.
Shelley found herself stuck between stunned and mortified.
Yet the "go on" must "make a show." She took a deep breath and shared.
"My suggestions for a name -lift for Christmas..."
She stood for a moment, expecting to hear some approval for her play on words. Yet the room seemed to be crickets in the midst of a vow of silence. So Shelley cleared her throat, deciding to finish quickly.
"Sowlstice with a "w" in the middle. Winterfest. And Great Jubilation."
"I like Great Jubilation!" Said Mr. Markins with a spirit of real enthusiasm.
Well, that was it. After that, the one hundred and thirty-five took over.
Shelley was relieved.
Timothy was pumped that his name was selected.
Charmaine pouted.
Lisa tried the shrimp and then ran to the bathroom to throw up.
As Shelley quietly sat, trying to disappear into the taupe walls, decisions were being made.
It was no longer a project.
It was becoming a plan.
Sitting
Five
Meanwhile
Sometimes
the clouds of the sky gently descend and cover us with the dew of the
heavens.
We call it fog.
As
the day winds to a sleepy conclusion, we retire to our beds to revel
in night visions free of mortal limitations.
These
are our dreams.
Strolling
along, sensing a pending danger, we pause to reflect, later to
realize that this supernatural inkling spared us immense pain.
A
premonition.
The
spirit world, like a great cloud of witnesses, engulfs us with
merciful loving care, unseen, but of great benefit.
In
a place which does not truly exist on any map nor visible to the
naked eye, an aged toymaker sits, suspended in time, all alone,
staring into a snow globe, the circumference of an elephant's head,
viewing the dilemma of a young woman squeezed by a fretful situation,
hard pressed to please her superiors, yet trying to somehow justify
her endeavors in an unsettled soul.
This
aged seer is a toymaker--Kris Kringle by name, Santa Claus by fame.
Tears
come to his eyes as he ponders the turmoil of Shelley Claibourne.
Her
assignment? Change the name of Christmas.
Yet
will it lead to other unforeseen revisions? What will be required?
What
can be done?
Being
a wise spirit, Kringle realizes that such contemplation is better
appreciated with friends. So he calls a meeting--a breath of
invitation propelled through the air to spirits near and far, to come
and fellowship.
Everett
Green, the spirit of the forest and the Prince of the Tanenbaum.
Holly
Sprig, the jolly saint of the season, green with promise and red with
celebration.
Christmas
Carol, the melody of a joy to the world through a silent night which
commands the angels we have heard on high.
Santere,
the leader of the wise few who followed a star through the darkest
night to see the Babe of Promise.
Mary
and Joseph, the adolescent pair who insisted that their pure love was
ushering in pure peace.
And
of course, Lit--the light of the world that sheds illumination on
every continent, religion, culture and color.
Kris
Kringle simply closed his eyes, envisioned each friend, and softly
said to himself, "It is time to gather."
A
sweet fragrance rose to his nostrils.
A
rush of wind.
A
warming in the soul.
A
giddy sense of well-being.
Soon
he was surrounded with the comrades beckoned. Opening his eyes, he
looked into their childlike, expectant faces.
- Everett, appropriately donned in greenery
- Holly, festive and alive
- Carol, completely encompassed by bouncing musical notes which burst like soap bubbles, releasing a sweet tone
- Santere, removing his turban and embracing Kringle for a lingering exchange in fellowship
- Mary and Joseph, quiet, patient but prepared
- And finally, Lit, sparkling an iridescent beam of welcome and cheer.
Kris
surveyed his friends and spoke slowly. "Shelly Claibourne is in
turmoil."
Some
nodded. Others listened more intently. All spirits present.
Kringle
continued. "We have known for all time that the humans we love
and cherish are losing their faith--or perhaps never possessed such a
glorious confidence in the first place."
"It
is not their fault," whispered Everett Green. "They spend
too much time at work and too little in the forest.
Holly
Sprig spoke up. "We all know they have no guilt, but failing to
find the blessing of color to decorate the plainness can leave you in
despair with the gray."
"On
this we agree," intoned Kringle.
"A
song is a prayer that brings melody to the heart," sang
Christmas Carol.
