Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: Redefining Grandmother

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My grandmothers were the quintessential matrons: they grew lush gardens, baked pies, canned peaches, crocheted doilies, and then peacefully passed away in their nineties. My life has been a bit different, and I just hope I don’t die tomorrow by getting hit by a wine truck while dancing in the street on my way to a book signing event.

My paternal grandmother never owned a driver’s license because she never needed to go anywhere. She could walk to the grocery store and post office, and she was content to sit in her rocking chair in her tidy little house. She finished crossword puzzles every day, read her Bible, and believed her life was blessed beyond measure. She was correct.

My maternal grandmother sewed dolls and grew glorious gladiolas to enter in the Jerome County Fair. She stored the numerous winning ribbons in a shoe box because she was humble, quiet, and unpretentious. Only after her death did I learn that all she wanted in life was to own a piano. I wish I could have given one to her.

Their tough example gave me a strong foundation that sustained me during the numerous personal calamities and monstrous mistakes in my life. They would be disappointed in my failures but they would be proud of me for having the courage to be independent and tenacious. I can hear them saying, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

In the blink of a wrinkled eye, I also became a grandmother. Both my children have children, and I find this fact a bit disturbing because I still think I am in my thirties. Really, now my daughter and I are about the same age. I want to pluck thirty years off the timeline and pretend the decades never happened. Denial is a powerful emotion.

Though I inherited traits and skills from my parent’s mothers, my generation is tweaking the term grandmother. My children married spouses who already had children, so I became an instant grandmother. And I’m not called Gramma. My daughter’s daughter was born in Hawaii, so I became Tutu, the Hawaiian name for grandmother..

I look at my granddaughters with wonder and worry. What will their future hold? Can they travel the world, employ their talents, and be strong in relationships? Will they treasure the self-sufficient strength of their great-great-grandmothers? Will they be able to grow a garden, bake a pie, preserve peaches, and crochet doilies? Okay, no one needs doilies anymore, but the other skills are important.

I hope they can learn from this weathered Tutu that they also can have a job, chart their own path, own a business, and challenge the boundaries. They can go beyond my grandmother’s wildest dreams, and I relish their feisty and vibrant spirit. I imagine the day when they get married and then bring me a laughing baby to rock. I think Great Tutu will be a fitting name.

I adore my little granddaughters, and we laugh together as we sing and tell great stories. I am not that adept at canning fruits and vegetables, but I can encourage them to take the path less traveled, color outside the lines, and question authority. They come from a strong heritage of tough women, and I know my grandmothers are watching over them whispering, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2007 Shadowbrook Cabernet Sauvignon from Walnut Creek, California. My son and daughter-in-law shared this vibrant wine in celebration of their recent anniversary. Their children – my grandchildren – know that life must be savored.

Midlife Cabernet: It’s Civil Discourse, Stupid

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My friends include conservatives, liberals, Christians, agnostics, and even some confused horticulturalists. Their diversity of opinions creates a rich and lively stew of beliefs, and I enjoy the debate. Two of my best friends hold opposite political views from mine, but we respect each other’s attitudes, even though I’m right.

I’ve always read letters to the editor in the newspaper and now I scan online comments on various publications and blogs. Over the past few years, the anonymous posts have digressed from snarky to absolutely vile. I imagine some loser hunkered over a dingy computer writing “Die, you ugly moron!” and hitting the send button. Then what? Do they chuckle at the power to prove their uselessness to society?

In 1869, Charles Darwin wrote Origin of the Species and included the phrase “survival of the fittest” to argue that species adapt by natural selection with the best suited mutations becoming dominant. Since then, some tragic trick of nature reversed that theory as more people force their ignorance, hostility, and intolerance upon the rest of us. It’s difficult to celebrate diversity when the discourse is uncivil and the survivors are unfit.

Facebook provides a glimpse into the lives of my friends and associates. Sometimes I offer an opinion on provocative posts, but I usually appreciate other’s opinions and move to another conversation. And, I would rather hit my head with a hammer than get into a political debate. No one’s mind is changed and it’s a waste of time. Another fact to remember: An Internet post is there forever.

Recently I experienced an emotional event as my mother suffered a stroke. She was given 72 hours to live, and it was my obligation to prepare her funeral arrangements. Facebook provided a way to reach out to friends because I was alone during this ordeal. When I couldn’t sleep at night, I read the responses and they provided comfort like a long-distance hug.

