Lesson 101: Penn State Lost This Week

In case you missed Saturday's noon game between Penn State and Nebraska, Eloise is here to inform you that Penn State lost this week.  And in more ways than one.  I bet many of you were wondering if Old Eloise, Proud Pennsylvanian and Penn State Fan, would comment on the happenings that have come to light at our state's finest university.  As keeper of The Lamp Post, it is my responsibility to deal with light, so I shall.  Unfortunately, when Penn State came into the spotlight this week, it simultaneously cast a shadow across the university that will long leave its mark.  Would Eloise speak or remain silent?  I think many have remained silent far too long, so I'll take my five minutes in blogdom to share my thoughts, thank you.

Eloise is loyal.  She loves a legend.  She's a fan; a true lover of sports.  And it seems, when her favorites fall, they fall hard.  I can recall my disbelief when I watched OJ Simpson fleeing in a white bronco on a California highway.  I remember being bewildered as to how and why Tiger Woods could take part in so much stealth infidelity, especially when he had such a beautiful wife waiting for him at home.  My heart broke when I saw an image of Michael Phelps smoking dope.   But this Penn State scandal is is like none other--it's epic because it involves the abuse of children.

It's taken the good part of this week for me to compose myself enough to try to garner some thoughts that make sense.  Even now with a Bible on my left and a pony bottle on my right, my thoughts jump back and forth from disgust to disbelief.  I am divided by my loyal nature, wanting to defend my favorite coach and all the good he has done, and the protective instincts of a mother/teacher/human being.  I held on to the hope that in time as more information was brought into light, there would be some sort of rational explanation as to how this abuse went on for so long and went unpunished.  But my only conclusion tonight is that this whole situation is irrational.

In fact, I believe irrational is the exact term I am looking for because I just looked it up on my handy little on-line dictionary.  Here is the definition supplied by Farlex, the On Line Dictionary:
ir·ra·tion·al  (-rsh-nl)

adj.

1.

a. Not endowed with reason.

b. Affected by loss of usual or normal mental clarity; incoherent, as from shock.

c. Marked by a lack of accord with reason or sound judgment: 

Penn State officials who had knowledge of any of the accounts outlined in the Grand Jury Report lacked sound judgment.  Their actions were beyond reason.  I am certain their mental clarity was effected from the shock of their knowledge.  You know what they say about people in shock--they operate on auto pilot.  I do believe there are some things that are incomprehensible to the normal human being.  Atrocities so great that our minds almost cannot grasp them.  Surely someone was mistaken.  That couldn't have been what was witnessed.  Not my child; this couldn't have happened to my child.  Or how about this from a child's perspective:  What is happening to me?  


When people are faced with evils so great, I believe there is part of the brain that just shuts down.  It buries horrific events as a coping mechanism.  The great file cabinet called our mind shoves the horrors away in a deep place and moves on to other things just to survive.  But somewhere, deep in those abused boys living in grown men's bodies, there was a stirring for justice that allowed for the reopening of one of those locked file cabinet drawers.  Someone was finally brave enough to speak out, knowing full well that they would bring down an entire institution and its legendary icon along with it.  My prayers go out to that brave soul tonight as well as the others who stepped forward to acknowledge that they too, had been harmed.  Lord, give them strength at their time of greatest need.


This sin has always existed whether we care to admit that or not.  The Devil Himself infects the minds of people and twists them up.  Crimes of this magnitude against children have always been lurking, hiding in the darkness.  But the world is changing.  We know more.  We communicate more often.  We are linked together almost instantly.  The recent events involving Penn State have shined a light on the worst in the nature of man, and we can no longer pretend that we can't see it.  A floodlight has lit up State College for the whole world to see what has been going on in central Pennsylvania for the last decade.  As I quote from the book of Corinthians, Chapter 4, He will bring to light what is hidden in the darkness and will expose the motives of men's hearts.  Amen to that.

We can no longer turn a blind eye from what we have seen, or even from what our gut instincts are telling us.  When a crime has been witnessed or rumored of, especially against a child, "reporting to the chain of command" does not apply.  Here is a quick, easy number Eloise wants you to remember--9-1-1.  It is the universal number for the police in this country.  You can call it from anywhere you are and you'll find someone who can direct you to what to do next.  It may be understandable that you may feel the need to run to Daddy to ask what to do, but as a 28 year old, I think you could punch in those three numbers all by yourself.  The safety of that child was far more important than the institution, The Church of Football, as columnist Rick Reilly called it in a recent ESPN interview.

When we know better, we do better.  After I finished reading The Help by Katherine Stockett, one of my new favorite books, I immediately called my mother and asked her what in the hell she was doing in 1962.  "Graduating from high school," was her reply.  I told her she was old enough and smart enough to know that there was no sound reason that people of color should be kept from using the toilets of white people.  "Of course I knew that," she said.  "I didn't know what was going on down south."  Forgiven because it was the year 1962 B.I.  Before Internet.  

I didn't know.    At first that sounded like a lame excuse to me.  I stewed about it all day long.  Stewed about it until I went to bed, that is.  I looked over at my night stand and the pile of books that I keep there.  These are some pictures of my nightstand tonight:

I keep a stack of books by my bedside and read myself to sleep whenever I feel the call to climb in bed.  I read whatever I am in the mood for.  Sarah's Key is the one I've been working on.  It's about the Holocaust in France--yes France.  I always have a book going about it  because I feel a sense of personal responsibility to never allow myself to forget it happened, even though it took place many years before I was born.  It makes me aware of the human potential of hate.

 
You will see that Raising the Spirited Child, is also on the top of my stack, for reasons I am sure you can understand if you are a faithful blog reader.  And no, the giant Rolling Rock can is not a fresh one--it's my bank for my nickels and dimes.  I like to separate my coins and this worked perfectly.  To further explain, my LOST box contains the contents of all my favorite mementos, and that round thing is a geode cut crosswise because that is my favorite rock.  I use it as a coaster.

