Lesson 290: Smile

It's the weekend and it's time to smile.

For the Erieites, we're smiling because the sun came out today.

The high school track team had practice.  

Judging by their attire, you would assume it was balmy.

Wrong.

The high was only in the upper 40's 

and the kids had to crawl over snow piles to get to the track.

Northerners are just plain tough.

Eloise turned 43 on Monday.

Erie broke a record low on March 3rd.  

It was the only day in March (ever) that temperatures never reached the double digits!

My day warmed up when I came home from work to find that my kids baked me this cake!

Ellen has Home Ec this year and is pretty handy in the kitchen now.

I got some really cool jewelry

each piece representing things near and dear to my heart.

No one can beat my mom's wrapping.

I loved the box

as much what was inside of it!

I'm just trying to decide which of my children represents which monkey.

If I line the monkeys up with the photo above, I guess it makes sense.

Sam-See-No-Evil never seems to witness anything--

 Mom, I have no idea how that lamp fell over!

Natalie-Speak-No-Evil isn't a big talker.

Ellen-Hear-No-Evil---she's 13, need I explain?  

Ellen put your laundry away.

Ellen, put your laundry away.

Ellen, put your laundry away.

Huh?  I didn't hear you.

I got this pie server because my parents are tired of extracting my pies with forks.

(Can you see me?)

It's really because they think I am a kitchen goddess

after 6 weeks of cooking around the world. 

I got a birthday package from my friend Tracy Southern, chock full of surprises.

Fun mail is one of my favorite things to receive.

I have to check out her beer recommendation.  

In keeping with my mystery loving preference,

she only sent me the cap.  

Now Eloise is on the hunt for the beer.

Do you know what it is, Readers?

I'll start my search, right after I finish up my gift from my dad.

Dad doesn't have the same knack for wrapping that my mom does.

Still, he cares.

In fact, he deposited the case in my kitchen for me to find, 

instead of his typical garage drop point.

That beer will freeze out there!

This card from Tracy Northern sums it all up well.

It's a keeper.

I'm going to turn it into a bookmark for one of the 

FIVE

books I'm trying to read at the same time.

They are:

Five is a bit much at once, but I'm liking the jumble in my brain.  

I can pick a book to best fit my mood.

If you like to read and to talk about books, message me,

Eloise will be happy to discuss them with you.

Speaking of books, you should be through the first seven chapters of  my book, 

The Key, if you are reading along.  

If you are late to the game, I am posting the book right here on the Lamp Post, chapter by chapter throughout the month of March (and a few days in April)  in honor of National Reading Month.  It is a book written for children, about children.  It certainly wouldn't appeal to everyone, but it may if you are from my hometown, are a teacher, a parent, a student, or know me personally.

Why didn't you try to publish it, Eloise?

I can hear you asking through my screen.

In all honesty, I have thought about it.

Last year I made it a goal to learn about the publishing world.

I bought three, 

big, 

thick books.

I read every word.
           Highlighted agents.
                  I wrote query letters.
                        Elevator summaries.
                                Dedication pages.
                                         Book pitches.
                                               I even wrote a resume.

And none of it felt right.

It 

just 

didn't 

feel 

like 

me.

I'm a little bent.

And slightly blurry.

I don't think the Mango Go Girl is cut out for the publishing world.

One Lamp Post Go Girl might be though!

Ellen got at Good Kid letter sent home from the Junior High!

Thank goodness, because a few days later, she decided to cut her hair.

Ten inches gone meant ten hours of regretful tears.

I kept rereading the bulleted points in the letter above to Ellen as she wept for her long, lost tresses.

It didn't seem to help much.

I was good with the babies and toddlers.  

I've done nothing but miss the boat parenting the teenager.

Ellen's friends liked it, so the Go Go Girl is good to go again.

Natalie got to sled ride with her class this week, so she was a happy camper.

A dozen neuro-sensitive children sliding down a hill.  

That is one slippery slope I would have loved to see.

Good job, Mr. Boyd.  

Sam and Grandma won big at BINGO for Books!

