Guest Post: Homeless in Hawaii

Hello All.

Today, I’d like you to welcome a guest poster—EC Stilson. Last week, Wayman Press published the third book of her memoir trilogy. The first in the series is Bible Girl & Bad Boy, the second is Homeless in Hawaii, and the third is The Golden Sky. Wayman Publishing did not publish the books in this order, but if you are new to EC’s work, this is probably the order in which you’ll want to read the three volumes.

         What follows is an excerpt from Homeless in Hawaii in which a seventeen-year-old Elisa flees her past and finds herself homeless on Waikiki strip. With her is a friend whose main intent seems to be to protect her from the misfortunes that might befall someone who’s left family and friends behind and now lives among strangers. As time passes, Hawaii works its magic. Elisa matures and finds herself letting go of the memories that haunt her. 

            I’ve guest posted on EC’s blog several times, and so I’m grateful to return that favor. If her excerpt piques your interest you’ll find Homeless in Hawaii on Amazon as a traditional trade paperback and as an e-book.

A Turning Point for Street Performers in Hawaii

That day, playing music on the street with Cade, our musical capabilities transitioned from merely playing, to performing. I’d stop in between songs and talk to the tourists. We laughed and joked. I knew what I was doing because during our slow times I made myself remember the notes of the “A” minor scale as numbers. When I talked to the tourists I had the whole thing planned.

         “Do you want your own song?” I asked a darling little girl with curly blonde hair.

“Really? Yes!”

I stood up straight and looked her parents right in the eyes. Sure I was homeless. Sure, some people thought that made me scum, but they were wrong. God and I both knew that. “Can you give me ten of your favorite numbers? They can be random, or part of a phone number, part of an address.”

They gave me their phone number and I played each one as they fell on the “A” minor scale. It only took one short time through and I knew what the song would be. I switched to a major, added some fiddling double stops and danced around the girl. She danced with me and for a moment it was just her and me—two free creatures of God, enjoying what life had to offer.

When they left, Cade pulled me toward him. “Elisa, that was brilliant.”

“It taught me something. I want to stop judging myself by other people’s standards. I had so much fun.” Then I turned the tables on him. “Now I’m dancing and playing ‘phone numbers.’ You’re singing! What’s become of this world?”

For days after that, every single time we played on the street, people would leave tips. Kids would come up and ask for their very own songs. Word spread and people viewed us as regulars on the strip. An elderly couple who lived in town came to see us each night. A mysterious stranger with a lump on his neck continued coming.

         But nothing really scared me anymore because we had a routine. We owned that strip, and not even the intimidating locals, who started watching us frequently, could discourage me.

Click the picture to see it LIVE on Amazon!

Postscript: On Wednesday, I'll be posting another on-line memoir story from my growing up years. We've reached fifth grade now and lots happened.

Guest Posting for Dulcy and Me

This posting today will be brief as I need to clean and vacuum the house for the arrival tomorrow of a friend from Fridley, Minnesota. Yesterday, I did the laundry (sheets and bedding included) and shopped for groceries. In late afternoon, I prepared, trying out two new recipes, vegetarian chili and a tomato-lentil soup for the two of us to enjoy during her four-day stay.

         But today I have some news about Dulcy and me.

         In late September, Karen Jones Gowen asked me to guest post on her blog "Coming down the Mountain: A Writer's Blog." Given that her blog is about writing and being published, I wrote about how the feline memoir A Cat's Life: Dulcy's Story came to be. 

         You might enjoy reading that—or you might feel you know enough about Dulcy! But if you're game for more then please click here to read our guest post.

A Homeless Angel—Part Two

As promised, today’s posting is by a guest—Elisa Hirsch. It is a continuation of her Thanksgiving story about a time in her life when she trusted herself to the future. Tomorrow will witness the publishing of her memoir about her son Zeke's death and the grief that followed. In this poignantly honest memoir, she candidly shares her sorrow, her confusion, her anger, her despair, and the journey she and her husband took to forgiveness and renewal.