I didn't know.  A few years ago, I was reading a Reader's Digest article about a woman who lived through the uprising in Darfur.  I was captivated by how she and 9 other people hid in a tiny bathroom, the kind with just a toilet and a pedestal sink, for SIX MONTHS, without ever coming out, to escape the people running through the streets with machetes in 2003.  Where was I? I asked myself.  Oh yes, going to play dates, and buying toys for my children, and this woman learned to sleep standing up.  I didn't know.  I felt like a heel that I didn't know this was going on, and vowed to never forget those who suffered while I was busy making mac-n-cheese.

I've lived a charmed life, lucky to be born in the country I live in to the parents who raised me.  I had no control in that.  But I can control my awareness of things.  Eloise has become a Watch Dog of the World, so to speak.  My sister on occasion has told me to tone it down because I am no fun to have at a party.  I get that.  Guilt has its place, but guilt has power.  I am hoping and praying that those individuals who looked the other way, or felt like it wasn't their place to report these crimes to the police at the time they happened are motivated by their guilt to make a change--one for the better.

Eloise is a teacher and we are reminded every year, often several times a year, about the rules for keeping our children safe.  Parents have trusted us not only to educate, but to guard and protect their children while they are in our care.  I ask about every bruise.  I make phone calls when I child is acting out of the ordinary.  And if a teen shows up wearing a long black trench coat I have the right to check to make sure there is not a sawed off shotgun in the inside pocket.  Columbine changed that for us as Penn State will change us again.  We will rise above it, learn from it, and more children will be spared of these horrific crimes because of it.

We were up at Behrend, the Penn State Erie branch campus on Saturday for my nephew Jack's Lego Robotics Competition (they took second place out of 40 teams, by the way).  I happened to spy a lamp post with the Nittany Lion paw print on it.  I had my kids gather around it and snapped a fast one.  Is Eloise ready to trade in all her Smurf colored clothes she wears every Saturday in the fall because of this tragedy?  No way.  I will not let the actions of few effect the history of many.  I am proud of the university I support, and will remain loyal, as will many others.  We shall overcome.

I also snapped this photo of the Nittany Lion.  Notice how he has a beam of sunlight upon his head.  I didn't doctor that, the light was really shining that way.  I guess the Lord wanted the Lamp Post to shed some further light on this topic, which is bound to be the fodder around many a water cooler for several months to come.

The above video is of my son, Sam.  Clad in his Penn State pajama bottoms and t-shirt, he was practicing his football moves.  If you wonder why he is the way he is, watch the video a couple of times; you'll understand.  You will hear his sister Ellen and partner in crime Emily, egging Sam on, Flip Camera in hand.  If you doubt for one single second that my boy doesn't have the makings of a great linebacker then you are taking up residence on some other planet.  That is Sam actually practicing his agility moves, then charging Ellen to practice his tackles at age four.  Yes, he did actually bite her knee (I'll try to keep him out of the boxing ring).  Lineman are known to be mean.  And when someone asks me, Do you want him to play for Penn State someday?  My answer will be ABSOLUTELY!

Penn State lost this weekend.  They fell short of a win by three points.  They also fell short in many other ways over the last decade as well.  But don't be so quick to point the finger, because I assure you , this is no isolated incidence.  This is happening in your neighborhood right now.  Maybe in your back yard or in the house next door or at university of whose flag you fly off of your front porch on game day.  The person in question may be your friendly neighbor, your teacher, or your clergy person.  Penn State is in the spot light, but the world has cranked up the wattage on that beam.  There is no doubt that it will cast shadows far beyond Happy Valley.  Prepare yourselves now.

Yes, Penn State lost this weekend, but they will be gaining one hell of a lineman in 2024.  I can't wait.

Still love you, Joe,
Eloise

Lesson 100: Let's Hear it for the Boy

Tonight's blog post ended up being the perfect one to celebrate my 100th blog post since August of 2010.  I saw the triple digit creeping up last month and the topic of #100 has been on my mind.  What would be worthy enough to hold the place of Post 100?  It didn't all come together but a couple of hours ago and the catalyst was a mistake.

I checked back to look at the blog for a reason I already can't remember (Eloise has a very cluttered mind, especially on Sunday nights).  When I looked at post #99 I realized part of the story did not upload.  There is a missing paragraph (or two).  I don't write from drafts---I just write like I talk, as if you were sitting right on the other side of my computer screen (which you kind of are).  Readers always tell me that when they read what I write, they can hear my voice--and I think literally, not so much the poetic writer's voice.  And is because my fingers just fly; I don't have a copy to look back on.  But when I read it back through, there is an obvious point where the story drops off and changes topic rather abruptly.  You can actually see where it is.  The missing paragraph(s) belong next to the long shot of the Lamp Post that shows the wall where I want to get a lamp.  Reader Jenny already found me one!  Thank you.  Now help me convince my family I need to have it.

In the writer's world, this is called a poor transition.  It is the very thing we teachers are trying to teach children when they write--it's all about good transitions---it makes for a smooth flow for your writing.  I think about the only flow kids get from teachers is that advice, going in one ear and out the other.  Writing is not a popular subject in school for most kids.  In fact, I do believe most people struggle with written expression; probably darn near as many who are afraid of public speaking.  I can do both well, hence my profession.

I was writing about the elm tree tag that my dad hung in his garagemahal.  Then there is this vast emptiness....then I start talking about the wall of the Lamp Post in need of a lamp post.  Clunk.  That is what you call a poor transition.  The gist of the missing piece was this:  You should surround yourself with the things you love in the space that you have--and namely the place you most frequent.  For my Dad it is the Garagemahal, for my Mother, her kitchen, and for me, it's The Lamp Post.  I can do my most creative work in the space I am most comfortable in.  The Lamp Post is up high, just like it sounds as though it should be, sitting atop my living room in a loft area.  I have a window for natural light, and a wood stove beneath it that radiates heat upwards to warm my feet.  So my transition was to link my Dad's sanctuary to my own.  Smooth.  If you upload correctly, that is.

I strive to write seamlessly because I hate transitions in general.  I never have dealt with change well, nor do I feel comfortable when things move to fast.  I like to take my time and think things over.  I am a ponderer and in another life, I do believe I was some sort of tree sloth (I eat plants, I love trees, I'm slow moving, and that hair of mine.......).  Annoying as it is for those who know me, a reminder to you:  we can't help how we are made.