Santere
inquired, "What is Shelley's pressure?"
"She
has been asked to rename Christmas," answered Kris.
"Why?"
challenged Joseph.
"Why,
indeed?" agreed Kris Kringle. "There are those who feel the
holiday could be just as festive without all the traditions and
meaning."
"Without
Jesus," said Mary solemnly.
"That
is part of it," said Kringle. "But there is more. They feel
that one man's joy and salvation is another man's condemnation."
"There
is no condemnation in the light," said Lit.
A
complete and reassuring assent.
This
was followed by a long moment of silence.
At length, Santere offered counsel. "We must do what we always do."
The
entire assembly understood. For in the midst of a mass of humanity,
there are those who have greater sensitivity to the spirit world.
They are free of guile. They are not possessed by deadlines. They are
absent prejudice. They are curious about the "possible"
which lives within the "impossible."
They
are children--or have at least honored and given permanent home to a
child's heart.
"Yes,"
said Kris. "We need a champion."
"But
how?" asked Everett.
"A
mortalation," replied Joseph. "I had one in the midst of a
sweet sleep of night, which told me to take Mary as my wife."
He
squeezed her hand and she nestled into his warmth.
"A
good idea!" said Lit. "I will light the way."
"I
will offer the wording of wisdom," inserted Santere.
"I,
the music," chimed Carol.
"But
who?" questioned Kringle.
Silence.
Thought.
Contemplation.
"Who
is always the problem," said Holly Sprig.
"We
shall watch and pray. Pray and watch. And then watch some more,"
replied Kris Kringle, the Santa Claus.
The
meeting was over.
The
spirits dissolved into forces of the universe, zooming in diverse
directions to fulfill personal missions.
A
solitary Kris Kringle peered into his snow globe.
"Who...shall
it be?"
Sitting
Six
Charrleen
and The Jubilators
It was Dunleavy who proposed that a song might be the best
way to inspire the public with a new name for Christmas.
"Yes,
a tuneful transition," he concluded.
Shelley
was once again placed in charge, this time of finding a
pop star who would be willing to write and record a song
entitled, "Great Jubilation."
pop star who would be willing to write and record a song
entitled, "Great Jubilation."
She
was provided a handsome stipend to offer to the artist,
but even with the incentive of cash, many musicians were
reluctant.
but even with the incentive of cash, many musicians were
reluctant.
The
most famous band in the land, The Payload,
was already
busy in the studio on their brand new album.
busy in the studio on their brand new album.
Rhythm
and blues superstar, Fairmont, wasn't confident that
it fit his image.
it fit his image.
Several
other recording artists turned it down on principle,
not wanting to be the "pied pipers" to lead the departure of
all the rats from Christmas.
not wanting to be the "pied pipers" to lead the departure of
all the rats from Christmas.
Finally,
Shelley got Charrleen to agree and sign a contract.
She was a rising vocalist in the adult contemporary market.
Although only twenty-two years of age, she already had three
number one hits to her credit. She was perfect.
She was a rising vocalist in the adult contemporary market.
Although only twenty-two years of age, she already had three
number one hits to her credit. She was perfect.
Her
mother was Jewish and her father, Greek Orthodox. She
was also dating a black rapper.
was also dating a black rapper.
Everything
covered.
Shelley
explained to Charrleen that a song was needed, and
the concepts that were involved. Without hesitation, the
young recording star leaped into the project.
the concepts that were involved. Without hesitation, the
young recording star leaped into the project.
Meanwhile,
an all-star band and chorus were formed from
many past-blazing-stars and promising novas, and dubbed
The Jubilators.
many past-blazing-stars and promising novas, and dubbed
The Jubilators.
Shelley
was completely shocked when three days after her
meeting with Charrleen, she received a call telling her that
the song was finished.
meeting with Charrleen, she received a call telling her that
the song was finished.
Matter
of fact, Charrleen sent her a copy of the lyrics to the
chorus, explaining that the melody was the blending of a
traditional Christmas anthem and "Old Motown."
chorus, explaining that the melody was the blending of a
traditional Christmas anthem and "Old Motown."
Shelley
perused the words.
