Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: Keep on Dancing through Life

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The small advertisement appeared as a nugget of nostalgia between the like-new drum set and the antique piano: “1970s jukebox. Works sometimes. $100 or best offer.” For a brief, irrational moment, I considered buying it. Then I remembered that my smart phone contained more music than a jukebox, and it fit better in my pocket.

Jukeboxes are unwanted relics of an ancient era, the true Happy Days. Our generation turned out the lights on our parent’s bugle boys as they wrapped stardust melodies with a string of pearls. We preferred the uncomplicated, steady beat of “Louie, Louie” and could buy it from a Wurlitzer with bubbling lights. Now the ability to instantly download any song at any time means that people miss the memorable magic of the jukebox experience.

I remember plunking in coins and pushing the buttons to hear songs from the 1960s. As teenagers wearing loafers and sweater sets, we eagerly watched as a vinyl record was mechanically pulled from the stack and placed on the spinning turntable. Then the needle swiveled over to latch into the grove to produce the sound. For farm kids in Wendell, this was as close as we would ever get to the live band.

On the checkered tile floors in the crowded cafés of our youth, we danced the Pony and the Twist and the Watusi as our pony tails bounced and dour chaperones scowled in disapproval from the sidelines. We never questioned the inane lyrics of “Wooly Bully” from Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, and we wailed with Lesley Gore singing “It’s My Party.” Everything changed when disco assaulted our rock and roll senses with mirrored balls and jerky movements. But, still, we danced.

During the early 1970s, we rode in the backs of pickup trucks with the music blaring over portable radios and we vowed to never get old. When we danced, we shouted “Hot Stuff” along with Donna Summer. Our luckier friends owned cars with 8-track tape players, and we traveled further away from our collections of scratchy vinyl records and electricity-dependent jukeboxes.

The 1980s tempered our free spirits as many of us married and had children. When we had the opportunity to dance, it was to the music of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” and the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams.” The jukeboxes were relegated to collectors and antique stores, and our cars replaced cassette tape players with CD players. Those of us with small children suffered through ghastly songs from a demented dinosaur named Barney and sweet songs from Raffi until we rebelled and taught our kids classics, such as “A Horse with No Name” by the band America.

Dance music lost its way during the 1990s when the most popular song was the “Macarena” by Los Del Rio. It was stupid and we refused to do it. Things didn’t improve in 2000 when hip hop substituted rhythm and lyrics with noise and profanity. Yes, we were aging and becoming the old farts we used to pity. Most of us just wanted the simplicity of good dance songs, and we were sustained with ageless musicians, including Elton John, the Rolling Stones, and Tina Turner.

The husky tones of a new voice brought hope in 2010 when Adele introduced “Rolling in the Deep” and Katy Perry ignited the air with “Firework.” We could dance to those songs.

We don’t ride in the back of pickup trucks anymore, and we’ve broken our pledge to never get older. By now, some of us resemble the shape of the old jukeboxes. But, we still refuse to be the grumpy sourpusses muttering in the corner. We want music and we will dance. A little slower now, but we will dance.

Today’s blog was fueled by a splendid 2010 Rombauer Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. The excellent wine was a gift from my daughter and her husband at a celebration that included wine, laughter, and dancing.

Today’s Cabernet

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Today’s blog was fueled by a glass of 2005 Frei Brothers Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon from Alexander Valley. This full-bodied wine combines yummy flavors of dark berries, eucalyptus, sweet vanilla and toasty oak. It’s on sale at Albertsons for $18 (usually $22), so we’re having it tonight with a family BBQ. I hope there’s some left by the time everyone gets here.

Midlife Cabernet: Labels are for Food, not People

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Read the label on a tub of frozen whipped topping and you’ll discover that the sweet treat contains enough chemical ingredients to eventually explode your internal organs. Assorted labels that describe me include left-handed, menopausal, witty, and Presbyterian. Any one of my identities could offend someone, but I’m still less toxic than Cool Whip.

It’s important for food to be labeled because you should know if the product you are buying to feed your family contains Polysorbate 60 – a chemically-derived emulsifier in Cool Whip that is linked to organ toxicity, chronic diarrhea, and tumors in laboratory rats. This fluffy concoction that looks so appealing in a Jell-O parfait also has synthetic wax, hydrogenated oils, and high fructose corn syrup. Just eat poison instead.

Labeling people is another matter, unless you intend to eat them. (In that case, find another blog.) Consider all the common labels that are used to classify people: liberal, conservative, divorced, elderly, teenage, politician, priest, or policeman. Every title prompts an opinion. When we meet someone for the first time, we instinctively process a conclusion when we learn that the person is either a ballerina or a mechanic. It shouldn’t matter unless we need some work done on our car.

We are living in a hateful bullying era that assigns negative labels to people for political or personal gain: loser, retarded, idiot, racist. Want to stop a lively, intelligent debate? Call someone a racist when there is no proof. Want to prove you have no decency? Call a mentally challenged person retarded. There is not enough soap to wash out the filthy mouths and minds of those who hurl destructive labels just to be cruel or to appear tough.

So, here is today’s assignment. Write down as many positive labels are you can: winner, smart, grateful, spirited, strong, loyal, talented, friendly, helpful, charming, dedicated, and spiritual. Use these descriptions liberally when talking to and about people. You’ll discover that others want to hear what you have to say, and they appreciate your positive attitude. They also want to be your friend.

This blog was prompted by some nasty comments made this week on social media sites. Normally sane friends clamored on Facebook that all Republicans (or Democrats or left-handed Christians) are idiots and morons. But, these zealots don’t realize that their friends might have similar beliefs to what is being criticized. If you want to call me a moron, please be able to substantial your claim. Otherwise, be careful about what labels you assign to others in public rants, or you could languish alone eating from tubs of toxic Cool Whip.

By the way, real whipped cream has three real ingredients: fresh cream, a sprinkle of sugar and a splash of real vanilla. Authentically delicious.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2005 Sawyer Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. This vibrant, complex, and exquisite estate wine was a gift from the awesome Gretchen Anderson. Good friends share good wine. I should invite her over for some peach pie with real whipped cream…

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.