Four and a half years ago I made myself a little boy who is turning out to be a heck of a lot like his Momma.  He's blue eyed, stubborn as all get out, and wide through the butt like a  linebacker (like I said, we can't help how we are made).  Sam is constant material for this blog.  God knows what his therapist will say to him as together they go back and revisit Sam's childhood all recorded in blogdom for the world to see.  And those of you who know me, have heard that I'm having a bit of a bump in the road with him.  It's not a road block, it's a pothole people, and we're making our way around it with lots of help from lots of people.  They all say the same thing--the kid gets anxious over transitions.  I get that.  Big time.

We have cool cards posted all over the house at 3 foot high eye level that say, "Wait--Breathe--Count---Calm Down."  It's too bad that I am the one who most often uses them.  I'm killing my knees.  Remind me to raise those suckers up to 5'8" high.  With patience, consistency, and persistence, Sam is nearly back to the old funny Sam that he was six months ago.  He's sleeping better, much more settled, and eating like a champ.  I only got about ten years to go to fatten him up for the Huskies line.

I know this is going to seem like a poor transition now, you Careful Readers, but this does link together.  I went to the new Footloose movie this weekend.  I went with my friend Keri who happens to dance better than Julianne Hugh and owns the dance studio where my girls take lessons.  She also happens to be the one I was sitting next to at the showing of the original movie at The Eastway Twin Theaters twenty-five years ago.  It was really a full circle moment for the both of us--especially when I kept whispering to her probably too loudly I want those red boots!  My first task upon my return home was to announce to the facebook world that I had seen the movie (I know Slovenians, don't judge, because Americans aren't the only ones who do this).  My second task was to melt my iTunes card downloading the music.

All of the original songs have been remade and they are quite good.  Blake Shelton's version of the title track is very good.  Holding on to a Hero was the biggest surprise---it is slowed wwwaaaaaayyyyy down, but it is excellent.  My favorite though is Let's Hear it for the Boy.  For those of you who can remember the original, it is the song Kevin Bacon teaches Willard to dance to.  Willard is in the new movie version and is ten times more lovable than in the first one.  In fact, I think Willard steals the show.  The song you hear playing in the background of my home movie clip is Let's Hear it for the Boy--the new version.

It was Sunday night and I was getting prepared for the week.  If you look around my kitchen you'll see the garbage ready to go out and a floor in desperate need of sweeping.  You'll also see the corner cupboard minus the door.  Sam thought it would be a fun hiding place for hide and seek and he leaned his 51 pounds on it and the hinges gave (I told you LINEBACKER).   I was in the middle of all of this Sunday evening clean up with my music blasting to keep me motivated.  Sam heard it and he came skidding in to the kitchen in his socks saying, "Dance with me Momma!"  The boy is more and more like me every day.   He loves his music and loves to dance.

Music is on in my house and car almost all of the time.  It was how I grew up and I think I carried that piece into my life today.  Music soothes me when I am sad, can force a tear when I am in need of a good cry, or keep me up and moving on a Sunday night when I'd rather just sit on my couch and leave it all until the morning.  And when it's on, you'll often find me dancing in my kitchen, usually sliding around the linoleum in my socks, just like Sam on the clip (although I don't do the belly flop thing--like I said, that floor is in desperate need of a good sweeping, so I know better).

Sam, clad in his peace t-shirt (I secretly hope some tranquility will seep into him through osmosis) and plaid pajama bottoms was happy tonight.  The boy you see on the movie is my old Sam--that funny, lovable, off the cuff kid who keeps me on my toes.  So tonight, when he yelled, "Dance with me Momma!" I did just that.  The sweeping could wait and the only garbage that I wanted to think about was the white bag that needed to go out behind the wood pile.  None of Sam's problems the past six months mattered at the moment.  All that mattered was he wanted to dance with me.

Psalm 149, verse 3 was quoted by Footloose character Ren McCormick when approaching the town council in attempt to abolish the ordinance about teen dancing.  It reads:  Let them praise his name with dancing....
And I did just that on many levels.  (And how about that for a transition, for ya'?  I sure hope it posts correctly).

Let's hear it for my boy!
Amen.
Eloise

Lesson 99: What Kind of World Do You Want?

Hello, Readers.  This is a bit of a hurried Lamp Post posting tonight as Eloise has lots of plans for the weekend.  I got a football game and a fund raiser and a Footloose movie to go and see, and that’s all BEFORE dinner time on Saturday.  But namely, my main project is installing my Wi-Fi.  A bit late in the game, you say?  Not at all really, considering we were the first to have it several years ago when I went though the painful process before.  I no sooner had that $100 router figured out and installed when I saw a report that experts were studying Wi-Fi and it’s possible links to brain cancer.  I rapidly unplugged it all and threw it in the trash.  Years have passed and Wi-Fi is literally everywhere.  I’ve given it some thought and came to these conclusions:  #1—It is now deemed completely safe,    #2—We are all doomed.  In either case we’re all in this together, so I’m giving it another attempt.  I hope this installation goes better than the last time.

You know how that is once you start unplugging things of the technical sort.  The Lamp Post will be out of service for a bit this weekend.  I have this sick fear that I won’t be able to get everything up and working properly and will have to call a teenager (or a third grader) to hook it back up for me.  I wanted you all to see the pictures from the last home game for my Huskies.  Thanks, kids.  It was a great season. 

My children and football are the center of my world in the fall of every year.  Eloise is a teacher and returns to throngs of noisy children every September.  I am surrounded by them all day and their incessant questions (I teach the “avid learners”), then I come back for another dose every Friday night at a football game.  I love high school football and always will.  I’m my team’s biggest fan.  On the movie included along with snapshots from Friday night’s game, are some other things from my world that I love.  You’ll see lots of pictures of trees and leaves. 

I have to make a public confession—I’m a tree nerd.  I have 33 trees in my yard and each one has a special purpose.  You’ll see one of my giant weeping willows, and my maple tree that is sick with tar blight.  After school I got a really awesome shot of another tree with really bright yellow leaves.  It’s like the lyric in the Luke Bryan song I love---the desperate way leaves in the fall hold colors tight.  It’s as if the leaves really are desperately clinging to every last ounce of color before the desolate winter sets in.  You’ll also see a little, baby elm sapling.  It is my new favorite tree.  I have to think of a name for her—I just can’t quite come up with it yet.  Yes, Eloise names everything--even trees.