            Elisa is gifted. At the end of her story today is a link that will take you to a video on YouTube. In that video, she doesn’t just play the violin. She makes music. And her husband, Cade, does the same with the guitar. I met Elisa through the blogging world in late July of this year. Since then I've laughed long and hard when she recounts the antics of her children. Elisa, her memoir, her blog, and her music have gifted me in the past four months. This Thanksgiving I feel gratitude for that gift. It spans the distance between her home and mine.  

A Homeless Angel—Part Two

by 

Elisa Hirsch

 I didn't want to go home. My shift wasn't supposed to end for a few hours. As I thought of that, I remembered a book my boss had asked me to read. So, before leaving, I put the book ("Illusions") in my pocket, got into my car and drove around. Everyone's lights beamed. I saw them through bright windows. They laughed and ate big mouthfuls of potatoes and yams. I wondered for a second, what it would be like to visit with them, or even with my own family if we could erase the past weeks. I wondered if the rich saints in the windows would embrace me like the homeless man had.

                I turned and went a few blocks over to where the rooftops sagged and the paint needed refinishing. The houses were small and faded with age from owners who had no money to fix them up. I pulled my car to a stop, clicked off my lights and watched one family. Tears filled my eyes. They had nothing—NOTHING. I knew because of the old furniture, crappy clothes and how skinny they were. Yet they danced around the front room and laughed. I couldn't keep from sobbing through my tears. I'd been wrong to think they had nothing. I'd been terribly mistaken because that family had love.

                As I sat there, it was a bit funny because for the first time in months, I felt peace, all because I became a peeping Tom. I no longer wanted to be the one in the window. It was nice being on the outside. I learned from their joy and happiness. I could dip into a thousand memories and none would have the power to hurt me.

                I drove around awhile longer. Slowly everyone's lights started going out, one by one until darkness overtook the city. I thought of driving to the mountains, but who knows what kinds of animals lurked there at night. That's when I decided to go to Sugarhouse Park.

                Lampposts doted the pathway there, reminding me of Narnia. A huge canopy of trees hid a tiny stream which ran through a clearing and past a long, bony bench.

                The year before, I'd go there with an ex-boyfriend. We'd somehow show up at the same time. We'd sit on that bony bench and talk about all sorts of things, for hours, even though we hadn't planned on meeting there at all. After a while we'd forget our problems and laugh together. That was before the night when he gave me his dad's ring—before I realized he was doing drugs.

                I dusted snow from the bench. When I sat down, things didn't feel right though, like death watched me from the shadows and peace couldn't stay. My heart missed something, more than Thanksgiving windows could offer. I wouldn't admit what it was, so I pulled out "Illusions," the book I kept in my coat pocket.

                I opened to one of the first pages and read the marked section. Each word affected me. It talked of a crystal river where strange creatures clung to the bottom. I stopped reading and looked at the stream rushing past. It glimmered under the lampposts and I felt as if inside the book.

                I read on. Every creature clung hard, but one bravely hoped for more. It wanted to journey along the river, although that meant letting go and leaving everyone else behind. So with courage as its only baggage, the valiant creature let go, and ended up finding adventure and himself, down the rushing waters.

                I shut the book and closed my eyes. Maybe that's how I could find my worth. I wouldn't be searching for it, I would be experiencing it, moving past the judgment and the criticism from people at church and the kids from school.  I would be wonderful like that homeless man, finding my worth in the unexpected.  I looked up at the night sky.  As long as I had God, maybe everything would be okay.

            Thus the journey began, before I left with Cade (my husband for over ten years now) and became a homeless street musician in Hawaii.

For more information about Elisa and her upcoming memoir, please visit ecwrites.com

To hear the music Elisa shares with the Universe, 

please click on the following link 

and listen to one of the songs she and Cade played in Hawaii.

http://www.youtube.com/embed/XlGoupUMIZM

A Homeless Angel—Part One

Recently I asked a new friend to guest post. I’m so pleased that today and Thursday, she will share two Thanksgiving stories from her own life. 

              In Elisa's own blog, which she calls “The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom,” she daily entertains and astounds me with stories about living with four creative, rambunctious, and delightful children: “the Scribe,” “Hippie,” “Zombie Elf,” and “Doctor Jones.” They range in age from one year to nine. Yet four is really five. For Elisa’s second child died when he was only a few months old.