He attended the event donned in his pigeon costume.

He came home with about five new books.  

Later that night, there were only a couple set out in his nightly reading stack.

"Where's the rest of your new books?" I inquired.

"I hid them," Sam replied.  "I'm wrapping them up for Ellen for Christmas next year."

Sigh.

World news of the week:

A Hero Falls

Oscar Pistorius, known as the Blade Runner,  is on trial for the murder of his girlfriend.

At 43 years old, I've watched a good number of my heroes fall.
I've got a lot of life left in me, and there are bound to be more.

What do you do when your hero falls?

I found a couple of good perspectives from fellow bloggers.

You can read 12 Reasons You Should Never Meet Your Hero,
here:   12 Reasons

Here's another one that whittles the list down to four.

To read The Four Worst Things That Happen When You Meet Your Heroes,

click here:  4 Reasons

Eloise will be sure to keep that advice in mind. 

I think I'm headed out to see Handsome again this summer,

and there is a strong possibility I am going to see him perform in the south!

Word has it, he's been looking for me.

He wrote a song about me after all.

I often think what it would have been like to meet him,

had a made good on that back stage pass that I passed on.

If he does find me, I'm going to have to lie to him.

I really can't stand his new song.

And if he's a big jerk about it,

there's a new man in town.

There's something about Harry.  I can't seem to get Harry Connick, Jr off of my mind lately.  Therefore, he got the choice of song for the weekly photos. Smile! 

Smile, Everyone!  Spring is almost here!

Eloise

The Key, Chapter 7

The Key

by Eloise Hawking

Chapter 7

     By the time I made it into the house for dinner, the table was set and my family was waiting for me.  My mother says it is important for a family to eat together. “ A family who eats together, stays together,” she once said.

     I replied, “Isn’t it--the family who PRAYS together, stays together?”

     “Yeah, that too,”  said Mom.

     “What took you so long?” my mother asked, as I returned with the dinner fixings.

     “Grandpa had me help him with his garbage can.”

     I saw a look of strain cross my mother’s face.  No matter how old a child is, they can always sense when their parent is displeased with them.  I could tell Mom wanted to ask if there was damage done to the garbage can, but she didn’t.  Some things are better left unsaid, I guess.

     We all ate Harvest Soup.  All except Sam, that is.  We had steaming bowls full of soup, and my brother ate a bowl full of ketchup.

     Sam is beyond a picky eater and it is a battle of wills right now between Sam and my mother.  For some reason he has taken the liking to ketchup, just ketchup, plain ketchup in a bowl, that he eats with a spoon.  Mom says to ignore it and that it is “just a phase.”  I say it’s disturbing.

     My soup wound up being the perfect bowlful.  The first bite tasted salty and good.  I held it in my mouth an extra second or two before I swallowed it.  It was just the right temperature, not too hot and not too cold.  I was hungry, but not famished so I was able to savor each spoonful without having to devour it.  I felt like Goldilocks who hit pay dirt with Baby Bear’s porridge.

     “Time for our bread, Cinderella.  Unfortunately, you get the heel,” said Mom smiling at me sharing our joke.  She passed me the warm, crusty heel, to which I added a pat of sweet butter.   Both Mom and I loved the ends of the bread.  She saved the BEST piece for her Cinderella.

     I dipped my bread into the soup and allowed it to absorb the salty broth before I took a bite.   It was my favorite way to eat the heel—soaked in soup.  I did that a few times and soon all that was left in the bottom of my bowl were my least favorite vegetables—tomatoes, carrots, and onions.

     “I see those vegetables lying in the bottom of that bowl, Cinderella.  You need to stay healthy if you are ever going to find your Handsome Prince,” reminded my mother.  “Eat the carrots first.  You need to be able to check out Handsome, to make sure he lives up to his name.”

     Mom always made us eat carrots because she said that God designed them especially to help our eyes stay healthy.  To prove it once, she cut a carrot horizontally into a little disc.  When we looked at the cross section, we saw that the inside of a carrot looked just like the human eye.