A friend of the family gave us the tree which is a Liberty Elm.  This is the plaque it came with and the story behind it.  The name is going to have to match the story somehow, so if you think of a good one, send me a suggestion.

The red colonial in the background is the house I grew up in.  I built my house next door, so my parents are my next door neighbors.  Living next to them is an adventure.  It really is comforting for those of you who just got a shudder up your spine.  They are an excellent source of blog material to say the least.  After all, Everybody Loves Raymond is a sitcom written about that very thing.  It's nice that my parents have the tree because they placed it in a spot where I can see it from my house too.  This plaque which explains the story (and its a good one, so make sure you squint and read it) is hanging in my dad's garage which I named the Garagemahal. 

The Garagemahal is a 40 x 30 foot sanctuary for my dear old dad.  He is out there all the time---just like a little kid in a playhouse.  It's his world.  And in dad's world he surrounds himself with things that he loves:  train memorabilia, Pittsburgh Steeler fan gear, and beer.  The guy on the video holding the stein is not my Dad, but I do think it probably could be one of my German, beer loving relatives.   I photographed the Beer Guy when I was in the Garagemahal taking a snapshot of the Liberty Tree plaque, which for now, is hanging on the wall just inside the man door.  Once the tree matures the tag can be placed on the trunk.

That tall, blank looking wall to the left of the top photo totally needs a floor lamp.  I have absolutely no lighting when I write at night and Eloise is suffering eye strain.  I've learned over time that it is best to hold out for something you really want, rather than to settle for something less than the best.  I want a floor lamp that looks like a lamp post, and I can't find one.  If any of you readers ever do, please send me a message.  

 I love maps and globes far more than GPS navigators.  It should come as no surprise that I have a globe atop my storage unit.  On the lower left shelf is the LOST Complete Collection that I got for Christmas last year (the one I threatened to light the tree on fire over if I didn't get, if you recall).

 For now the window provides me adequate light while I write, but the winter is upon us and extra hours of darkness.  Eloise does not do well without the sunlight.  I'm like my plants.  If you stick me in a closet, I get pale and pasty just like the Sixth Grade science fair projects every year (there is always one on this topic):  Can plants grown in a closet?

 When you watch the movie you'll see a shot of my Dad's beer can collection he keeps in the Garagemahal.  It made me smile to think that I have surrounded myself with my own can collection, but mine is the non alcoholic version.

 My mother gave me this lamp post for a decoration.  It was actually one of her Christmas decorations but I ripped the wreath off of it so I can set it out all year.  The framed picture is a painting that Ellen made for me.  I love how she put the glow of light outside of the actual lamp.  She said, "It's a painting of a lamp post.  The light reminds me of you."  Sweet.

On shelf above my computer you'll find my pencil can the girls made me out of beach glass, a bird cup Sam gave me for Mother's Day, a carved wooden lamb that reminds me of Jesus, and my lucky horseshoe.  I found it when we were digging the foundation of our house.  I built my house on what used to be a horse pasture in the 1800's.  I'm not superstitious or anything, but I always make sure the points are facing upwards so my luck doesn't run out.

Does the apple ever fall far from its tree?  I'm the apple that landed next door.  You can see that I am a chip off the old block--I don't have a collection of beer cans, but I did turn a Rolling Rock bottle into a daisy vase.

 I told you I name everything.  And if you know me, I probably have a nickname for you.  Most I keep in my head though, so don't ask me what yours is.  They are secret.  This plant I named Guadalupe.  My friend Keri got it for me when my grandma passed away in September.  Keri married a guy from Ecuador, and this reminded me of the palm farm he has there.  I looked up Top 10 Ecuadorian Baby Names (yes, you can Google just about anything), and decided to give this plant a multicultural sounding one.  Evelyn happened to be the number one name in Ecuador last year which sounded too American.  I opted for #6--Guadalupe instead.

Meet Charlotte.  A gift from Tracy Southern when she came home for a visit last spring.  T Southern now lives in South Carolina, about a mile from Charlotte, NC where she originally moved (and left me lonely) many years ago.  I thought it was a pretty, southern sounding name.  TS told me "you can't kill this."  I think after a month in the north the plant was out of sorts, so I sent her an email with the next photo attached.  It read, "I beg to differ."

This was poor Charlotte after about four weeks in Erie.  I thought I lost her.  I can't stand to kill a living thing--even the tomato worm that was eating my half of my garden.  I found the little &#^$%@ and put him in my neighbor Fitzgerald's garden.  Simple solution.  Other than one waitressing job that I despised, I never quit anything in my life.  I'm not a quitter, and I wouldn't give up on Charlotte.

Once I realized I needed to remove the pretty, pink wrapper to give her some breathing room, she started to come back.  I retrieved this out of the garbage TWICE because my hubby tried to pitch it.  He's a little quick on his decisions.  Glad I saved her because the above photo shows a nice, healthy looking Charlotte sitting on my Lamp Post window seat.  She's even blooming again---in November.

 So how far does the apple fall from the tree?  My sister's apple landed about 4 miles away.  Maybe she strayed too far from her roots.  The following two snapshots are of plants that Kenyan Karen decided to nurture this summer.  If you look closely, the white pot in this photo reads, "Homegrown on Lake Erie."  City officials are not asking her permission to put this on a travel brochure of the Erie region.

Kenyan Karen has good intentions every year.  She likes plants, too, but plants need time and care.  She's got a lot going on in that great big house of hers, so sometimes the plants forget to get watered, other than from a good leg-lifting from her pug Hercules.  Maybe dog urine is what gave this one it's nice, crispy brown look.

I always save the best for last, and this is the prizewinner of blog #99:  This is the plant that Sister Somebody--Jack's teacher who is a nun, gave Karen to care for.  She gave it to Karen to "split and re pot."  Kenyan has them completely fooled.  I told her to be extra careful with this one---we may need an extra nod when we're standing at Heaven's Gates someday.  Re potting the office plant of a nun just may be our ticket.  

