Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist
For one week beginning September 22, Midlife Happy Hour is available for only 99 cents in eBook platforms on Amazon, Nook, IBooks, KOBO, and Google Plus.
RECENT AWARDS
(Because we need more laughter, my guest blogger today is Christine Wilcox. She’s a dignified corporate vice president by day, but away from her office she becomes a hilarious storyteller writing from a secret bunker somewhere in Boise, Idaho.)
Getting a house ready to sell is an excruciating process. It’s like having a colonoscopy every day for a month that culminates in the doctor finding $50,000 in your ass. I’d owned this home for 11 years, and suddenly I was in the position to sell it — quickly. Realtors were poised at the gate like the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona – snorting, elbowing, each stomp of their Prada shoes churning the dirt beneath them.
Determined to take the bulls by their buyer offer forms and pinch every penny until Abe Lincoln showed visible bruising, I wanted to do as much of the necessary work myself as I could. I DIY’d until I dropped. Everything LOOKED fantastic. Surviving on minimal sleep and large amounts of caffeine, I looked like something the cat would pass in the alley in favor of a dead rat 2 blocks down. I learned things about myself. I learned I could swap electrical outlets. I learned I could replace broken tiles. And I learned that when I least expect it, I have an amazing capacity to lie.
It was summer in Boise, when temps can easily launch into the 100’s and park there for days on end, making early mornings the best time for yoga, yard work and yammering hate-filled phrases at myself as I pulled wires, weeds and muscles in my back.
The last chore standing at the house was to finish staining the fence.
I’ve painted a lot of things in my life. I’ve painted puppies (on canvas, not in the “Today, the Humane Society arrested a local woman” kind of way), porch stoops and a couple of houses. When the new fence went in, the nice guy who installed it said, “You’re going to stain it, right?” and I said, “Of course, who wouldn’t?”, knowing full well the answer to that question on any given day would likely be “me.” So the fence sat for the better part of the next year in pristine, untouched condition, awaiting the moment when I would spring forth, fully geared up from behind the patio doors, armed with a bucket of Thompsons Water Seal Stain and a paint gun, yelling “Cry havoc! And let slip the droplets of stain!”
And then I spoke to Ashley.
Ashley was my neighbor who lived behind the fence, and she had painted her side just a couple months following its installation, in accordance with official Mrs. America Guidelines. In Gaelic, the name Ashley means, “Unilaterally able to goad other people into doing whatever it was they did.” When I asked Ashley what kind of paint gun she had used, thinking I’d knock this baby out in a day, she explained with all the authority and gravitas of a Google search result that she painted it by hand. With a brush. Wanting desperately to feel as though I was on some level part of Ashley’s Circle of Mrs. America Friends (never mind that I’m not a Mrs….) I finished half of the fence in this manner over the course of A MONTH.
By now, time was no longer on my side.
The steam from the breath of the realtors at the gate was burning my back. And the laughable part of all of this was, I wasn’t even living in the house anymore. I had moved three weeks before. What the hell did I care if this fence looked like the Vatican or a Vagabond’s cardboard box?
I buckled, borrowed my sister’s paint gun, and set out to quickly finish this one last chore. Clad in my oldest cropped yoga pants and a spaghetti strap tank top over a sports bra that could’ve made Dolly Parton look like a prepubescent teenager, I became one with the paint gun. My day to show dominion over the fence had finally arrived.
Mr. Miyagi’s “wax on, wax off, sand of floor, paint of fence” reverberated in my ears with every sweep of the sprayer across the cedar, but I was a disaster refueling it. The stain – Autumn Brown – covered my arms from the elbow down with matching spatters on my pants and feet. I looked like the first spray tan test subject to use a jet engine to disperse the liquid tan.
I was six feet from finishing the fence when from behind me I heard “Hello? Hello!!!” I froze. Was it the neighbor I hated, trying for one last dig at my dignity? No. Nothing was coming from the fence to the left. Was it Mrs. America peering over the pickets in front of me with a judgmental glare? No. The voice was male. The direction was north. The options were few.
“I didn’t want to scare you, but you left the patio door open.”
I stopped the sprayer, turned and looked at a hobbit-like creature who had made his way out of my soon-to-be-former patio door. Since I had selected my attire from the Trailer Park Who Wore it Worst look book punctuated with Autumn Brown streaks and freckles on my skin, I immediately imagined a sink hole forming below me and swallowing me up. The Hobbit was staring.