     “….and those tomatoes, too,” said mom.  “Handsome has to make your heart beat faster if he’s your true prince.  You don’t want to meet your Handsome Prince and keel over with a heart attack, now do you?”
Tomatoes, according to mom, are excellent for your heart.  They are red and have chambers just like the heart does.  The juice that runsthrough them looks just like our blood.

     “Now don’t worry about the onions, Cindy,” said mom jokingly.  “They are known for giving a person dragon breath, and one certainly wouldn’t want halitosis when you happen upon your future husband, but these onions are cooked down.  After they are cooked, the taste becomes milder so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

     “Mom,” I said rolling my eyes,  “I’m ten!  Do you really think we should be talking about my Handsome Prince?”

     Forced tomato eating is gross, but onions are the worst! Mom says that when an layers of an onion are  peeled back and examined under a microscope, they look exactly like a human cell.  She says that is proof that they are good for our bodies.  Mom says that God provided onions not only for our health, but for flavor.  She puts them into lots of things she cooks.
 
     “I just don’t get why people put them in soup if they get so mild you can’t even taste them anyway,” I went on.

     “Oh, onions are far from worthless.   God had big plans for onions.   Remember, they are all about adding flavor to things,” said Mom.  “You can really tell when an onion is missing from a recipe.  It’s the finishing touch that makes most soups perfect, like this one.  Now stop asking questions and eat your onions, ONION,” said Mom, reminding me of my nickname from Sam.

     I finished my bowl in silence as the nightly news played in the background and the pot of coffee sputtered and perked.  Mom poured herself a cup which she drank straight black.

      “I see that the lunch calendar says the cafeteria is serving up Huskie Burgers tomorrow,” she said.  Mother Eloise told us she thinks they are really made of dog meat and never lets us buy them.

     “More ketchup, please!” yelled Sam.

     “Why how polite you are, Sam!” praised Mom.

     I guess she was looking to praise polite more than normal eating behavior.  Mom squirted more ketchup into Sam’s bowl.

     “Time for the dishes, Hope,” Mom commanded of my older sister.

     Hope loves to do the clean up after meals.  I think she’s just plain crazy to want to do that day after day, meal after meal.

     My mom says my sister Hope is “special”.  It took me a few years to figure out there was more attached to the term “special” than just being loved, though.   Hope is special in more ways than that.  Hope is very particular and likes things done a certain way, and the same way all of the time.  Mom says that gives her comfort and to leave her be.  I am sure glad that Hope finds her comfort in loading and unloading the dishwasher.

     “Where is your lunch bag? “ I asked Mom.

     Sometimes my mother’s lunch bag is hard to spot.  It doesn’t look like a lunch bag at all—it looks like a cool, plaid purse.  When you unzip it you expect to find compartments with keys and Kleenex and Chap Stick.  The bag is lined with that tin foil looking stuff that keeps things cool.  It’s a lunch bag, not a purse at all!  Although the bag is designed to keep foods cold, mom doesn’t really need the foil lining because she packs the same thing every single day, an apple.

      “It’s hanging on the hook in the entry way,” she replied.

     I spotted the gray plaid bag and went to retrieve it.  I gathered all the other lunch bags up and began to empty the remnants of the day’s dining.  I began my routine which I do nearly every school day.  I know the drill.  Dump the old stuff, set out five drinks, five napkins, five fruits, etc. for my mother to survey.  I make five little piles of lunch items and display them for viewing right in front of the open, empty lunch bags.  Mom gives everything a once over, and after I get her approving nod, I pack each sack neatly and leave it open on the table.

      “There are some new football napkins in the pantry,” she said.

     Even though I eat packed lunch nearly every day except for Fridays when the school serves pizza, my lunches were the envy of the fourth grade.  My mother always makes sure we have a cool napkin that matches the time of year—no paper towel for her children.  We have pumpkin napkins at Halloween, Santas at Christmas, tulip napkins in the spring, and of course football napkins in the fall, because football is Mom’s favorite sport.