While were all biding our time here, waiting for our turn to stand at Heaven's Gates, what have you filled your world with?  Is it all work and no play?  Eloise's advice today is this:  get outside and do something you enjoy and take a couple of kids along; plant a tree (and make it an elm); have a beer or a coke and find someone to drink it with; share your world with someone today.  

Make today a good day, Readers.

Eloise

Lesson 98: A Halloween Thriller

Unless you are a Creature of the Night like Eloise, by the time you are reading this blog, it will most likely be November 1^st, so I would like to wish my readers a Happy World Vegan Day.  More people would probably identify the day after Halloween with All Saints Day, but given that Eloise is not a Catholic, that wouldn’t make much sense either.  I’ll gnaw on a carrot and write this blog.

I am gnawing on a carrot not only in support of my vegan peeps, but to remind myself that I do not need the bags full of Halloween treats that are sitting in buckets on the floor ‘neath the Lamp Post.  I’ve always had mixed feelings about Halloween, and the over consumption of candy is just one problem.  Eloise is a chicken is the larger one.

Yes, I am a self-admitted, lily-livered, quaking in my boots type chick.  I’m kind of like Don Knotts in the Ghost of Mr. Chicken, if you’ve ever seen that oldie.  I would look like this:  

I always have startled easily and I certainly don’t like to be spooked.  You will never find me in a scary costume and Haunted Houses are absolutely out of the question.  I just know that the one I decide to attend will have the lunatic with the real chainsaw waiting to fulfill his secret, sick fantasy of severing someone’s head.  I’ll pass, thank you.

The scarier thing about Halloween anymore is the cost.  No matter what my sister tells you, I AM NOT CHEAP!  It’s just the time of year the holiday falls that gets me every time.  We brave enough to live in Northwestern Pennsylvania can smell winter upon us.  We need to have boots, hats, coats, scarves and all that good winter gear needed for weather that is only (gulp) a couple of weeks away.  With kids, that gets expensive when they outgrow the major gear every year and never have we made it to March with two matching gloves.  You know as soon as the witch hats and fake blood are marked down to 70% off, there is a jingling of Christmas bells in the retail stores.  I start mentally trying to divide the number of weeks by the number of paychecks.  Math always confuses me, so I am always off by a bit (or a bundle).

This year I made up my mind that I was not going to spend tons of money on Halloween costumes.  After all, when I was a kid I had fun stuffing my Dad’s sweatpants and GE t-shirts with a pillow to make a fake big butt (too bad now I have a real one).  I’d use the case from that pillow as a sack to hold all of my candy.  No Party City was around then, hence no $40 costume to wear one time.  No sturdy handled plastic bag with the glow in the dark markings.  And by all means no blinking light saber that changes from red to green to yellow.  I used Dad’s flashlight under the issuance that I better not bring it back busted.   No, there was not as much choice, but things seemed simpler then.  Did you ever notice that ALL the Peanuts characters on it’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown were ghosts?  Just sheets and neckties. 

Natalie wore Ellen’s break dancer costume from last year’s dance show.  Sweet.  Ellen made herself an artist.  She made her own palette from a cardboard box, found some artsy looking clothes, and painted up an old smock.  All that one cost me was a $5 beret from Wal-Mart.  Two kids down and five bucks spent.  Awesome.  Then comes Sam.

Sam, my only son with the stubborn streak and quick temper we are trying to tame.  We’ve really been pushing the Super Hero thing---the nice buff guys who fight to PROTECT people.  They are the knights of the modern age.  I spotted the $20 Superman costume at Wal-Mart when I was getting the beret for Ellen and I couldn’t resist.  I should have stopped there--$25 total expenditure for three kids wasn’t so bad---until I found the matching flashlight and the ring for Super Sam.  I’m not good at math, but the cost went up a bit I guess.

But I feel bad because I wouldn’t have been nickel-diming on Halloween as much this year if I wouldn’t have made one of the worst decisions in recent history.  My girls duped me into getting them hair feathers.  You know, the new fad---little, delicate feathers clipped into the side of one’s hair.  A few of the little girls had them upon return to school this year, and Ellen started begging.  It’s sure is nice when a kid wants something really badly---they will work for it.  The girls have been patiently doing extra jobs, immediately upon request for about a month now.  If they would hesitate or even look like they were about to roll their eyes I would say in a sing-songy voice hair feathers, and boy did they move. 

Two weeks ago on a Friday I was in a good mood.  The football game was away that week and I was pretty sure of a win.  I surprised them with a trip to the local salon to get the feathers.   I wish I would have snapped a picture of their faces when I told them we were going.The girls chattered excitedly on the drive to the salon, thinking aloud about which color they should pick and choosing the perfect placement in their hair.  I smiled and thought to myself I am so lucky to have girls.  This is fun.

The cosmetologist helped us choose the feathers and explained that they could be washed, could get wet, and could be curled or flat ironed.  They would stay in for up to three months and if they did fall out, you could save the feather and bring it back to get re clipped in your hair.  Seemed like a sweet deal. 

The girls had so much fun getting their feathers in that I decided I would get one, too.  Heck, Eloise has a mane of hair, and I’d just put it back by my ear, kind of underneath, so that it didn’t show unless I styled my tresses in such a way that it would.  The girls tackled me from either side and gave me a hug I will never forget.  “You’re the coolest mom ever!”  said Ellen.  “Cool, yes,” said Natalie.  Music to a 40 year old mother’s ears.

Cool soon turned to red hot when I went to the counter to pay for three hair feathers and a bottle of shatter nail polish (I was feeling extra generous over the cool comment).  $129, said the perky beautician.  I blinked.  “That will be $129,” she said again, holding out her hand for my debit card.  “As in dollars?” I asked.  She giggled.  I choked.  But because I’m so cool, I pretended it was a cough. 

Here are our feathers:

Ellen was the envy of the playground.  One of Natalie’s friends from school told me, “Cool feather in Natalie’s hair, Mrs. Eloise.   That was nice of you to get her one.”  OK—maybe money isn’t everything.  It’s like that PRICELESS thing in the Master Card commercial.  But I swear on everything holy that if one more person tells me, “Hey, come here.  I think you have a blue string in your hair,” I am going to flip out.

