To celebrate my 65th summer, I released my inner rock diva and joined 100,000 people at Bottlerock in Napa, California. The three-day event featured 85 bands including Maroon 5 and Tom Petty performing on multiple stages, culinary stage artists such as Martha Stewart, and more than 100 food and beverage vendors. I enjoyed most of them.

It was easy for me to go incognito because no one noticed a chubby grandmother from Idaho. To bolster my self-confident solo act, I removed the toothpick from my mouth and brushed the hay from my hair and pretended to be an eccentric, international talent scout. By the afternoon, I had transformed into a mysterious countess from a distant realm.

Wine country can be inspirational in many ways, and I had planned a trip to Napa so I could concentrate on writing my memoir. I stayed at my timeshare resort and wrote about 6,000 words before needing a break. I decided to spend Friday at Bottlerock, and the experience didn’t disappoint.

Here are some observations about the sensory feast at Bottlerock:

The sounds mingled the elegance of a symphonic quartet with a raucous hootenanny serenaded by screaming cats. Music is intoxicating for all ages, and I enjoyed the various rhythms, instruments, and singers prancing about the various stages. (Except for Rap. Rap makes me want to destroy something with a chainsaw.) With dozens of acts blaring simultaneously, the sounds reminded me of a long vacation drive with my kids when they were young. My new favorite band is Saint Motel, and their spirited, technical sounds momentarily inspired me to dye my hair fuchsia, get a tattoo, and climb aboard their tour bus. Common sense prevailed the next day.

Sights ranged from amusing to horrifying. Many women at Bottlerock prefered to avoid the hassle of selecting fetching outfits because they didn’t wear a lot of clothes. Tank tops, ripped jeans, and teeny party dresses were in abundance on most females under 30. A few stripper outfits would have resulted in arrests back in Idaho. I attracted no jealous stares in my sensible cargo pants, t-shirt, practical hat, and Teva sandals.

Tasting Bottlerock is a culinary extravaganza. For market research purposes, I buried my face in a paper bowl full of chocolate hazelnut beignets from Ca’ Momi organic Italian restaurant. It was organic so it must have been healthy. I washed down the gooey mess with a $25 glass of Silver Oak Cabernet. I reminded myself that I’m 65 and many people don’t make it to 65 so it was my duty to enjoy the opportunity. The next glass was appropriately less expensive. I didn’t have time or desire to try the duck or lamb tacos.

The smells of Bottlerock were what you would expect when tens of thousands of people come together to dance in the sunshine. Flowering plants released natural perfume combined with whiffs of pot, smoked barbecue, and a few dirty diapers. I hid my nose in several glasses of full-bodied Cabernet and the aromas were delightful.

To feel Bottlerock, a person only had to stand close to the stage and brace for the crush of thousands of warm bodies pressing closer to see and hear the next act. I experienced several close encounters from another dimension, but again, no one wanted to offend  a silly grandmother. I stood my ground and didn’t let the pushy whippersnappers take my place. I think they were taking bets on when I would need a nap or start to drool.

Bottlerock reminds me of other venues that I only need to attend once, such as Disneyland on a holiday or the county fair on any day. In the immortal words of Mae West, you only live once but if you do it right, once is enough.

Back at my hotel room, I congratulated myself on maneuvering the logistics to get to and from the venue. My brain still worked after all! Then I pulled on my Grammy Jammie’s, slathered my weathered but happy face with ointment, and crashed into bed. I dreamed I was a rock star.

Mill Park Publishing, owned by local author Elaine Ambrose, is sponsoring the “Children’s Flying Potato Writing Challenge” in conjunction with the 5^th Annual Idaho Potato Drop. The activity is open to all Idaho children between the ages of 8-12. The theme will be: “The Magic Flying Potato,” and the top five entries will receive a $40 prize and be invited to read their winning essays on stage at the Children’s Tent for the festivities in Boise December 31, 2017.

A total of 25 winners will receive from $10 to $40, certificates of award, and books from Mill Park Publishing.

Stories must be original, unpublished manuscripts from 300 to 500 words. Poetry is acceptable. Submissions can include artwork but are limited to one original piece of artwork. Content must follow acceptable guidelines for family-oriented publications.

Beginning September 1, 2017, stories can be submitted, one entry per person, through an online form by November 1, 2017. There is no entry fee. A panel of judges from the local writing community will select the winning entries.

Ten third-place winners will receive a certificate, $10 from Mill Park Publishing, and will be introduced during a special program at the Family Tent on December 31.

Ten second-place entries will receive a certificate, $20 from Mill Park Publishing, and a copy of the book The Magic Potato.  They will be introduced during a special program at the Family Tent on December 31.

Five first-place winners will receive a certificate, $40 from Mill Park Publishing, and a copy of the book Gators & Taters: A Week of Bedtime Stories and a copy of The Magic Potato. The top 5 winners also will read their winning entries on stage at a special ceremony in the Family Tent on December 31.