The encouraging words came from people with opposite political and religious beliefs. For the moment, all the rhetoric didn’t matter as they reached out with genuine compassion. We always can intelligently disagree another day.

My mother miraculous survived, and again I turned to Facebook to share the news. Responses were supportive, and we all got on with our lives. Now, if we could teach this productive and positive example to the bickering, ineffective members of Congress, we might be able to save the country from impending doom.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2009 Joseph Phelps Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. A friend brought it over to share because that’s what friends do.

Midlife Cabernet: Rejected Loser offers Clever Short Story for Free!

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To celebrate Boise’s 150th year birthday, the Boise Department of Arts and History called for submissions of short stories and poems to be published in a commemorative book. I eagerly wrote what I thought was a witty tale about a ghost living along the Greenbelt. My story was rejected. So, here is a complimentary copy! Happy Birthday, Boise.

The Gregarious Ghost of the Greenbelt

©Elaine Ambrose

Who knew I’d become a ghost living underneath the 8th Street Bridge along the Boise River Greenbelt? But that’s where I emerged after a lengthy debate of the Afterlife Assignment Association. I remember the verdict as if it were only 50 years ago.

“After reviewing your Final Files and watching the Verdict Videos of your human life, we have determined that you will be assigned to exist under a bridge in Boise, Idaho until you can prove yourself worthy of advancing to the next Regal Realm,” said Orpheus the Oracle, the ancient leader of the powerful assignment committee. “Your case will be reconsidered in 50 years.”

I raised my hand to ask for another opinion based upon the fact that I only committed a few of the seven deadly sins but Orpheus would have none of my impudent behavior. He hovered above his golden throne, spread his scarlet cloak, and raised the silver Sentencing Scepter as thunder crashed and lightening illuminated the marble chamber. First he pointed the scepter at my trembling Life Lawyer and with an instant zap the hapless attorney scampered off as an itinerant toad.

“The bridge sounds wonderful,” I whispered in response.

The Oracle waved his magic wand as he pronounced my assignment and suddenly I felt a rush of wind spinning me up and out of the assignment chamber. I glanced down at the long line of recently departed souls waiting to enter the chamber and noticed that very few were allowed to progress to the next realm. I concluded there must be millions of guilty ghosts trying to earn redemption, so I decided to savor the adventure with my spirited companions.

After the appropriate twirling and configuring, I appeared on the railing of the 8th Street Bridge. I initially gasped as five lanes of traffic careened beside me but then I realized it didn’t matter because I was invisible. I jumped into the street and giggled as a motorcycle blew threw me. I tapped the rider on the back and smirked when he almost lost control. Then I hopped into the path of a pickup truck and hollered with delight as the huge vehicle passed. Because I could, I grabbed a cooler out of the back and quickly arranged cold beer cans along the sidewalk. Students from nearby Boise State University scampered over to retrieve the beer. No more weeping and gashing of teeth for me! This was a fabulous assignment!

I played in traffic for a few more hours and then decided to make a new home. I found the perfect place on the west side of the bridge, still warm from the afternoon sun. I claimed my spot and settled in to watch people walking and riding bikes along the Boise River Greenbelt. For fun, I would jump up and sit on the handlebars of a bike and make it start to tip over. Good riders could catch their balance while bad riders would fall over and curse. Of course, I never allowed anyone to get hurt, just annoyed and puzzled.

Pestering people near the bridge was great sport for several years, but one warm sunny afternoon I decided to explore. I traveled east and danced with some children playing in Julia Davis Park. Some of the more intuitive ones saw me, and I smiled. Then I floated over to the Boise Zoo and sat on the head of a giraffe until he shook his neck and told me to go away. From there I sauntered over to Warm Springs Golf Course. If I liked a golfer, I nudged her wayward ball into the cup and bowed unnoticed while she squealed with delight. If a player was obnoxious, I grabbed the ball off the green and threw it into the water. During the spring runoff, I moved to Lucky Peak Dam and sat on the rooster tail of water shooting out from the reservoir. Sometimes people took photographs of the spray and an image of me would appear in their photos. No one could explain the apparition.

One day I joined a happy family boating at Lucky Peak. We stopped at a floating dock so they could enjoy a picnic lunch. I didn’t have much appetite, mainly because I was a ghost and didn’t need to eat. While the parents were distracted, the toddler slipped off the dock and sank in the water. I jumped in and lifted the baby to the surface just as the mother screamed and grabbed her. I noticed a group of young ghosts floating nearby and they saluted with appreciation of my good deed.