………or maybe fly away.  In fact, that was what my Halloween costume was this year.  I wore a blue sweater, blue jeans, my blue running toe shoes, and of course my blue feather.  There was only one thing I could be.  The best costume for someone dumb enough to spend $129 (without the tip) on 3 hair feathers and a bottle of nail polish.  See below.  

The blue footed booby.  Now that’s priceless.

Happy vegan day!

Eloise

Lesson 97: Footloose

You were not awake in the 80's if the movie Footloose does not conjure up some memories for you.  The above clip is from the ORIGINAL movie, not the recent remake out in theaters right now.  Eloise is a traditional girl.  I always love originals.  Any "first" is hard to top in my book.  Seconds are always compared to the firsts no matter how good they are.  I haven't seen the movie yet, but I can almost bet The Lamp Post that I'll enjoy the new version, but it will pale in comparison to the original.

I never quite understood the fascination with Kevin Bacon.  He is an OK actor and all, but he didn't do a thing for me then, nor does he now.  I really enjoyed the character Ariel, the preacher's daughter, played by actress Lori Singer in the 1984 version.  I remember she loved to dance, and high school dances were banned from her small, mid-western town.  But what I remember most are her red boots.  Remember these, Girls?  Did you want a pair for yourself?  I sure did.  The crappy part now is that the producers incorporated them into the new movie, too.  Unfortunately Ladies, beauty Julianne Hugh wears them in the 2011 version.  If you go on a date night to this flick and afterwards decide to splurge on a pair for yourself, your man won't be thinking of YOU in the red boots.  He'll be thinking of HER.  Look.  Can you see why?  Life just doesn't seem fair sometimes, does it?

Eloise is a boot girl herself.  I've always wanted to throw all caution to the wind and invest in a pair of red ones for myself.  If I never had the guts to wear them out, I'd just do so around the house or hold them to my nostrils and smell the leather. But now I have to rethink all that because of that darn old Julianne (Public Enemy #2---Faith Hill is #1, remember).  I prefer to wear boots because they keep my feet snug and dry as I travel about my day, sloshing through the Erie wetness a good half the year.  My job deems me a "traveling teacher", meaning I move from school to school, dragging my bags through snow and puddles like an encyclopedia salesman in the 1970's.  If there is one thing in the world I cannot stand is a wet sock.  My boots keep my feet nice and dry.

Reminiscent of my friend Angie, who often posts a picture of her feet to show her location in the world, I too will post a photo of my tootsies. Usually Angie's feet are floating in some turquoise bottomed pool.  Angie loves to posts those pics when Erie is in the middle of a raging blizzard.   My boots are not as cool as Ariel's, but they get the job done.  They are propped on the window seat of the Lamp Post.  You can see my daisy curtains and if you look very closely, you can even see out the window.  Yes, the Lamp Post is way high up, just like you imagined it would be.

My girls are boot lovers too.  Here are some of our other stylish numbers.  Some will say "how hip" and others will say, "holy cow are those ugly."  We don't care.  They suit us just fine and are perfect for fall football games in the mud and rain.  Mine are the rose ones.

I don't splurge on many things.  My sister calls me the Clearance Rack Queen.  "Where did you get that cool shirt?" she'll inquire.  I look at her, tilt my head and half smile, before we say together in unison, "clearance rack."  But I do not cheap out on footwear.  You have to take care of your feet.  Eloise gives this advice:  bag the Starbucks coffee and save your money for the three most important, spare-no-expense-body parts---eyes, teeth, and feet.  Without those, you're pretty much screwed.  If you're hurting in all three areas, you'd be crippled, blind, and toothless.  Heed my warning, Readers.

I treat myself to good running shoes twice a year--on my birthday, March 3rd, and again on Labor Day weekend, which is about six months from then.  My sneakers have a life cycle almost like the butterfly--egg, larva, pupa, adult.  Mine goes:  treadmill, trail, yard, creek.  They usually meet their deaths by drowning---I use them to walk in creeks with.  I eventually have to throw them out because they start to smell.  Take a look below at the evolution of my sneakers.  The first photo is my newest pair--my Mizunos which I think should be called Footwear of the Gods.  I've never had such a well fitting shoe.  I'd wear them all the time if I could.

 Finding a new love for running has taken a toll on my poor feet.  My second toes have grown wayward, literally, and are starting to overlap my big toe.  It's hard enough turning 40, let alone coming to the realization that you inherited your grandmother's knobby, gnarled feet.  I'm going to fight my genetics every step of the way and added another very expensive    foot covering to my shoe rack---the running toe-shoe.  They are not cheap, but Eloise highly recommends them for anyone having toe problems.  I don't run in them like Prince Harry does (for real--go check it out Slovenians--you're closer to England than me).  I just wear mine around my house after work.  They took a little getting used to.  At first it kind of feels like cardboard is wedged between all of your toes, but after awhile it feels good.  It's like a mini foot massage every time you have them on.  Scroll down past the rotten creek shoes to see them.  Mine are the bluish ones and Ellen duped me into buying her the pink and black ones.  I did make the offer to Natalie, too, although she didn't formally request a pair. We tried to cram one onto her foot and a mere ten seconds into the process Driselda loudly protested, "No thank you yuck!"  In the world of autism that means a flat out NO.


So Readers, you've seen Eloise's hands playing the piano and now you've seen my crooked toe and some of my footwear.  You are getting to know me a little better each day, aren't you?  A reader wrote to me once saying that I am like the next door neighbor to Tim Allen on Tool Time--the one where you only saw the top of his hat over the fence.  I thought that was funny, but now you can all think of me like Norm's wife on cheers.  All we ever saw of Vera was her shoes coming down the steps on that last episode.  Wasn't that cool?  If you didn't get what I just made reference too, you probably didn't think the original version was better than the new version of Footloose, so that means you were in your playpen when Footloose and Cheers were popular.  I guess this wasn't the blog post for you then, but keep reading because good old Eloise is full of stories.

Enjoy your video.  You'll be humming that tune for the next three days.  It's on iTunes for a buck twenty nine. Treat yourself to some Kenny Loggins.  You are worth it.  

Always, Eloise

Lesson 96: #1 Amazing Grace

Time for a blog post, I guess.  I got a few emails asking where I've been.  It's always nice to know you're loved.  Eloise has had an emotional couple of weeks, hitting a few bumps on the roadway of my life.  Sometimes my path is a superhighway and things just seem to clip along at top speed, and other times my road is like an Erie side street at the end of March---full of potholes.