“Hi, I’m Dave. Lonni sent me over to do an estimate on painting the interior?”
I blinked. “Oh, ok. Go right ahead,” I said and turned back toward the fence, still hoping for the sink hole to magically appear.
“Are you buying this place or selling it?” Dave asked as he eyed my hurried 1/2 paint job on the fence. His painter’s judgmental eye cast across my work like the Eye of Sauron looking at Frodo scrambling up Mount Doom with the ring… “stupid creature,” his gaze intoned. Hobbit Dave had become the Overlord.
In that instant, my lie surfaced like a humpback whale breaking the surface of the ocean.
“Oh, this isn’t my place. It’s my sister’s. I’m just here painting the fence for her while she’s out of town.”
The lie came out of nowhere. Hobbit Dave accepted my words freely, and ambled back toward the house, saying something about “they only do the best work,” which I’m sure was another judgmental swipe at my stain job. Of course, I immediately dove for my phone to text my realtor:
“Ok – so the paint guy is here doing the estimate. Super nice guy. I also introduced myself to him as my sister. I’m wearing cropped yoga pants and a spaghetti strap tank top and Autumn Brown Stain sporadically across my body. I look like I belong on the cover of Po-White-Trash Monthly. So if we end up using him, I’m going to have to lie and say I’m an identical twin.”
Christine Wilcox authored a story in the recent anthology Angel Bumps. Hers is the one titled, “No Damn Funeral.”
I’ll be speaking about “Angels in Fiction and Nonfiction” at Rediscovered Books during the First Thursday event on October 5 in downtown Boise. The program begins at 7:00 pm and includes a book signing and complimentary appetizers.
After a brief discussion, Mill Park Publishing will premiere a new anthology, Angel Bumps – Hello from Heaven, compiled by Anne Bardsley. The book contains 60 stories submitted by 50 authors from around the country. Local writers with stories in the anthology include Christine Wilcox and Emily Nielsen. Christine and I will read our stories.
Mill Park Publishing also published The Angel of Esperança, a novel by local author Judith McConnell Steele. She also will read an excerpt from her novel. The event is open to the public.
Angel Bumps – Hello from Heaven – Author Talk
Have you experienced an Angel Bump? A sign could come from the sudden appearance of a butterfly, finding a coin or a feather, hearing a memorable song, having a vivid dream, or feeling the presence of a departed loved one. Fifty writers from around the country share tender stories in this collection that will console anyone who is grieving the loss of a loved one. Each author shares a sign from Heaven that reassured them their loved one is still near in spirit. While people die, love is eternal.
Featuring Local Writers:
Christine Wilcox, VP at Albertsons
Emily Nielsen, owner of Balance Family Fitness and creator of Boise Goat Yoga
Elaine Ambrose, syndicated blogger, author, and domestic humorist for women over 50.
Judith McConnell Steele, author and poet
I grew up in a village of Wendell, Idaho when the population was 1,000. The town’s claim to fame was that Larry LaPrise, the creator of the song “Do The Hokey Pokey,” may have lived in Wendell. The joke is that after he died in nearby Gooding, the undertaker tried to put his left foot in the coffin, and then the right foot in, and mayhem ensued.
My father was born in Wendell in 1928, and both my parents, several aunts, uncles, cousins, my two brothers and I graduated from Wendell High School. We all shared some of the same teachers, desks, and mystery lunch food from the cafeteria. I was eager to leave town and escape to the University of Idaho when I was 17 but returned every now and then for a glimpse at the provocative reality show from my past.
Last week I drove to the main intersection of town and needed my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the electric-blue, neon-bright building on the corner. Apparently painted by an itinerate colony of crazy clowns with leftover circus paint, the unidentified store also sported a matching trailer with a window that may have served road food or offered a nefarious peepshow. The only lights on the outside of the day-glow structure came from the town’s one stoplight. We never had a stoplight when I lived there, but my widowed mother was cajoled by the city leaders into providing financial aid for the light when the town’s population exploded to 2,000 inhabitants.
In the urban jungle of my current town near Boise, parking is such a premium that people will wait 30 minutes in the street if they suspect another driver is leaving a parking spot. They will turn on their blinkers and hazard lights and gleefully maneuver their vehicle in place, often before the other driver has completely exited. The meters now accept credit cards but only for two hours, so it’s common to see people abandon kids, shopping bags, and dignity to hustle back to their cars to refill the meter. However, along the streets in Wendell you could park several 18-wheel tractor/trailer rigs, a few cattle trucks, some tractors hauling trailers piled with hay, a Greyhound bus, and an old Ford pickup on Main Street. Most still have the keys in the ignition.
