The Broad of Broadway
Thirty years ago, I traveled to New York on business and managed to secure a single ticket to the hottest show on Broadway: Les Misérables. I was 36 and wore an elegant suit, four-inch heels, and carried a designer bag. People smiled at me. Last week, I traveled to New York for a writing conference and found a single ticket to the hottest show on Broadway: Hamilton. I wore prescription eyeglasses, hearing aids, a knee brace, sturdy shoes, and carried a utility bag with cough drops, tissue, eye drops, arthritis cream, and acid reflux meds. People ignored me. I’ve added new meaning to the term “old broad” on Broadway.
The musicals continue to lure me across the country from my home in Idaho. I’ve experienced more than a dozen Broadway shows, from Cats to Miss Saigon to The Phantom of the Opera. My favorites are Les Misérables (eight times) and The Lion King (three times.) My perfect musical would combine the two as a passionate story of freedom fighters dancing with lions. I would play the lead, Hannah of the Savannah.
I grew up in the village of Wendell, Idaho when the population was 1,000. Our tiny school didn’t have musical productions, but we had a choir, and I sang with gusto. I’ve seen the massive performance halls in city high schools, and I wonder, “what if?”
At my age, I’m tickled pink to be able to travel. The past few years have brought some unwanted consequences of living this long. I’ve worn glasses since I was ten years old, but now the lenses include adjustments for distance and for reading. I also tote a pair of computer eyeglasses and a pair of prescription sunglasses. My eyes water all the time, so I bring special drops that work for a few minutes. People think I’m crying, but I’m just sad because my eyes are watering.
Hearing aids are the most recent addition to my growing list of necessities. I had been reading lips for several years because I couldn’t hear conversations. I had the television volume turned so loud, the neighbors could hear the news from across the street. I finally relented to the hearing test because I often watch my darling grandkids, and I didn’t want to miss one sweet song or one frustrated tantrum. My hearing aids are so fancy, they can connect to my electronic devices through Bluetooth. I don’t know what that means.
My new malady worries me the most. I’ve developed osteoarthritis in my hands and there are ugly nodules on the first joints of my fingers. I’m having a procedure soon to cut off the biggest growths. As a writer, I need my fingers to type. I’ve been advised to try a dictation device and to change habits after half a century of typing. I also enjoy playing piano, and the hand doctor told me I would need to relearn how to play with flat fingers. And, so I will.
After 30 years of Broadway Musicals, I’m moving a bit slower but I still give my regards. Last year, I saw the musical Beautiful featuring the music of Carole King. It reminded me of a time so far away when I felt like a natural woman. Now I’m tired and often wonder if my family will still love me tomorrow. As long as I can feel the earth move under my feet, I’ll venture back to Broadway. The Great White Way, nicknamed in the late 1890s when the street was one of the first to be illuminated by electric lights, is some kind of wonderful.
Stepping and Schlepping Off the Plane
After observing humanity during a 14-hour journey from Sag Harbor, New York to Boise, Idaho, I’m convinced the standard travel attire for passengers includes ripped clothes, disheveled hair, and a grumpy attitude. They resemble comic book rogues who tear their clothes in fits of pending rage. I felt positively radiant in my coordinated knit ensemble, complete with a patient smile. As I cued in line for the privilege to sit in a child-sized space for four hours, I reminisced about a forgotten time when traveling was a luxurious pleasure.
Years ago, when I was fancy and corporate, I often visited an exclusive dress shop in downtown Boise. The proprietor, a thin and elegant woman named Dorothy, was hanging onto age 50 with clenched but manicured fingernails. She exuded all things classy and could have posed for a 1950s cigarette ad. Her arched eyebrow raised even higher whenever I entered. She liked me but mourned my conservative fashion sense and untoned body. I was on the D-List of Preferred Clients.
Once I needed a business outfit for a conference out of state. She welcomed me with bangled arms and air kisses and proceeded to collect various outfits to hang in a dressing room.
“This one is perfect,” she gushed as she held up a white sweater with white pants. “You’ll look fabulous as you step off the plane.”
“I’ll look like an albino ox,” I replied. “And what’s the fuss about stepping off the plane? Most of the passengers are wearing flannel pajama pants and stained sweatshirts as they stumble to baggage claim. I could be roller skating in a potato sack on fire with live rats dancing on my head and no one would notice.”
Dorothy sighed. “Where has all the glamour gone?” She replaced the white ensemble and added a serious navy-blue dress with a red collar.
“At least add a splash of color,” she begged.
I liked the dress and purchased it for the trip. After the plane landed, I entered the terminal and paused for a brief moment to pose as Dorothy would prefer. A young mother pushing a stroller the size of a recliner crashed into my legs, snagging my pantyhose. She mumbled an apology while throwing fish crackers to her crying toddler and ambled down the corridor in a mass of harried, hurried people.