The past week has left me examining the age old question raised by Job--why do bad things happen to good people?  Many in my community are suffering over the accidental death of a toddler leaving us wondering aloud this very question.  I also happen to be reading a novel titled Sarah's Key.  The story is about the holocaust.  With those things coinciding in my life, Eloise's heart has been heavy.

We turn to God at times like this looking for some peace and He always delivers.  If you don't believe me, give prayer a try and also a chance.  We live in a fast paced society and sometimes you have to give it a minute to work.

We've grown impatient as a people, embarrassingly so.  I know I have, as many a time I have sighed and rolled my eyes at the ten second delay in turning on my flat screen TV.  Oh, the suffering I make standing in my warm living room waiting for The X Factor to come on.  Or how about being five cars back in a drive through line?  I hesitate speaking for us collectively, yet I can sense that many of you, like me, have grown anxious and edgy at the slightest delay.  What always makes me feel better is remembering God's grace.  Grace is that eternal pardon freely available to all of us who are truly undeserving of the good that comes to us.  It's simply amazing.

That is why I posted the above video.  Yes, those are my hands.  My Mother's Day ring, my ichthys bracelet, my HUSKIES sweatshirt, and the pile of toys in the corner of my living room are dead give aways that you are seeing the real Eloise in the flesh---even if it is just my hands.  Amazing Grace is and always will be my favorite song.

In fact, this post can round out the list for Top 5 Favorite Songs of Eloise that I started for you this summer.  Here is the complete list in reverse order, in case you've forgotten them:

• #5--Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay, Otis Redding
• #4--Time of Your Life, Green Day
• #3--The River, Garth Brooks
• #2--Beer Barrel Polka, Andrews Sisters----OK, OK, just kidding, the post was getting a bit too serious for Eloise, although I do like that catchy tune--"roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun..."
• #2--Broken Road, Rascal Flatts
• #1--Amazing Grace, any version but among my favorites are by Chris Tomlin & Leann Rhymes

The words are in my heart, and I sing them when I am happy or sad.  I sang this song to my babies, hours after their births while I held them in my hospital bed.  I sang this song standing next to the caskets of both of my grandmothers at their funerals.  It is a timeless song with meaning that lasts for all time.  Knowing me as those of you do, full well know that I can't carry a note in bucket (or even a bathtub).  I always had the yearning to learn to play that song on a piano, as if playing the song would make it better than singing it.

The thought of playing the piano crossed my mind many a time in my life.  It was one of those things that was in my heart and never left it, but the timing was never right.  When I was younger there was school and activities and friends that used up all of my time.  As I got older there was family and work to fill in for the need to learn something new.  But in time, a piano found its way into my house, because God knew I was finally ready.  It came in His time as all things that are meant to be do.  The deal on the piano was too good  to refuse, plus I always wanted one to display my framed photos on, so we handed out some Ben Franklins over to a family friend and made a space for it on the living room wall.  

Over time, Ellen, my middle child, took an interest in it and has been taking lessons for five years.  She is quite good.  For me, the piano has intrigued me and I began picking at it myself.  "Heck, Eloise.  You can do this, too!  You're never to old to learn!" I told myself, and I began to figure out the instrument on my own.

It was no surprise that Amazing Grace was the first song I wanted to learn and it took me a long, long time.  For you musical-eared blog readers, you'll certainly hear the mistakes, but I am not embarrassed in the least.  For a 40 year old who taught herself, I don't think it's bad at all.

I found that singing the song and learning to play it on the piano wasn't enough.  I'm a working mom and encounter my share of hectic mornings, which in turn leave me crabby throughout the day.  One particular morning last fall, which I blogged about in October of 2010 if this sounds familiar, was the morning I left my house in a grouchy rush and realized that I had forgotten to apply my deodorant!  I had no time to drive home to remedy my mistake.  Given that I work in a high school, I was certain the nurse had some of those sample sized sticks they hand out to the kids when they need them.  Well, my Huskies must have been a-smellin' like wet dog last fall, because there was not a stick to be found.  Instead the school nurse gave me a couple of squirts of her perfume.  One breath in of the heavenly scent and I fell instantly in love.  I asked Nursie what the scent was.  "Amazing Grace," she replied.  It is a scent I've worn every day since.  It's what I smell like--the sweet smell of Amazing Grace.

About a year ago I bought the 8 ounce body spray.  I apply a few squirts a day and the bottle is just about finished.  I won't go without it though.  The new one is already on it's way (Eloise is an on-line shopper).  It truly is the best $25 bucks I ever spent because it reminds me of God's grace every day of my life, simply by breathing in and out.

But it isn't just the scent that gets to me---it is the packaging of the Philosophy Bath Products that really reaches me.  The bottles and tubes are simple in style, and have cool names for their scents like:  Amazing Grace, Pure Grace, Inner Grace, Falling in Love, and Unconditional Love.  Each scent is defined, and the outside of the bottle reads like a dictionary definition.  Eloise is a lover of words, so they had me at hello on this one.  Take a look at what the outside of the Amazing Grace bottle reads:  

Amazing grace:  how you climb up the mountain is just as important as how you get down the mountain. and so it is with life, which for many of us becomes one big gigantic test followed by one big gigantic lesson. in the end, it all comes down to one word. grace. it's how you accept winning and losing, good luck and bad luck, the darkness and the light.

tHE ABOVE WORDS IN BLUE ARE COPY AND PASTED FROM THE philosophy PRODUCTS WEBSITE.  YOU WILL SEE THAT THIS FONT STYLE HAS CARRIED OVER TO MY OWN PARAGRAPH HERE, AND BLOGGER WON'T LET ME CHANGE IT FOR SOME REASON, THEREFORE i HAVE TO USE THIS FONT WITH NO CAPITAL LETTERS WHICH GOES AGAINST MY GRAIN AS A TEACHER.  SERIOUSLY, NO CAPITAL LETTERS AT THE BEGINNING OF A SENTENCE?  SOCIETY TELLS US THAT IT IS A "STYLE."  ME AND MY TEACHER PEEPS SAY IT IS JUST PLAIN WRONG.  