Great
Jubilation
A
tune of celebration
We
lift our voice
Knowing
it's our choice
Young
and free
With
love, you see
The
name we sing
The
song we bring
Love
to one another
Sisters
and brothers
Our
generation
Our
revelation
Great
jubilation
Shelley
absolutely loved it--partly because it was so easy to
understand, but mostly because it was done and she didn't
have to worry about it anymore.
understand, but mostly because it was done and she didn't
have to worry about it anymore.
Two
weeks later, Charrleen and The Jubilators
went into the
studio and within a month, the song was pressed, ready to go
and being aired on the radio.
studio and within a month, the song was pressed, ready to go
and being aired on the radio.
A
slow start. Then, some TV promotion, and suddenly sales
soared.
soared.
People
really liked the song. They seemed to be accepting the
name, Great Jubilation.
name, Great Jubilation.
Some
religious groups objected, but they were quickly
portrayed as "outsiders, old fogeys and behind the times."
portrayed as "outsiders, old fogeys and behind the times."
Even
the four members of the committee agreed.
Charmaine
thought it was a catchy tune.
Lisa
admitted that it was the least offensive of offensive ideas.
Mike
surprised everyone by saying that the church kids were
already singing it.
already singing it.
And
Timothy added his two cents by saying, Charrleen is
hot."
hot."
Great
Jubilation was growing in popularity.
Christmas
was already beginning to sound ... a little
old-
fashioned.
fashioned.
Sitting Seven
Dreamy
As looking for fish takes you to the sea, trolling for pure hope
floats you to the Kingdom of Children.
Kris Kringle, Santere and Everett were nominated by the
Fellowship of Spirits to be the committee to "heart select" the
young souls who would be the hands and feet for representing the
joy, peace and faith of Christmas.
Three children literally leaped to the forefront in the parade of
possibilities:
- Harry Ventner, age eleven
- Shanisse Martinez, ten-and-a-half
- And Golda Linski, nearly twelve
The determination for selection was really quite simple--a three-
step consideration:
- Know their hearts
- Touch their spirits
- Respect their minds.
Now, as to the matter of mortalation: a mortalation is a natural
spiritual event which occurs nightly in the lives of all humans and
mingles the mere breath of earth life with the fragrance of eternal
possibility.
Simply stated, God permits the Spirits of the Universe to commune
with the inhabitants of Earth during the solitude of slumber. The
seeds of ideas are planted. The beauty of innovation is nurtured.
The words of life are sprouted.
So this was the plan: to shadow the dreams of three children with
the promise of Christmas, in this case, a vision well-suited to each
of the young humans--the North Pole.
First there was Harry. He had the gentleness of a whisper confined
within the body of an aspiring Olympic runner. He ran everywhere.
Leaping to his feet, he ran--if only a few feet to grab a book. When
given permission to roam the local park, he ran and ran until fences
stopped him, only to turn and run in the other direction to the next
border.
His dream--a vision--would be of a race to the North Pole, to
retrieve three hairs from the beard of Santa Claus, to speed home in
time to save the reindeer from being sent away, retired to pastures
in Lapland.
Now, Shanisse absolutley adored board games. She sat for hours
challenging herself and others for reasons to circle the board and
win the prize. Therefore her dream was to play the world's largest
game of Monopoly with thousands of other children in a crowded
arena decorated with Christmas lights and candy canes. The
reward? The winner of the day got to have lunch with Santa Claus
at the North Pole.
And finally, there was Golda. She loved musicals. The cohesion of
singing, acting, costumes and applause vibrated her little soul.
From Annie to Zorba the Greek and every "sound of music" in
between, she knew melodies, lyrics and sang with the gusto of a
drunken sailor. Her dream--her mortalation--was to be author and
star of a Broadway musical entitled, North Pole, with a chorus of
elves and reindeer, starring the jolly old man himself--Kris Kringle.
She, of course, would be his partner, Marjorie Claus.
When hearts are willing and spirits reachable, then minds are
capable of being renewed.
Crafting the mortalation for the trio of friends brought Kris, Santere
and Everett great delight and intimacy.
Tonight would be the night.