     The lunch food my mom provides is always awesome, too.  I can choose most any combination to pack, because all things in our kitchen fall into the “Clean Foods” category.   I always have a variety of organic juices to choose from.   I can make different sandwiches with cool cheeses on whole grain bread.  We always have the perfectly ripened fruit on hand.  I am even allowed to add in something sweet like homemade cookies or Mom’s famous trail mix of nuts, dried fruit, and tiny chocolate chips.

     Every kid in my class lines up to trade me various items for what’s in my lunch.  I’ve never once given in, but was tempted once by Mikey.  He offered me his Ho Ho, a holographic pencil with a super gummy gripper and an eraser that lit up.  I think if I would have held out a bit longer Mikey would have thrown in the sharpener too, but lunch was over and we had to leave.

     “There is a basket full of apples in the garage.  Farmer Richter brought them down today.  I’ll take one of those,” said Mom.

    Lunch is not a surprise for me like many kids in my class because I am the one who does the packing.  But Mom never disappoints.  She always adds in a surprise every single day.  A note .  A little handwritten something or other from Mother to me.  She must do it later in the evening, because I have never once seen her add the note.  I asked her once when she did it and she told me the kitchen fairies who came to help her every night did it for her.  They must be pretty efficient then, because they’ve never once forgotten either.

     I never throw the notes out at the end of the lunch period.  I leave them right in my bag.  Every night, I  take them upstairs to my bedroom and put them on my bulletin board that hangs behind my door.  Most people don’t even know the bulletin board is there, because when my bedroom door is open, it disguises that part of the wall.  It is when I am in my bedroom alone, with the door closed, that I can view the entire bulletin board.  Tonight I will thumbtack up today’s note which appears to be a Bible verse.  The note read, Hebrews 11:1.  It’s definitely a Bible verse she wants me to look up.

     Now that I give this a second of consideration, this note came on the same day of the Key assignment.  I wonder if that was random or if Mrs. Eloise was sending me a message.  I’ll have to look that up later and see if the Hebrew guy is the key keeper.

     “ONION!  I need more, ketchup!” Sam yelled to me.  Sam has this habit of yelling everything he speaks even when I am only a few feet from him.  Mom says it is the way a third child assures himself of being heard.  I just call it annoying.

     “GEEZ, Sam!  I’m right here!  And how much ketchup can a person eat?” I asked him in my most annoyed tone.

     “Millions of inches of ketchup!”

    I made a mental note to work on units of measure with Sam when I got the chance, and handed him the bottle.

     “I want to squirt it!  Let me squirt it!”  Sam shouted.

     We already were treading on rocky ground due to the punching incident in the tree house, so I decided that giving Sam the ketchup bottle was the best option for keeping the peace for the rest of the night.  I sighed, set the bottle down in front of him a touch too hard, and finished my job.  I zipped the lunch sacks shut and put them in the refrigerator for the kitchen fairies to add to later.

     “Come on Sam, finish up,” I said.  I felt a bit guilty as I looked at his bandaged knuckles.  I’ll take you outside for awhile.  Let’s shoot some hoops.”

     “OK!”  Sam smiled his one dimpled smile, as he jumped down from his chair and headed toward the door.

     “Don’t forget to clear your place,” I said, reminding him that he too, had responsibilities as part of this family.
     Strangely, Sam obediently put his bowl and spoon in the sink.  He brought the ketchup bottle to me, smiled, and put it on the counter.  Sam half skipped and half ran to the door screaming, “I’m first!  I’m first!”

     I sighed and grabbed the ketchup bottle to return it to the refrigerator which was littered with pictures and papers and an odd assortment of magnets.  My mother loved magnets and had a nice collection of them.

   When I picked up the ketchup, it seemed much lighter than before.  I thought I had handed him a brand new bottle.  Man, that kid could really eat ketchup.  I hoped he didn’t puke because we would have one sorry red mess on our hands if he did.  I shrugged, returned the bottle to the refrigerator door, surveyed the almost put back together kitchen and went outside.

     “I could hear Sam impatiently calling me.  “ONION!”  “ONION!”  “Where are you Onion?  It’s no fun to play without you.”