forget the no capital letters here, and reread the words in blue again.  In the end it does all come down to grace.  Grace does not get us a pothole free path, but it certainly helps us right our carts again when a wheel comes off.  we have to accept that there will be darkness with the light.  sometimes god's teaching comes in reverse of how we traditionally think to teach (lesson, then test).  Often we receive the test, and only after it is over with, do we begin to see the lesson.  So readers, here endeth mine for tonight.

with grace,

eloise

Lesson 95: It's Harvest Time

Harvest time in my hometown brings some predictably unpredictable weather.  I spent most of my weekend frolicking in it, mostly because I was owning up to my word, not because I really wanted to.  I registered my girls and I a month ago for the Her Times 5K on the Peninsula.  When the perky blond who reports the local weather cheerily informed us Saturday would have a "nip in the air" at 48 degrees, I felt like nipping at her.  I also knew I wanted to give some props to my farmer friends on this blog and asked a couple of them if I could snag a ride on their grape pickers as they were snagging fruit from the vines this weekend.  I was too proud to cop out on either engagement fearing Eloise would look, well, ahem, wimpy.

For those of you unfamiliar with Erie weather, as the season changes from summer to fall the weather sputters and snorts into autumn like the engine of my first car, The Pickle.  One day is a picture perfect fall day when you feel the need to locate a pumpkin farm and load up the family and go for a long ride to admire the foliage.  The next can be damp and colorless, with the changing leaves turning from vibrant oranges and yellows to a drippy brown against a colorless sky.  When you watch the movie posted above, you will see just how dreary the Great Lakes Region can be, with my home town living up to its name, Dreary Erie.

However, flipping the calendar page to October first every year brings forth a long exhale from Eloise.  Any mom, particularly a working one, knows how tough the September adjustment can be.  In our house, that adds cheerleading and dance lessons and football games and birthday parties and school Open Houses and Book Fairs.  Sometimes it seems all I can do in the evening is clean up one day's mess and get set up for it all over again for the next day.  As I travel down my country road headed off to school in the morning, sometimes I catch the farmers out on their grape pickers.  As the sun is rising and the smell of the fragrant grapes are in the air, I often wish I was a farmer.  Hey, I love to get up with the sun, always take a Memorial Day stab at trying to cultivate my own produce, and enjoy the outdoors.  What a great way to earn a living.  That's what I USED TO think.  I rode the grape pickers this weekend in the wind and rain.  Eloise did whatcha call a 180 on that one.  I think I'll stick with teaching.

A big thanks to Billy and Chris for allowing Eloise ride along for a whopping one row of pickin'.  In both cases it was a bumpy fifteen minute ride.  I hollered question after question over the roar of the contraption while I snapped away with my camera.  The view of the vineyards from that high vantage point is way cool though.  I bet it is breathtaking on a nice day.

Today, was not so nice, but I kind of wanted it that way.  I wanted to know what it felt like on a cold, wet day.  Billy's machine is minus a windshield so the full brunt of the wind hits you smack in the face when you're coming at it.  Chris's contraption had an enclosed cab, but it was a bit tight and Eloise does not like small spaces.  They always leave me feeling like I have to flee them.   He left the door open so we both could fit inside and I was quite relieved.  I did not want tomorrow's newspaper headline to read, "Woman Survives Jump From Moving Grape Picker".  I now know why farmers wear those not so pretty one piece Carhartt jumpsuits.  I thought I was dressed appropriately, but within minutes I was soaked through three layers and shivering.  And that was after one row.  I asked the men how long they typically pick.  Both responded "ten to twelve hours" during the peak times.  I think I teared up just thinking about it.

Finish this analogy, Readers.  Eloise Hawking : proud Pennsylvanian :: Luke Bryan :  proud _______.  Did you guess Georgian?  If you did, you are correct!  Don't get the willies, Slovenians--that is Georgia, USA, not Soviet Georgia. You know it when Luke sings about the harvest in his home town.  'There's peanut dust and corn husks driftin' through the air tonight."  For me, it's grape skins and the scent of the fall--grape juice.  No matter what part of the world you come from, there is always some hard working farmer working the harvest, so this song is more universal than it first seems.  Enjoy the picture movie.  And in case you are wondering, yes, those are MY rose boots, not my guy friends.  I am sure that would raise a few eyebrows in their farming circles if they were wearing rose patterned rain boots with their jumpsuits.  Hey, maybe they'll try a pattern every now and again to liven things up.  Tan is boring (and I hate to break it to you, but it shows the dirt).  Eloise could be a trendsetter.  My sister has always grabbed that title away from my clutches, so maybe it's my turn.  Come on boys.  Throw on a pattern.  It will combat the boredom of going up and down and up and down and up and down those long grape rows.

 Speaking of patterns, check out the polka dots on my daughters' legs.  This is a picture of my girls and Tracy Northern the morning of the Her Times 5K.  These pictures should further illustrate the deary colorlessness we Erieites experience for many months of the year.  Surely, the sun comes up here every day, but you don't always get to see it's glow against a bright blue sky.  That's because there is always this low lying cloud cover full of droplets of dampness that soak into your bones and make your feet cold.  Tracy Southern, my other Tracy-friend who settled south of the Mason-Dixon line, just looked at these pictures and thought Ahhhhh, I don't miss that one bit!  Can't say that I blame her.

Yes, Eloise ran this race, too, but under another name, of course.  If you are checking the race listings, look for Thomas Jefferson, 40 year old female (scroll to bottom picture for proof that I actually do such a thing).  I run under the names of Presidents to mark the races my girls and I have done together.  If you are a history buff, you will know that this one is our third.  Can't wait to get the next one out of the way.  I have to run under James Madison, and he was a twerp--our shortest President at only 5' 4".  I prefer my guys tall and I certainly don't like to outweigh them.

Enjoy the scenes from Erie during our Harvest Time.  Living where I do is not for the weak of spirit.  Weathering the storms makes you all the tougher though.  That's why I took my girls out and made them run in the cold, sideways rain.  What doesn't kill you, just makes you stronger.  That rule holds true for everyone, even 40 year old female Presidents named Thomas Jefferson.

Good night and God Bless America,
Eloise Jefferson