"Harry, Shanisse and Golda, close your eyes and sleep. The Spirits
"Harry, Shanisse and Golda, close your eyes and sleep. The Spirits
are awaiting. They will inspire. Then it will be up to you."
Can three children impact the inflexibility of a world deafened by
the clamor of nonsense?
Perhaps. More importantly, how can this triangle of messengers
find one another to unite for the purpose of their calling?
Sitting Eight
The Blind Leading the Blind
Shelley despised blind dates. She found them to be deaf and dumb.
The last one she relented to participate in ended up being with a
guy who sold flood insurance and thought dating new girls afforded
him a fresh market. So that particular evening cost Shelley four
hours of boredom perusing thirty-three pictures of flood damage
and $88 for purchasing a policy so she could finally leave the
restaurant and go home.
Not a fan of set up romance.
But Timothy Barkins from her committee had a friend that he knew
she would just adore--and who was willing to spend an evening
with her after seeing her picture.
Now, Shelley was not unattractive. She was one of those young
women who knew what makeup to buy but didn't stick around for
the lesson on how to apply it, so she always used too much and
ended up looking like a cross between a clown and a corpse.
Most of the time, though, she just went with her own face.
Her hair was the color of brown that they use on dolls from the
Dollar Store--lifeless and dreary. She was neither skinny nor fat,
but unfortunately, slender where plumpness is appreciated and
endowed in the regions traditionally slim.
She liked men. She wasn't picky. She was just never able to turn a
date into a mate.
So she had to ask herself why she'd agreed to this situation.
Well ... maybe he wasn't blind. Maybe he will be fascinating.
Maybe...he sells renters insurance. She might be interested.
She devised a plan, First, meet for coffee at the Cracked Cup. If all
goes well, a movie (nothing with sex or violence.) After the movie,
if yawning has been avoided by both parties, dinner. Definitely
seafood. Less tummy gas.
The blind date's name was Christopher Timmons. Shelley didn't
know much about him. She did see his picture. He was perfect--not
too handsome but well short of "troll." She could work with that.
He had dishwater blond hair and a mustache. (She did realize that
the mustache could be a bad sign. Often men who wore mustaches
did so because they couldn't grow a beard but still wanted some fur
on the face to confirm gender.)
Christopher was flirting with chunky, with a few pounds in his face
which normally meant there was some storage in the basement near
the belt. Shelley didn't care. For after all, by the time they saw each
other's storage space, they were pretty well committed to the move.
As always, Shelley was late. Chris was waiting, wiping the
condensation off his water glass with a napkin. Seeing her, he rose
too quickly to his feet, spilling his water.
A great beginning.
They participated together in a napkin-sopping of water and then
sat down. Two cups of coffee were ordered. Shelley refrained from
requesting her usual four Sweet 'N Lows and three creamers,
tempering it to two each. Chris went with one cream.
"So," she began, "How do you know Timothy?"
Chris explained that they met on a retreat and became lasting
friends.
"I understand you're his boss," Chris cited.
"Boss? Well, that's rather formal. After all, what's a boss? Sounds
bossy, doesn't it?" Mercifully, Shelley finally shut herself up.
A moment of silence followed, prophesying doom for further
conversation. At length Shelley ventured into the great unknown.
"Chris, what do you do?"
"I sell insurance."
"Oh..." Shelley was stalled.
Chris laughed. "I'm just kidding. Timothy told me about your last
blind date. How it was kind of ... flooded out?"
Shelley giggled--probably too much. But at least Chris had a sense
of humor.
He continued. "Seriously, I am a free-lance writer ten months of the
year."
He sipped some of his coffee.
"Can you make a living at that?" questioned Shelley.
"Heavens, no," answered Chris. "A little here, a little there."
"So if you don't mind me asking, how do you take a little here and
end up all there?" Shelley was legitimately curious.
"I don't. That's why I do it ten months a year," he replied.
"I don't understand." And truly, Shelley didn't.
"Ten months I write, and then two months, well...I grow my beard
and become Santa Claus." Chris ran his hand across his face,
simulating where the overgrowth might exist.
Shelley gasped. She tried to pretend it was asthma, but it was pretty
obvious she was shocked.