I limped down to the taxis and reflected on the time when travelers wore their best clothes. Typical attire included men in suits with ties and women in dresses and hats, some with gloves. Children and pets were rare and properly packaged. Passengers who stepped off the plane indicated they had, indeed, arrived.
I don’t work for a corporation anymore, so when traveling I opt for a more casual, practical outfit such as black leggings and a black and white tunic. At my age it really doesn’t matter because women over 50 are invisible to the huddled masses yearning to simultaneously read their cell phones and walk while ignoring the repetitive message from Big Sister, “Do Not Leave Your Luggage Unattended!”
Yesterday I️ had two hours before my connecting flight so stopped at the wine bar in the airport and ordered a Cabernet. A sophisticated older woman also sat at the bar. She wore a red cashmere suit with white pearls and her hair was full enough to hide small treasures. Her exquisite fingers curved around the wine glass as she smiled and offered a silent toast. I️ returned her gesture, thankful to no longer be invisible. After finishing her drink, she gathered her designer bags and sashayed from view as I heard distant music from Nat King Cole singing, “Unforgettable.” I imagined her name was Dorothy.
Touring the Temple with Stickers and Sunbeam
Of the many voices rattling inside my head, my favorites are Stickers and Sunbeam. Stickers is a sarcastic, impudent rascal while Sunbeam radiates positive charm and harmony. They accompanied me during a recent public tour of the new temple in Meridian, Idaho, for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. (The abbreviated title, LDS or Mormon, works better on Twitter.)
I grew up in southern Idaho and lived as a lonely Presbyterian among the Mormons. My best friends included Mormons, and we tolerated our differences in doctrine because we liked to play together. I didn’t feel any prejudice until I tried out for the drill team in high school and didn’t make the cut because the advisor and all the team members were Mormons. It also could have been because I was an uncoordinated goofball.
The Meridian Temple offered an Open House for the gentiles to see the inside before the building would be steam-cleaned, purified, and closed so only qualified members could enter. I registered online and appear at my designated time. No purses or cameras were allowed, so I packed my car keys into my pocket and hid my bag in the car. We were ushered into a classroom in the meetinghouse next to the temple, and soft-spoken missionaries provided details and showed a 12-minute video about the Mormon Temples.
“Do we get snacks?” asked Stickers. “I’ve heard Mormons love green Jell-O.”
“No food on the tour,” whispered Sunbeam. “But someday you should learn about their food storage plans and community gardens.”
We were led in groups of 25 down the sidewalk to the entrance of the temple. Pleasant children covered our feet with white booties. By then, I had gone 20 minutes without my cell phone or access to the Internet, and I fought the anxiety. I felt calm and peace looking at an enormous painting of Jesus greeting us as we approached the ornate doors.
“They show Jesus with white skin and a long nose,” muttered Stickers. “Jewish people didn’t look like that 2,000 years ago.”
“How do you know?” countered Sunbeam. “Besides, it’s only an artist’s rendition and people like the artwork.”
Our group entered the building, quietly and respectfully. I noticed the gleaming marble floors, plush ivory-colored carpets, and Art Deco architecture abundant with gold-leaf paint framing the wall panels. The polished brass handrails gleamed under the brilliant light from countless fixtures in the high ceiling. Volunteers stood every few feet and gently pointed to the route we should follow.
“Why is everyone smiling?” whispered Stickers. “Is there a talent show?”
“Hush,” warned Sunbeam. “We are in a gorgeous place of reverence.”
Our lovely tour guide greeted us and led us down a marble staircase to the lower chamber so we could see the elaborate and pristine baptismal pool that was balanced on the backs of 12 stone oxen representing the 12 tribes of Israel. Mormons are serious about ceremonies that include baptism for the dead because they believe baptism is required to enter the kingdom of God. My two children had been baptized, but the procedure only involved some cold water splashed from a bowl onto their foreheads.
“Where’s the diving board?” asked Stickers.
“Just think of all the love that is offered when faithful Mormons do their temple work,” replied Sunbeam.
Our tour guide motioned for us to follow her into various instruction rooms. The tall walls were covered with enormous paintings of local landscapes and pastoral scenes. Many rooms contained altars covered in lace surrounded by upholstered kneeling pads. I was amazed by the glorious windows inlaid with stained glass showing intricate designs and white lilies.
“They should open a souvenir and gift shop here,” said Stickers. “You’d love some of those windows in the kitchen.”
“Did you know that the Mormon Temples are based on the Biblical description of Solomon’s Temple?” asked Sunbeam. “They take years to design every structure and use only the finest materials and the best workers. There are 157 Mormon Temples around the world, 12 are under construction, and 13 are designated to be built.”