Mill Park Publishing recently released two updated, award-winning children’s books: Gators & Taters – A Week of Bedtime Stories and The Magic Potato. Local graphic artist Patrick Bochnak created the illustrations for both books.

Children related to officials of the Idaho Potato Drop or Mill Park Publishing aren’t eligible for  prizes but are encouraged to write a story.

More information will come from www.elaineambrose.com and Idaho Potato Drop.

My mother died near the end of 2014, and I continue to go through boxes of her possessions. I only complete a few boxes each month because the task is too daunting as I choose what to use, store, donate, or throw into the garbage. Throughout the process, I can feel her presence imploring me to keep it all; but I can’t.

A recent box yielded spiritual heirlooms from my grandmothers: a plastic cross stitched with yellow yarn, a needlepoint church, a tattered Holy Bible. Inside the box was a small, gold, cardboard box full of handmade handkerchiefs. Even though they were sturdy, practical farm women, my mother and grandmothers always carried delicate handkerchiefs when they left their homes. My maternal grandmother saved scraps of linen and fine cotton and fashioned the pieces into elegant works of art. She used a vibrant collection of thread as she embroidered delicate images of flowers and hemmed and tatted the edges. My mother saved dozens of them, and most were never used. I’ll give some to my daughter, daughter-in-law, and granddaughters, but they probably will save them but won’t use them, either.

Handmade hankies are relics from a distant past when women wore their Sunday dresses, gloves, and hats to church. They carried simple purses, a lace handkerchief, and a Bible. After church, they donned aprons and cooked dinner for the family. Life for my mother and grandmothers wasn’t easy, but through all the hard work for their families and dutiful allegiance to their husbands, they kept a fragment of elegance tucked into their purses.

Mom also owned more than a dozen Bibles. She had read each one, underlining favorite verses, scribbling in the margins, noting favorite sermons and preachers, and adding whimsical stickers. In her last years, the Bible in large type was her favorite. The last chapter, The Book of Revelations, is full of underlined verses in both red and black ink. On the last two pages, where the text proclaims that Jesus is coming again, she added two bright-yellow, smiley-face stickers.

What do I do with a dozen Bibles? I own several she has given me through the years. I could donate hers to family, churches, and retirement homes, but no one would know the devout woman who underlined verses, added stickers, and prayed constantly for her fractured family. I don’t want this chore.

While writing this essay, tears began to fall. I grabbed one of Grandma Morrison’s delicate handkerchiefs from the gold box and blotted my eyes. I’m sure I heard my mother and grandmother murmur together, “Use them, Elaine. They’re for you.” Then my mother would add, “Be sure to hand-wash them and only iron on low heat.” I’ll do that, Mom. Bless your heart, and Happy Mother’s Day.

Midlife Happy Hour received a rare  5-Star Review from ForeWord Reviews and is a finalist for Book of the Year in the Humor Category.

Midlife Happy Hour

Our Reward for Surviving Careers, Kids, and Chaos

Reviewed by Catherine Thureson
April 27, 2017

Ambrose’s work is funny, irreverent, and refreshing, and her advice is spot-on.

Elaine Ambrose’s Midlife Happy Hour is a humorous look at the life of a small-town farmer’s daughter who did not conform to the expectations of society or her family. Ambrose shares her story without apologies or regrets. In between the book’s funniest moments, she relates life lessons learned along the way.

The joys and perils of midlife are equally celebrated in this very funny book, whose author laughs her way through a wide variety of topics—from growing up in an age when women were expected to fill a very narrow role to fighting for career successes in the male-dominated corporate world. Ambrose recalls raising kids, growing older, and staying passionate about life.

Each chapter covers a different topic and can easily be read as a stand-alone essay. This makes the book very easy to enjoy in small sips, each as rich and enjoyable as the Cabernet the author is so fond of. It’s filled with laugh-out-loud moments and insights that can only come from someone who has lived a full life with plenty of ups and downs along the way.

The author has a wonderful sense of humor that makes even dark subjects, like the death of her mother, read lightly. She does not flinch from sharing her own embarrassments, such as a particularly harrowing experience trying to use the toilet in a fringe-covered dress. Each story is genuine and relatable.

In addition to its humor, the book is full of insights on how to get through life, advising women to take risks, avoid negativity, and enjoy relationships. Its best advice: “‘Keep laughing … That’s how we survive.’”

At times, Ambrose’s viewpoint does narrow, such as when she discusses grown children moving back home. She sees this as a problem, and doesn’t seem to consider the difficult circumstances that may contribute. Such moments are momentarily off-putting, but the tone of the work is not generally judgmental, and Ambrose aims her occasionally sharp pen at herself far more than at anyone else. Her views are her own, and, true to the message of the book, she is unafraid of expressing them.

Midlife Happy Hour is intended for audiences of sympathetic middle-aged women, those who are done raising families and struggling in their careers, by whom the author’s authentic voice stands to be embraced. Ambrose’s work is funny, irreverent, and refreshing, and her advice is spot-on.