            This coming Friday, November 18, Elisa’s book about Zeke will be published. In this wonderfully honest memoir, Elisa recounts Zeke’s story and her own. When I read The Golden Sky, it touched the span of sorrow, aftermath of loss, that I’ve encountered in my own life.

            These two postings relate stories from Elisa's life before Zeke entered it. I hope they evoke your own stories of gratitude and graciousness.  

            For more information about Elisa and her upcoming memoir, please visit ecwrites.com

A Homeless Angel 

By

Elisa Hirsch

It felt weird sitting at the Thanksgiving table with my family. I didn't eat much and I doubt anyone noticed because awkwardness pervaded the air, and made me inwardly happy to leave. I had Thanksgiving "dinner" at noon with my family before going to work at a diner.

            When it was time for me to leave, my sister nudged my mom and said something about me trying to get out of doing the dishes. She worried, wanting me to have a good work ethic. I chalked the concern up to her pregnancy; didn't she know I was on my way to work? I just walked past my mom who said something about me working too much—even on a holiday—and I left them with the dishes. It was terrible of me, but I battled depression while they worried about holidays, family time and dirty silverware.

            The diner didn't need me long because apparently all the scheduled waitresses wanted to work for amazing tips on Thanksgiving and I'd just volunteered for the shift. It was true though, the tips were unbeatable. But although money flowed like water from the fountain of youth, that's not what I remember the most. I remember an old man I waited on.

                He looked homeless, but happier than I felt. The man had nothing except a fading olive jacket, torn clothes, and shoes that practically talked as they flapped from their soles when he came into the diner.

                "You can go home now," my middle-aged boss said. Her cherry lipstick shone brightly against her pale skin and her blue eye shadow gleamed in the diner's flickering lights.

                "Okay," I nodded. "I just have one more order to bring out and I think I'd like to eat something myself." I placed my own order, walked over to the homeless guy, gave him some coffee, and brought him his "garbage hash"—the diner's specialty, a mixture of potatoes, scrambled eggs, sausage, peppers and ham.

                "Are you expecting anyone on this beautiful Thanksgiving?"

            I winked and he shook his head.

            "Well, neither am I and I just got off. Would you mind if I eat with you?"

            He beamed, showing some missing teeth. I hoped the tooth fairy gave him extra money for those 'cause one was a frontie. I grabbed my food (which already waited for me), untied my apron, took off my nametag, and sat down.

                "I'm Elisa," I said.    

                He smiled and dug into his food. "No you're not; you're an angel." He continued talking around a mouthful of potatoes. "I been savin' for this day. Always savin'. I hate spending Thanksgiving on the streets. Sure I could go to the shelter, but that'd damn near kill me. I want to be with civilized folk on a day like today."

            He put his hand to the side of his mouth and some egg clung to his beard. "Some of those homeless people are crazy! They get worse around the holidays." He peered at me, took his cloth napkin and stuffed it into his collar. "But look at me now. I'm sitting in a diner, with the prettiest waitress in the whole damn town."

                I stifled a laugh. Sometimes flattery can be a beautiful thing.

                The homeless guy tapped his fork on the table. "And you, why are you here, eating with a grumpy old coot?"

                "You don't seem very grumpy to me." A grin split my face.  "I just thought it might be fun. It's not everyday that I get to eat Thanksgiving dinner with a gentleman."

                We ate. We laughed and smiled. He told me about his life on the farm, about his parents who didn't have much. He told me about Vietnam and how things had gone wrong for him when his buddy died. Through it all, that old man showed me something. He showed me that life is what you make it.

                After we finished eating, I hugged him, this huge hug. I couldn't believe how skinny he was. His puffy coat made him look healthy. He was really like a squeaky toy that's huge until squeezed, before it slowly puffs back up again. A few tears went down my cheek.

            "Take care," I whispered because he was one of the realest people I've ever met. The people at church and school, even my family, most of them held nothing compared to that homeless old man.

               "You too." He grinned down and hobbled toward the bus stop in front of the diner. A couple waitresses watched from the window. They gabbed and pointed, probably thinking that guy was some relation of mine; they had no idea that I'd just dined with an angel.

Elisa’s website is http://ecwrites.blogspot.com