The tour passed through the Sealing Room where, according to Mormon beliefs, a husband and wife are united for this life and forever. They believe families will be together after death.
“Oh, no,” Stickers muttered. “That means you would still be around that ornery brother who doesn’t like you.”
“Mormons believe families are forever,” replied Sunbeam. “Some Presbyterians think we get to be reincarnated and come back again and again until we do it right.”
We walked up and down several staircases. I counted 200 stairs in all and was grateful to have a nice workout on the tour. Elevators were available for people who couldn’t navigate all the stairs. We entered a magnificent chamber known as the Celestial Room. The pivotal attraction was a car-sized chandelier, dazzling with countless crystals and white lights reflecting off the alabaster walls. I wanted to curl up with a good book and a glass of wine but remembered Mormons didn’t drink alcohol. That choice must save them a lot of money.
At the end of the tour, we removed our booties and left the building. I scurried to my car and retrieved my cell phone so I could take photographs of the gorgeous landscaping and the dramatic setting.
“Look, I can see your golf course,” Stickers said. “I wonder if the folks at the temple will hear you swear when you make a bad shot.”
“Probably not,” mused Sunbeam. “The perfect acoustics in the building allow the people to focus on the teachings, rituals, and meditation.”
My cell phone vibrated with a new message, and I felt the urge to check my emails.
“Let’s go back inside,” sighed Stickers. “It’s quiet and peaceful there – with no distractions!”
“Oh, Stickers,” Sunbeam whispered. “I finally agree with you.”
Reservations for tours of the Meridian Idaho Temple at 7355 N Linder Road are available until November 11, 2017. Follow this link.
Gators, Taters, and Prizes at YMCA Harrison Classic Race in Boise
Mill Park Publishing of Eagle will participate in the YMCA Harrison Classic on Sunday, October 15. The Classic is a one mile race for kids 13 and under of all abilities, and the route in on Boise’s historic Harrison Boulevard. Participation is the goal of this race; everyone who participates is a winner, regardless of how they finish.
Mill Park Publishing will be at the finish line with prizes, books, and special announcements. Runners can spin a prize wheel and choose a finger puppet, spider ring, or book. The award-winning book Gators & Taters – A Week of Bedtime Stories will be offered for sale at a 50% savings for the Classic.
Mill Park Publishing also is promoting the children’s writing challenge in conjunction with the Idaho Potato Drop on December 31, 2017.
| Mill Park Publishing is owned by author Elaine Ambrose.
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The Lie I Told My Dying Mother
My mother stopped eating during the third week of October 2014. After decades of physical and mental suffering, she used her last bit of control to decide her destiny. She wanted to go home and find peace in the valley.
Mom lived in an assisted living facility for five years. She was confined to a wheelchair after a series of accidents that resulted in a broken hip and a broken back. The loss of independence led to a slow slide into dementia. We applied name tags on family photographs that lined the walls in her tiny room; but soon she stopped trying to identify her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
After she stopped eating and became too weak to get out of bed, I consulted with the gentle people from Hospice. As her designated power of attorney over health care, I followed Mom’s wishes to withhold life-saving measures. She rested beneath her hand-stitched quilt as kind people swabbed her mouth with damp cloth, and we played her favorite spiritual music. Outside her room, other residents shuffled past in a silent tribute.
After several days, her breathing became raspy but she heart was too strong to stop. One afternoon my daughter Emily and I were sitting with her when we were visited by Jackie Holland, the senior minister from the Center for Spiritual Living, the church my daughter attended. She asked if we could pray together, and we agreed.
“She’s refusing to go because she’s still waiting for my older brother to come,” I said. “He’s not coming. He hasn’t visited her in twenty years.”
Holland motioned for me to follow her into the hall.
“Your mother senses your moods,” she said. “She doesn’t want you to remain angry.”
At first, I resented her remark. She didn’t know Mom or me, and our story was too complicated and painful to explain in the hallway as she was dying. But, I was struck by her words: “She doesn’t want you to remain angry.” Of course, my mother would want me to be happy. So, I decided to lie to her.
We returned to her bedside, and I knelt to hold her. I said clearly, “This is Elaine. Everyone is happy. Tom is fine. George is doing well. Your grandkids and I are happy, and we love you so much. Now it’s time to be with Dad. It’s time to let go.”
She passed away a few hours later, leaving a hole in my heart that will never fill. My children Emily and Adam spoke at her funeral, and I’ve never been prouder of them. My older brother didn’t attend, but I wasn’t angry. At the end of the service, bright sunlight broke through the clouds and shined through stained glass windows she had commissioned for the church years earlier. Light filled the sanctuary, and we felt at peace.
Someday I hope to see her presence again. I suspect she’ll say, “I knew you were lying, but that’s okay. Now, please get your hair out of your face.” Then we’ll laugh.