After several years of playing on the east side of Boise, I decided to go west. The Boise River Greenbelt stretched for 25 miles, and I had much to explore. I returned to my special spot under the 8th Street Bridge then skipped through traffic to The Cabin, a literary center next to the library. I enjoyed visiting workshops and watching aspiring writers craft their works. Sometimes I whispered inspirational words into their ears and they immediately reacted by writing in their notebooks or pecking on their laptops. I stayed there several years until some new apparitions appeared from the Afterlife Assignment Association. We nodded politely to each other and I resumed my travels.

Further along the Greenbelt, I enjoyed visiting Ann Morrison Park, especially during the hot air balloon shows. The balloonists never knew I joined several other ghosts sitting on top of the balloons as they sailed over the city. Then I would go over to Kathryn Albertson Park and bring beautiful little birds just for children to see. By then, I was becoming a Midlife Ghost and not so sassy. I often whispered encouragement to lonely people and hummed sweet music for the lovers walking hand in hand.

I watched spontaneous productions on the grass at Veterans Memorial State Park and guarded the busy street so children couldn’t dart into traffic. Once I caught a little boy falling out of a tree. He thanked me and ran off to tell his mother. She just nodded, smiled, and patted his head. He turned back to me and waved. It was our secret.

On long summer days, I preferred to hover near Willow Lane Park and Athletic Complex to hear the sounds of children playing. Jumping into a soccer game was great sport for me, and I enjoyed being part of the team. Occasionally I would assist a struggling player make just the right kick. Then I would fly to the net and make sure the ball went in for the score. Many times there were dozens of other ghosts playing on the field, and we would have our own invisible competition.

The decades flew by and then it was time for my review by the Afterlife Assignment Association. In a whirl of motion I was plucked from the 8th Street Bridge and transported back to the chamber where Orpheus the Oracle was waiting. I stood before the committee, respectful but fearless.

“You have done well,” Orpheus said. He seemed less of a jerk than he was during our initial meeting.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I enjoyed my half century along the Boise River Greenbelt.”

“You may not know the results of your deeds,” the Oracle said as he unrolled a piece of

parchment and began to read. “The toddler you saved from the water is now a world-famous musician. You inspired several bestselling books from the writers at The Cabin. The little boy who fell from the tree is now a national leader. Many of the young soccer players grew up to become community volunteers helping other children.”

I stood as tall as my ghostly spirit would allow and waited for the verdict.

“Based upon the success of your assignment, the committee has decided that you are eligible to progress to the Regal Realm. Congratulations.”

I knew I was expected to sincerely thank the committee and then silently pass through the golden doors. But I didn’t want to go.

“Thank you for your confidence in me,” I said. “But, I don’t want to leave the bridge. I’m requesting to return.”

Orpheus the Oracle was not pleased. He rose from his throne and glared at me. As he reached for the silver Sentencing Scepter I feared the worst: would I become an itinerant toad or a lowly house fly?

“You are hereby reassigned to the 8th Street Bridge in Boise,” he declared amid all the unnecessary but spectacular thunder and lightning. “And you will not be reviewed for another 100 years.”

I felt the familiar commotion as I traveled back to the bridge. I found my place and knew I was home, at least for another century. Just as I was settling in, I heard a frantic yell from a child in trouble. There was no time to waste so I flew over to assist. That ugly thug harassing the little girl never knew what hit him. My work here is not finished.

Midlife Cabernet: Fight Tragedy with Tenacity

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elaine pontiac accident_0Twenty years ago an uninsured punk ran a stop sign and crashed into me as I cheerfully drove up 5 Mile Road in my new car. I regained consciousness in the hospital and had broken bones, multiple contusions, and a damaged occipital nerve that continues to pester me with debilitating headaches. It’s a good thing the jerk ran away because I was eager to return the favor.

During one of my rehabilitation appointments, I showed the photo of my wrecked car to the physical therapist and bemoaned the fact that my new car was a total loss. She studied the photo and then said, “One second saved your life.” That comment interrupted my self-pity.

“The photo proves the other car slammed into the front of your car and then it spun around and smashed into the passenger door behind you,” she said. “One more second and he would have hit you with full force in the driver’s door. Then you wouldn’t be here to complain about your headaches.”

Sometimes, we need to put things into perspective.