Downtown – or is it DownVillage? – still holds the discarded, empty buildings from my past. The Ace Theatre hasn’t been occupied for more than 20 years, but once it was the most popular attraction on Friday and Saturday nights, except for hometown sports events. I remember sitting in a movie with other students from junior high when a goofy guy held my hand. The thrill was worth the 75 cents I paid for admission.
The best store in Wendell, then and now, is Simerly’s. Family-owned for three generations, the business offers groceries, a pharmacy, sporting goods, live bait, fresh flowers, cold beer, clothes, friendly staff, and ammunition. When shoppers became more sophisticated, Simerly’s punched a hole in the wall, lined it with fake bricks, and cleverly called it a wine cellar. You don’t need to shop anywhere else.
The other main businesses include two banks, a few restaurants, a realty, and several churches that change denominations every few decades. The best watering holes are the Stockman’s Club, still sporting a wobbly Christmas tree on the roof so it won’t need to decorate for the next holiday season, and the Silver Spur. Once I walked into the Silver Spur after a 10-year absence and the bartender looked up and said, “Hi, Elaine. Welcome back.”
The Wendell Cemetery is conveniently located next to the mini-storage facility. Both entities hold the last remains from the cowboys, farmers, and strong women who passed on to their final reward and left behind eclectic possessions and memories. Many of my relatives are buried there, and I often meander through the grounds, having conversations with the familiar names etching into the headstones. I leave books, ornaments, and flags on my parents’ graves. That doesn’t seem to bother them.
Before I leave town, I drive past my childhood home out in the country. My father built this mysterious rock fortress in 1963 and the architect claimed to be a student of Frank Lloyd Wright. I have no proof, but the style includes Wright’s familiar designs of polished cement floors, clerestory windows, built-in furniture, glass bricks embedded into the walls, and a flat roof. My dad decorated the interior with an eclectic assortment of purple toilets, a massive shield with swords, ashtrays on decorative pedestals, and wooden busts of Aborigines. I thought that was normal.
When people ask me where I’m from, I always say, “Wendell. It’s a small town in southern Idaho near Twin Falls.” Some know the location and others don’t care. The older I get, the better I appreciate being from Wendell. Most of the citizens are good, hard-working people who always say, “Hi. Welcome back.” Life is simple, neighbors help each other, and someone always leaves the light on for visitors. In the immortal words of Larry LaPrise, “That’s what it’s all about.”
I drove away from the Wendell Cemetery and turned onto the freeway for the 100-mile journey back to Boise. I set the cruise control at 80 MPH and held the steering wheel as tears continued to roll down my cheeks. My vision was clear enough to drive to my destination but my thoughts were lost in the heavy reality of another family funeral.
In less than three years, five family members and my golfing buddy have died: my mother, my brother George, Uncle Mac, Uncle Jesse, my cousin’s son, and my friend Jean. I cried for the pain, for the loss, for the unfairness of it all. And I don’t understand why so many jerks get to live.
On my trip, I passed 18-wheel-trucks hauling their important loads of groceries and household items and thought of my father as a hard-working truck driver. I followed recreational vehicles full of families making their last vacation trips of the summer, and I reminisced that there had been too few vacations in my family. Farmers couldn’t get away for very long when there were fields to plow, livestock to tend, and sprinkler pipes to move. There were cars stuffed with young college students and all their possessions with University of Idaho decals on the window, and I remembered the thrill of leaving home and go away to college.
The landscape changed from high desert to rolling fields to the occasional small town. Vehicles drove north and south, life continued around me, and no one noticed an older woman crying behind the wheel.
I had driven to southern Idaho to attend the funeral for my cousin’s son. He was only 38, but his life was full of joy and so many people came to pay their last respects that another room had to be opened to accommodate all of them. At his funeral, his bike waited next to his casket, both decorated with floral arrangements from those who loved him.
He was buried in the Wendell Cemetery next to his grandparents. His grandmother was my Aunt Billie, my father’s sister, who used to read my poetry when I was a teenager full of angst. On one poem she wrote, “It can’t be that bad!” She’s buried next to Uncle Henry, a beloved man who called me Lanie. I walked past the headstone of gentle Aunt Mariana, my mother’s sister, and her husband, Uncle Muncie. He was a humble carpenter and built many of the sturdy homes still standing around Wendell. My parents and sister were buried nearby, and I stood to talk with them. I looked around and read familiar names of people I had known throughout my childhood. They had been my customers on my paper route, my teachers, my neighbors, and my relatives. I said “hello” as I walked past their graves.