"You don't like Santa Claus?" Chris probed, feigning offense.
"Santa Claus is fine. I've just never been on a date with one."
Shelley gulped some coffee.
"I'm not Santa tonight," he smiled.
"If you don't mind me asking, why would a grown man want to
play Santa Claus?"
"Why not?" he countered.
"Well, first, there's the kids," Shelley stated.
"You don't like kids?"
"Not so much in bunches," Shelley explained. "Children are cute.
But they do three things I don't like."
"Let me guess. Throw up," said Chris.
"Make that four," she cringed.
"So, tell me the three." Chris leaned forward to listen.
"Cry, lie and pout. Sorry the last one didn't rhyme," shared Shelley,
accentuating each point with a finger.
Chris just peered at her. He didn't say anything. It was totally
unnerving.
"Aren't you going to disagree?" Shelley challenged.
"I mentioned throw-up," said Chris.
"Yeah, you did. So you don't disagree?" she questioned.
"Let's see. Cry. Certainly. Especially the first time they see the
Claus. Lie? Anything to stay off the 'Naughty List.' Of course, they
better not pout..."
"Why is that?" inquired Shelley.
"I'm telling you why. Santa Claus is Coming to Town."
On the last line, Chris stood and sang--to the amusement of the
slurping coffee congregation. Sitting down to a smattering of
applause, Chris giggled at her alarmed face.
He continued. "Honestly, I'm Santa Claus because I make 30 K in
November and December playing the jolly old elf."
"You're kidding!" Another gasp from Shelley.
"Nope. It gives me the money to be a poor writer."
"Are you a poor writer?" asked Shelley.
Chris chuckled. "Definitely in money. Probably in prose."
Shelley liked him. He was obviously having fun with her.
"Chris, do you want to go to a movie?" Shelley asked quietly.
"Only if it has sexy violence," said Chris without missing a beat.
Shelley could not hide her dismay--nor Chris his laughter.
"I'm kidding," he said. "How about a movie with cartoon characters
with no knives, guns or sexual parts?"
"Perfect!" screeched Shelley, jumping to her feet.
Chris dropped some cash on the table, grabbed her hand and
headed for the door.
Shelley was really happy. So far, this date was not blind, deaf or
dumb.
The last one she relented to participate in ended up being with a
guy who sold flood insurance and thought dating new girls afforded
him a fresh market. So that particular evening cost Shelley four
hours of boredom perusing thirty-three pictures of flood damage
and $88 for purchasing a policy so she could finally leave the
restaurant and go home.
Not a fan of set up romance.
But Timothy Barkins from her committee had a friend that he knew
she would just adore--and who was willing to spend an evening
with her after seeing her picture.
Now, Shelley was not unattractive. She was one of those young
women who knew what makeup to buy but didn't stick around for
the lesson on how to apply it, so she always used too much and
ended up looking like a cross between a clown and a corpse.
Most of the time, though, she just went with her own face.
Her hair was the color of brown that they use on dolls from the
Dollar Store--lifeless and dreary. She was neither skinny nor fat,
but unfortunately, slender where plumpness is appreciated and
endowed in the regions traditionally slim.
She liked men. She wasn't picky. She was just never able to turn a
date into a mate.
So she had to ask herself why she'd agreed to this situation.
Well ... maybe he wasn't blind. Maybe he will be fascinating.
Maybe...he sells renters insurance. She might be interested.
She devised a plan, First, meet for coffee at the Cracked Cup. If all
goes well, a movie (nothing with sex or violence.) After the movie,
if yawning has been avoided by both parties, dinner. Definitely
seafood. Less tummy gas.
The blind date's name was Christopher Timmons. Shelley didn't
know much about him. She did see his picture. He was perfect--not
too handsome but well short of "troll." She could work with that.
He had dishwater blond hair and a mustache. (She did realize that
the mustache could be a bad sign. Often men who wore mustaches
did so because they couldn't grow a beard but still wanted some fur
on the face to confirm gender.)
Christopher was flirting with chunky, with a few pounds in his face
which normally meant there was some storage in the basement near
the belt. Shelley didn't care. For after all, by the time they saw each
other's storage space, they were pretty well committed to the move.