     Hmmm, I thought, when Onion is missing things aren’t as fun, and when onions are missing from a recipe, food doesn’t taste as good.

     Thanks, Sam, I thought to myself.  I just think I figured out the key to all things—onions.  I bet some Hebrew guy had a great big garden of them.

The Key, Chapter 6

The Key

by Eloise Hawking

Chapter 6

     I made the short trip east to my Grandparents’ house.  The fall air was crisp and smelled of the apple harvest.  It was the sweet smell of fall.  Sam was right, the air was getting crisp.

     The door to the back porch was propped open for Amtrak, the family cat.  He liked to go in out as he pleased.   He was almost twenty years old, so an open door was a well earned luxury.  Amtrak stayed the night wherever the mood struck him.  Sometimes it would be at Grandma and Grandpas, sometimes at my house.  He was perched at his usual post on the cement step.  I stopped a moment to pet his scratchy, gray head. 

     “How ya’ doin’, Old Man?” I asked before entering the house.

      “Grandma!” I yelled, “Mom sent me over for some soup!” trying not to startle her this time.

     The Weather Channel was on full blast, but Grandma was nowhere to be found.  I saw the Margarita Mix bucket sitting on the stove and figured that must be for us.  I lifted the lid with its dancing sombreros and inhaled.  Homemade vegetable—Harvest Soup, Grandma called it.  It was my favorite.

     I resealed the lid and grabbed the plastic handle, warmed from the contents.  It was filled to the top.  I guessed the vegetables in the soup were heavier than the margarita mix it originally contained, so I carried it very gently.  I noticed a loaf of homemade bread was sitting next to it, wrapped in tin foil.  My mouth watered and my stomach growled.  I hoped that was meant for us, too.   

     

     I looked out grandma’s kitchen window and saw she and my grandpa talking out in the garage.  I thought I’d go let them know I found the soup and see if this delicious smelling bread was for us, too.  I tucked the bread in a football hold in my left arm, grasped the soup bucket in my right, and opened the levered door handle with my elbow.

     I could hear the end of their conversation before they noticed me coming.  “………..some doozers coming in from the west this weekend.  We better batten down the hatches.”   I could tell she was nervous about something because she was smoking.   She tapped the long, white cigarette that was between her pointer and middle finger to knock the ash off onto Grandpa’s garage floor.  I always wondered if the ash would melt her equally long, plastic fingernails.

     My mother and grandmother are not alike at all it seems.  My mother would never smoke, for one, and for two, she despises fake nails.  I asked my mom once if I could go get a manicure for fun as we were walking by the nail place one day.  She stopped, hesitated, and pulled me backwards by the arm to look in the window.  Mother Eloise has this habit of never answering “Yes” or “No.”  She usually answers my question by asking another one, just like she does in school.  

     She said to me, “Take a look in this window, Sherlock.  What do you see?”  I didn’t say anything.  

     “See all of the people wearing facemasks?  That should raise the first warning flag in your brain that says, “Hey—maybe I shouldn’t be in here.”  And that was that.  My Sally Hansen #12 Petunia Pink does me just fine for now, I guess.

     One thing I have figured out about my grandma is that she is very scared of storms and she tells you straight up.  You don’t have to guess.  She calls us when she sees something coming on the radar no matter what the season; ice in the spring, torrential rain in the summer, thunderstorms in the fall, and blizzards in the winter.  Grandma should have been a weather forecaster.

     Luckily for Grandma, we live in a very safe area of the country.  My science teacher told us that the Great Lakes Region of the country is very safe because we don’t experience as much severe weather as the rest of the United States.  We get some bad thunderstorms and a neighboring community did have a tornado touch down once, but that was when my mother was just a kid.  About the worst thing that happens to us where we live is snow—lots and lots of it.  Grandma says “It’s not the snow that will kill ya’, it’s driving in it that will.” 

     Once Grandma was babysitting me when we had a very bad thunderstorm.  My sister and brother were with my parents and they were coming back from somewhere when the storm hit.  I was worried about them, but Grandma told me they were safe because the rubber tires on their van were poor electrical conductors.  She assured me they wouldn’t get electrocuted.  