This week’s events have been emotionally draining as we watch and read the news about terrorist bombings, poison letters, massive explosions, and shootouts in the street. I continue to worry about my children and grandchildren because the best helmets, seatbelts, and anti-bacterial soap can’t protect them from the new realities of life: There are evil, godless monsters packing nails into pressure cookers with the sole intent of causing death and destruction to innocent people.

Some of us remember when our childhood security was shattered almost fifty years ago: Nov. 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was a young schoolgirl, but I remember the helpless, fearful feeling as I watched my teacher cry and listened to the news broadcasts over the speakers in our classroom. Then our teacher stood to lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance, and somehow the familiar words brought comfort.

The best way for me to survive the tragedies of life is to balance them with memories of the triumphs. I was in the Tuscany region of Italy on September 11, 2001, and the horrors of that experience were tempered by the loving Italians who surrounded us with comfort, food, and songs. Several years later, the personal pain of divorce was softened as I assisted with the glorious birth of my first grandchild and the publication of my book Menopause Sucks.

Monday afternoon as I watched the news about the bombing in Boston, I cradled another granddaughter in my arms. I felt myself sinking into despair about her future, so I turned off the news and sang her a lullaby. I vow that my granddaughters will know laughter and music and love. Those strengths will sustain them over the sounds of bombs and crying.

Twenty years ago a mere second made a profound difference in why I’m still here to annoy and humor people. I’ve been given another chance to appreciate every delightful breath of life, to survive the bullshit, and to savor a world full of daily miracles. And, in unison with the resilient people of New York, Boston, and other targeted areas, I proclaim to the terrorists: “You made us stronger. Now go to hell!”

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2010 Joel Gott Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley, CA. Hurry! This tasty wine is on a special sale at Fred Meyer for less than $16.

Midlife Cabernet: Why You Should Read Obituaries

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What is the summary of your life? Most of us are somewhere between “convicted felon” and “millionaire philanthropist.” For an interesting assignment, find some random obituaries and read about what happened to people between birth and death. Then write your own. Whatever your story will be, make it sassy enough so others will say, “What a grand life she had!”

Many, many years ago, to earn my degree in journalism from the University of Idaho my last requirement was to complete an internship at the Lewiston Tribune. I eagerly anticipated that I would write compelling, award-winning feature stories to be published on the front page under my huge byline. Instead, I was assigned to write obituaries.

The job did not require talent in creative writing, investigative journalism, or serious analysis. My task was to condense a person’s life to a few paragraphs, spell the name correctly, and include funeral details. Initially, I resented the assignment but soon grew to appreciate the information and anecdotes about the dearly departed. I often imagined extra details about who they were and what they did.

Now when I begin each morning with coffee and the newspaper, I read the front page, swear about politics, and then turn to the obituaries. I study the smiling faces of strangers, and I calculate how many were younger than I am. Then I read their stories.

The black-and-white photos of children always bring a tear, and I grieve along with their parents, brothers, sisters, and grandparents. The older people have the best obituaries because they often include fascinating facts about being rugged pioneers, former ballerinas, independent cowboys, brave soldiers, happy homemakers, or those who fought courageous battles with cancer and now rest in the arms of Jesus.

The short obituaries cause me to wonder why the person only had one paragraph of life worth mentioning. Maybe no one knew the hobbies, adventures, and family that might have been. Maybe the survivors didn’t want to pay for a longer article. Or, maybe that is what the person wanted, and who am I to question why there were no funeral services?

When I conduct writing workshops for teenagers, I often advise them to write their own obituaries. After an initial hesitation they get to work and usually produce confident predictions of being the future president, inventor, movie star, or football hero. Their long and happy lives will be full of loving children and grand adventures, and then a park or building will be named after them in honor of their contributions to society. Their cockiness is contagious.

When I do the same assignment with middle-aged women, the results are different. Their imagined obituaries focus on family, travels with their spouse, and jobs, in that order. By midlife, the youthful desire to save the planet evolves into the more attainable goal to be the best volunteer at a local charity, to retire from a productive career, or to be celebrated as an unforgettable, loveable grandmother.

Occasionally we’ll read an obituary about people we knew and loved. The best way to honor their memory is to get busy living the extra days we’ve been given that they didn’t have. Carpe Diem.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2010 Cinder from Snake River Valley. This delightful blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Malbec is available at The Grape Escape in Boise for about $34. I enjoyed it recently with one of my favorite friends, and because life is short and meant to be savored, we also shared a decadent piece of chocolate cake. Don’t tell my trainer.