Sittings Seven and Eight

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:

1. Know their hearts
2. Touch their spirits
3. 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 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."

"Your 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 story continues on March 27th, 2015. Join us then!

Sittings Five and Six

Sitting 5

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.

1. Everett, appropriately donned in greenery
2. Holly, festive and alive
3. Carol, completely encompassed by bouncing musical notes which burst like soap bubbles, releasing a sweet tone
4. Santere, removing his turban and embracing Kringle for a lingering exchange in fellowship
5. Mary and Joseph, quiet, patient but prepared
6. 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."

She was provided a handsome stipend to offer to the artist, 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.

Rhythm and blues superstar, Fairmont, wasn't confident that 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.

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.

Her mother was Jewish and her father, Greek Orthodox. She 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.

Meanwhile, an all-star band and chorus were formed from 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.

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."

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.

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.

A slow start. Then, some TV promotion, and suddenly sales soared.

People really liked the song. They seemed to be accepting the name, Great Jubilation.

Some religious groups objected, but they were quickly 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.

And Timothy added his two cents by saying, Charrleen is hot."

Great Jubilation was growing in popularity.

Christmas was already beginning to sound ... a little old-fashioned.

Watch for the next installment March 13th!

Sittings Three and Four

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.

Next Installment Friday, February 27th

Sitting One and Sitting Two

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.

Next Installment February 13th

From the Author

 

Years ago, in a blizzard of keystrokes, with enough egg to balance my nog, I wrote a book called Mr. Kringle's Tales...26 Stories 'Til Christmas.

It was a daily journey starting on November 30th each year, to Christmas morning, with tales ranging from the origin of particular reindeer to the inner romance of wise people chasing the stars.

For some time people have been asking for a sequel and I have fearfully hidden in my toyshop to avoid contact with the outside world, knowing that any time you try to do something a second time you will suffer by comparison.

But a great "first noel" of whimsical thought has landed on my soul, and I have an additional series of 26 little installments, to tell an even more expanded tale.

I have chosen to place it, sitting upon sitting, on the Internet, so that each and every one of you may observe the progress and enjoy the unfolding. I will do so once every fourteen days, with no actual reasoning, but displaying a bit of mystical flair.

So I hope you enjoy the trip as much as I will enjoy snapping my whip to bring the surprise.