     I suppose that was why the two of us were sitting on top of her long, wooden kitchen table wearing rubber rain boots.  There we sat, side by side cross legged, and watched the storm roll by out the windows.  Grandma kept waving the trail of smoke from her cigarette away from me, but kept the lighter handy in case we needed it to light the candles she made us hold in case we lost power.  

     I guess that is the only benefit of being a smoker:  You always have a lighter handy.   I knew about the danger of tornados and driving on icy roads, but I asked Grandma if people could ever die in a thunderstorm.  Grandma replied, “Only the dumb ones.”

      My mother, on the other hand, is not afraid of storms.  She told me once that one of her favorite places to be is near the beach when a storm rolls in across the lake.  Mother Eloise likes to sit on the shore and look for water spouts, which are actually mini tornados that are caused by the changes in air pressure when the storm goes over the water.  She made me pinky swear not to tell Grandma her secret or she knew she would surely get punished, even at forty years old.   

     I interrupted my grandparents conversation first by clearing my throat so they would notice my presence, then with the question, “Grandma, is this the soup and bread for our dinner?”

     “Oh hi, Ellen.  Yes it is,” Grandma said acknowledging me with a smile.  “It’s Harvest Soup, your favorite.  Framer Richter brought a big basketful of good things to put in it.  Did you have a good day at school?”

     Before I could answer, Grandpa interjected.  “Ellen, tell your mother that she needs to slow down.  She ran into the garbage can this morning.  Always in a hurry, that girl is.  Don’t be like that, Ellen.  What’s the hurry?  Take things slow.  Your life will be much easier.”  Grandpa's voice had an edge of irritation in it.

     “And after you are done telling your mother that," interjected Grandma,  "you may want to mention that there is more nasty weather on the way.  I talked to your Uncle Willie in Topeka and he said a twister spun off that sucker.  He hid in his basement for six straight hours.”

    I tried to conjure up an image of Grandma’s brother hiding in a basement, but I pushed the thought out of my mind when I thought of his plaid pants and loafers with the little tassels on them.

     I looked over to see that Grandpa had fixed the garbage can in the only way he knows how—using parts and pieces from all other things.  “Waste not, want not” he always says.  I noticed that the handle was from my old doll carriage, as well as one of the wheels.  Because the new wheel was slightly larger than the other three, the garbage can sat tipped on a slight angle. 

     “Since you’re going home, drag the can out back for me, will you honey?” Grandpa asked.

 

     Dragging garbage cans, hauling soup buckets, and delivering my mother unpleasant messages.  Maybe I was the real Cinderella.   

     I held the Margarita bucket in my right hand, tucked the loaf of bread underneath my chin, and grabbed the makeshift handle to the garbage can with my left.  I smiled and thanked them and carefully walked home, measuring every step so not to slop the soup or tip the can.  I had to concentrate extra hard not to drool on the bread.  It was a feat much harder than it looked.

     I was making good progress and was almost halfway home when I heard grandma’s voice calling to me.   I stopped, set the soup bucket down, released the bread from my chin-grasp, and balanced the garbage can in the grass.  When I turned to look back, Grandma was smiling and said, “You never said how your school day was!”

    ….or no one gave me the chance to answer, I thought.  

     “Fine,” I yelled back. I went to reconnoiter myself and it seemed like just plain too much work to readjust my load for a one word response, so I added this:  “What do you think is the key to all things?  It is my homework assignment.”

     “You have to pee, of all things?  Well get a move on, honey!  If you hold your pee you’ll get poisoned by your own urine and die.  You got to let that out!  Get goin’! ” Grandma yelled back.

     I sighed, smiled, and shook my head.  I could feel the sides of my pony tail brushing my neck.  Suddenly that remaining journey across the yard didn’t seem so long because I had something to chuckle about.  It always helps to take something funny with you along for the journey, even if you are dragging someone else’s garbage along with you.  I giggled to myself and thought that maybe that was it---laughter.  Could laughter be the key to all things?