As always, Shelley was late. Chris was waiting, wiping the
condensation off his water glass with a napkin. Seeing her, he rose
too quickly to his feet, spilling his water.
A great beginning.
They participated together in a napkin-sopping of water and then
sat down. Two cups of coffee were ordered. Shelley refrained from
requesting her usual four Sweet 'N Lows and three creamers,
tempering it to two each. Chris went with one cream.
"So," she began, "How do you know Timothy?"
Chris explained that they met on a retreat and became lasting
friends.
"I understand you're his boss," Chris cited.
"Boss? Well, that's rather formal. After all, what's a boss? Sounds
bossy, doesn't it?" Mercifully, Shelley finally shut herself up.
A moment of silence followed, prophesying doom for further
conversation. At length Shelley ventured into the great unknown.
"Chris, what do you do?"
"I sell insurance."
"Oh..." Shelley was stalled.
Chris laughed. "I'm just kidding. Timothy told me about your last
blind date. How it was kind of ... flooded out?"
Shelley giggled--probably too much. But at least Chris had a sense
of humor.
He continued. "Seriously, I am a free-lance writer ten months of the
year."
He sipped some of his coffee.
"Can you make a living at that?" questioned Shelley.
"Heavens, no," answered Chris. "A little here, a little there."
"So if you don't mind me asking, how do you take a little here and
end up all there?" Shelley was legitimately curious.
"I don't. That's why I do it ten months a year," he replied.
"I don't understand." And truly, Shelley didn't.
"Ten months I write, and then two months, well...I grow my beard
and become Santa Claus." Chris ran his hand across his face,
simulating where the overgrowth might exist.
Shelley gasped. She tried to pretend it was asthma, but it was pretty
obvious she was shocked.
"You don't like Santa Claus?" Chris probed, feigning offense.
"Santa Claus is fine. I've just never been on a date with one."
Shelley gulped some coffee.
"I'm not Santa tonight," he smiled.
"If you don't mind me asking, why would a grown man want to
play Santa Claus?"
"Why not?" he countered.
"Well, first, there's the kids," Shelley stated.
"You don't like kids?"
"Not so much in bunches," Shelley explained. "Children are cute.
But they do three things I don't like."
"Let me guess. Throw up," said Chris.
"Make that four," she cringed.
"So, tell me the three." Chris leaned forward to listen.
"Cry, lie and pout. Sorry the last one didn't rhyme," shared Shelley,
accentuating each point with a finger.
Chris just peered at her. He didn't say anything. It was totally
unnerving.
"Aren't you going to disagree?" Shelley challenged.
"I mentioned throw-up," said Chris.
"Yeah, you did. So you don't disagree?" she questioned.
"Let's see. Cry. Certainly. Especially the first time they see the
Claus. Lie? Anything to stay off the 'Naughty List.' Of course, they
better not pout..."
"Why is that?" inquired Shelley.
"I'm telling you why. Santa Claus is Coming to Town."
On the last line, Chris stood and sang--to the amusement of the
slurping coffee congregation. Sitting down to a smattering of
applause, Chris giggled at her alarmed face.
He continued. "Honestly, I'm Santa Claus because I make 30 K in
November and December playing the jolly old elf."
"You're kidding!" Another gasp from Shelley.
"Nope. It gives me the money to be a poor writer."
"Are you a poor writer?" asked Shelley.
Chris chuckled. "Definitely in money. Probably in prose."
Shelley liked him. He was obviously having fun with her.
"Chris, do you want to go to a movie?" Shelley asked quietly.
"Only if it has sexy violence," said Chris without missing a beat.
Shelley could not hide her dismay--nor Chris his laughter.
"I'm kidding," he said. "How about a movie with cartoon characters
with no knives, guns or sexual parts?"
"Perfect!" screeched Shelley, jumping to her feet.
Chris dropped some cash on the table, grabbed her hand and
headed for the door.
Shelley was really happy. So far, this date was not blind, deaf or
dumb.
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.
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."
"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."
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.
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.
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.
Sitting Thirteen
The Lunch Crunch
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.
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