Channeling My Inner Eloise: Skibbling Through life

Posted on by Trish Deveneau

I’m going to Paris in May, I regret to say my first visit back to the City of Light since my twenties. Childrearing, work, finances and other travel agendas have all conspired to keep me away for decades. It’s odd, really, since six-year-old Eloise, created by the unique and multi-talented Kay Thompson and illustrated by Hilary Knight, was my first literary heroine. She inspired me, among many other things, to first aspire to parler français. Like her, I dropped “pas de quoi d’accord et zut alors!” into casual conversation, just because.

Eloise and I have a special bond. My Great Aunt Emma introduced me to her when she first arrived on the literary scene in 1955. She and I were the same age, though our worlds could not have been more different. Eloise, as surely you know, lived at the Plaza Hotel in New York City with her Nanny, her turtle Skipperdee and her dog Weenie. I lived in Somerville, New Jersey with my father, stepmother, half-brother, two stepbrothers and a stepsister. No turtle, no Nanny, no dog, no pigeon named Emily. It was “rawther booooring” in comparison.

Eloise was impulsive, high-energy, risk-taking, outgoing, adorably likeable despite her penchant for creating chaos. Clearly fatherless, she had a society mother who rarely appeared, leaving this impish little girl to raise herself with the help of not just her exasperated elderly English nanny but legions of bellboys, concierges and assorted other paid employees. Dressed in her signature white blouse with puff sleeves and Peter Pan collar, black pleated skirt held up (mostly) by suspenders, knee socks and black patent leather Mary Janes, Eloise sklethed, clabbered, scampered, scurried and narrated her way through life with nary a care for what others thought of her.

I was a shy bookish child, small in stature and presence, blonde, blue-eyed and semi-orphaned, constantly attempting to be invisible so as not to attract the unwanted attention of bullying stepbrothers or the notice of a resentful stepmother. Oh, to have Eloise’s freedom, her exotic life on the top floor of the Plaza, her adventures travelling first class to Paris, London, Moscow! How I wished to be an only child in reality, and not just in the way I felt in my blended family, the result of two untimely deaths and a divorce. No matter that Eloise seemed not to have loving family relationships; she was an indefatigable role model of skibbling merrily through life nonetheless, with a rich imagination as her most important coping skill. I understood. 

Eloise and I are now “women of a certain age” despite the fact that she hasn’t aged a day since 1955. I would love to have tea with her some afternoon at the Palm Court now that I live in New York City. What would she be like today, not six but her chronological age? I think we would be great pals. I have learned to skibble and sklethe more, to worry less, to become visible and, I hope, engaging if not charismatic. She, I would like to think, might have mellowed a tad, yet still kept her joie de vivre and irrepressible frankness. I would tell her about my upcoming trip and ask her for her recommendations. 

“Just reread Eloise in Paris, mon Cherie” she would likely say. 

And I have. And guess what—it is an excellent guide to the sights and not to be missed experiences of Paris, and up to the minute too, including getting the appropriate shots. Here is Eloise’s advice on how to do it:

“you have to fall down on the bed and hide and count the pillows for a while with your head under it and pull everything on top of you and glue your eyes and be stiffer and stiffer and sort of disguise your arm under the comforter and then slowly sklathe it out about an inch or so and zambo sting sting stinger then you have  to have your head bandaged with cold compresses and hit Dr. Hadley with the flyswatter and clink clank pick up that phone and call Room Service to send up four peach melba and three straight Johnny Walker Black without ice and charge it please, merci beaucoup”

Which pretty much describes how I wish my COVID vaccine experience had gone instead of my sitting in a dingy CVS being jabbed by a distracted pharmacist and then going home to sulk and order bad Chinese takeout. 

Anyway, pas de quoi, d’accord and zut! I plan to skibble my way through Paris channeling Eloise and remembering that life is, after all  “rawther merveilleux!”

Published by Trish Deveneau

Writer of creative nonfiction, retired teacher, pet mom, mom of two adult humans, nana to two wee ones. Avid cook, yogi, gym rat, art lover; maybe too earnest for my own good.

27 thoughts on “Channeling My Inner Eloise: Skibbling Through life”

  4. Love this ! And a trip ! I’d love to plan one too. I’m not sure I ever really related to Eloise, I’m much more a Ramona Quimby type, but thanks for the fun, fabulous romp. You’re a wonderful storyteller. 

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  7. I always loved books about children who didn’t need adults in their lives! As for Paris, I always treasured Madeline in Paris. In fact two years ago when I had to have my appendix out (at 72. Who has it out at 72?) I bought myself a Madeline doll complete with appendectomy scar!

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  10. I’ll bet that Eloise would be proud to have inspired you back then and, again, now. I was a big Nancy Drew fan and what I remember liking most was her independence and smarts. To do what you wanted! Solving mysteries! (I was very impressed) Wow!
    I wonder if it was our generation – as girls – that left some (many?) of us wishing for more.

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  13. I LOVE your plan and the writing in this post is beautiful. I learned a big lesson from Paris (though I have never been) and that is this. I had the wanderlust so bad in my 20s it HURT. My boss — who was far far far far more worldly and experienced and traveled (I had only been on a jet once at that point, and that coming back from my dad’s funeral in 1972) than I said, “It’s not that hard. Just buy a ticket. Like this.” He picked up the phone in his office, called the airline, and reserved me a seat on a plane to Paris. Back then, you didn’t have to pay to make a reservation. I had something like 72 hours to buy the ticket, but for that length of time (I didn’t have the $$$) I had a reservation on a plane to go to Paris. Paris taught me that it was totally in my power (if I had the $$$) to just GO and I did many times (but still not to Paris). I can’t wait to read about your adventures.

    I only dimly remember Eloise. ❤

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  15. I’m afraid the only French I ever learned was “Baguette fromage, sil vous plait.” I lived off cheese sandwiches the entire time I was in Paris, too terrified I’d order escargot by accident. For that crime alone, I am likely unwelcome back in the country. Though, perhaps the fact that I very much tried their champagne, going so far as to visit the vineyard where it was made and taking a tour, that might provide some forgiveness of my very American (read: ignorant) ways. I hope you get to take in all the pleasures and none of the inconveniences, though I definitely recommend you take in the champagne! Bon chance!

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