As I drove closer to Boise, I focused on the road because traffic was getting congested. The tears stopped and I relaxed when I finally parked in the garage. I felt at peace until I remembered my cousin at home in Twin Falls. The tears returned, and I made a promise to visit her often. I’ll continue the 100-mile cry until there are no more family funerals.
According to a recent study, $27 billion will be spent this fall on back-to-school clothes, supplies, and accessories for students from kindergarten through 12th grade. I do my best to help the economy and society by spending money and time with my splendid granddaughters.
Going back to school in the fall remains my favorite childhood memory. I usually had a new outfit, complete with black-and-white saddle shoes and white socks. Some years, I had new eyeglasses with rhinestones in the frames. From 4th grade through my senior year, I proudly toted an alto saxophone in a blue case because I played in the band, confirming my identity as a nerd. I anticipated each year would be the best one ever; an aspiration usually crushed by October, but I never gave up hope.
I loved school and had perfect attendance from third grade through 12th grade. My family lived on a farm outside the village of Wendell, Idaho, population 1,000, and I knew from a young age that education was my ticket to adventure. I was correct.
After going into the world to seek self-reliance through the power of a regular paycheck, I married, had kids, and worked at various jobs. I continued the back-to-school celebration with my children, and shopping for new clothes became an important occasion, always ending at home with a festive fashion show. Our limited budget provided for a few sturdy outfits that were practical and big enough for “room to grow.” Fast forward another generation and I continue the tradition by taking my granddaughters on shopping dates to celebrate the new school year. The activity has become a favorite way to bond with each girl.
To arrange our shopping dates, we juggled schedules around soccer practices, gymnastics, craft projects, family vacations, and my appointments so I could enjoy several hours with each girl. We laughed and talked about school, friends, and where to shop. Each girl added a unique perspective, from the seven-year-old loudly singing “I Love Rock ‘n Roll” in a restaurant, to the pre-teen’s selection of an exotic, organic lotion, to the teen’s tales of a rambunctious slumber party with her soccer teammates.
This year, I had shopping dates with four of my granddaughters. Sweetie Pie, age seven, has an attention span of five seconds, so I quickly gathered five outfits, ushered us into a large dressing room, and cajoled her into trying on the clothes. We avoided any problems with the promise of at least one blouse with ruffles. She exited the store playing an imaginary air guitar.
Pumpkin, age 10, chose some cute outfits while seriously monitoring our budget. We have a running joke that she won’t like anything I choose, so I didn’t say yes or no. (Her mother had the same funny attitude at that age.) At lunch, she showed me how to download apps on my cell phone and create color-coded folders. She’s my personal IT assistant.
The 12-year-old is a gymnast with a lean body, so finding clothes can be a challenge. She was delighted with jeans so tiny my arm wouldn’t fit inside and a shirt with shinny lettering that read, “Find Your Wild.” I don’t know what that means. She found a magical pendant made from white crystals, held it to the sunlight, and made a wish. Of course, she now owns it.
The oldest grandbabe, age 15, still enjoys being with me. That’s probably because I have the credit card. But she’s delightful, articulate, and polite. She balances school activities, takes advanced placement courses, and maintains A grades. I think she should be cloned as a role model for teenage girls. And, I’ve never seen an eye-roll from her.
I became an irritated curmudgeon while inspecting the fashions for teenage girls. The styles included jeans that were ripped and torn, rompers that barely covered the butt, and high-heeled shoes appropriate for a street-walker. The ragged pants priced at $33 bothered me the most because the “poverty chic” style demeans those who are genuinely poor. As a girl, my mother and her sisters wore dresses their mother made from flour sacks. As a growing boy, my father’s family didn’t have enough money to buy him shoes that fit. I refused to buy anything with even a hint of damage. Fortunately, my teenage grandbabe agreed.
Grandparents know that the years fly by way too fast. I only have two more back-to-school shopping dates before the teenager graduates, and she probably won’t want me hanging around while she’s at college. In another generation, these splendid girls may take their own children shopping for school clothes. I hope the students, my great-grandchildren, believe it will be their best year ever.
