Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Driving Through Fog

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There is a place on Highway 55 in Central Idaho where a long stretch of the road heading into Round Valley dips into a cradle surrounded by glorious mountains. Morning fog often settles over the road, and the only choice is for a driver to turn on the headlights, slow down, and keep driving otherwise a less cautious driver coming from behind could cause a crash. Keep going.

I experience a faint feeling of doubt every time I encounter the fog. There could be a cow or deer in the road, chunks of firewood bounced from an overladen pickup truck, or another oncoming driver crossing the invisible center line. So, I’m alert and peer into the unknown, as if squinting will make the haze less dense. In the countless times I’ve driven this road, I know the fog will lift and I’ll drive into the sunshine. I know the passing scenery will change from a dense shroud into a glorious route through rugged canyons along a wild river that tumbles freely to the valley below. That’s why I keep driving.

drive in sunshine

For the past few weeks, I’ve been driving through fog with too much to do and too little time or energy to finish important projects. I’m holding the wheel until my knuckles turn white and peering ahead, but I can’t see a break. My wise intuition whispers “Keep going,” while my tired voice answers, “I want to stop and eat doughnuts.”

Most of my stress is self-imposed. I’ve known for months about three upcoming speeches at two national conventions, but I’ve waited until the last minute to complete my Power Point slides. I’ve known since last year about a book premiere party for a new anthology my company published, but I’m just now organizing promotional material for the event next month. And I’m organizing a writer’s retreat next month but need to register more people. Through all this cluster of items scribbled on wayward to-do lists, I’ve missed my grandkid’s activities and forgot to pay a few bills. And, I’ve had a nagging cough for weeks. I truly want to drive out of this fog.

In analyzing my current state of chaos, I realize the need to slow down and turn on the hazard lights. I don’t have the energy I took for granted in my thirties and forties, and there’s no reason to keep running the race when it was over years ago. I want to pull the emergency cord and get off the merry-go-round, but the music is so festive and the lights are so bright and I’m riding a gallant steed I call Lightening.

Actually, Lightening is an old, gray mare. She enjoyed her glory days at the carnival, but now her paint is chipped, one leg is cracked, and she’s not the favorite ride. She is quieter now as the platform continues to go round and round. In the distance, she notices the fog is settling. So she squints and keeps going.

The Suffragist Ghosts of Susan and Alice

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suffragette paradeI had decided not to vote in the presidential election. Even though I previously had performed my loyal and patriotic duty since 1972, this year was different. The charade and parade of fools running for president made me question the need to vote. How do I select the least horrible candidate?

I believed the voting process was important to our Republic, but it was naive to think every vote counted. One candidate already had attracted large numbers of Super Delegates, those voters who were free to endorse anyone they want for nomination regardless of the voting result. Also, special-interest groups carried enough weight to tip the scales for or against a candidate. And every election cycle brought allegations of fraud from both sides as ballots were cast multiple times, often by dead or fictitious people. What’s the use?

A recent event caused me to reconsider my boycott of the elections. One evening I was working at my desk and I heard a noise in the kitchen so went to investigate.  A woman sat at the table and stared at me. Too frightened to run, I stared back and mumbled, “Who are you?”

Susan B Anthony

“I’m Susan Anthony,” she said. “And I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Would that be Susan with a ‘B’ Anthony?” I asked.

“Yes. You should have known by the vintage dress and white collar. Do you like my hair up in a bun like this? I could never wear it down like you do.”

“It looks lovely. But how did you get in my kitchen. Aren’t you dead?”

“Yes, I died in 1906. That was 14 years before women got the right to vote in this country.”

I felt chagrined. I knew she was a pioneer suffragette who championed women’s rights in a time when women were uneducated, couldn’t own property, and had few individual rights. She proceeded to tell me about her arrest for voting in the 1872 presidential election. She wasn’t allowed to speak during her trial, and the jury of all men convicted her. The judge fined her $100, which she never paid.

“I was arrested for voting,” she said. “What makes you so special that you don’t vote?”

I stammered an excuse and finally admitted I had no excuse.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked, hoping to break the tension.

“Don’t you remember I was involved in the temperance movement? I was raised a strict Quaker, and I fought against the sale of alcohol. In those days, the husband controlled everything, the finances, the house, the children, and the wife. If he got drunk every night, the wife had no power to leave. She couldn’t get a divorce, and if they separated, the man usually got custody of the children and she was left destitute.”

“I can’t imagine how oppressive that must have been,” I said. “What prompted your vocal advocacy?”

“I was a teacher and I tried to speak at the New York State Teachers’ Association meeting in 1853, but the men said it wasn’t proper for a woman to speak in public. They debated 30 minutes and finally relinquished. Can you imagine?”

I thought about how relatively free women are today in comparison, even though there are cloisters of fanatical societies that continue to belittle females. The fact that I could own property, have an education, travel alone, vote, run for office, and make independent decisions was due to the advocacy of brave women from the past.

Another vision appeared and a woman sat down at the table. At this point, I didn’t care if Susan B. Anthony didn’t drink alcohol, I poured a glass of wine. After all, it was my kitchen and I was talking with two ghosts. I welcomed the woman and asked for her story.

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“I’m Alice Paul,” she said. “In 1917, a group of women in Virginia was arrested, beaten, and thrown in jail for protesting for the right to vote. I was in that group and spent five weeks in prison. I went on a hunger strike so they locked me in solitary confinement in a psychiatric ward and force-fed me raw eggs through a tube down my throat. But I never gave up.”

“I don’t know how to repay both of you for your sacrifices,” I said. “Life must have been so difficult.”

“We were only two of thousands who marched in the streets, attended Congressional meetings, wrote amendments, fought with our patriarchal families, and encouraged other women. We were ridiculed, tormented, beaten, and chained to iron bars in jail cells. But we never gave up,” said Paul. “Your rights today are the result of our fearless actions.”

I raised my glass and toasted them. They raised empty hands to wave goodbye, smiled faintly, and began to fade away.

“I promise to vote!” I called after them.

“We know,” they said in unison. “Or, we’ll be back.”

I decided that I would vote. Which candidate to choose remained unclear, but I would vote. Susan and Alice sacrificed too much for me to stay home in the kitchen.

 

(This essay won a writing award from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and Bloggers.)

Receiving Award from Pulitzer Prize Winning Writer Maureen Dowd

 

 

 

 

When Loneliness Isn’t Funny

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sad older woman

 

I’ve never met Leslie Delamater Anderson Aitken, but we’re friends on social media. We’re both in our sixties, we like to write, and we’ve been stand-up comediennes. However, her life didn’t turn out as she planned, and now she writes about dealing with loneliness. Her latest blog is a reminder for us to reach out to those who didn’t receive flowers and gifts on Valentine’s Day. Leslie, I’m sending you a virtual hug.

FADING AWAY
by Leslie Delamater Anderson Aitken

I was 23 and married for a year when we moved to our first house in 1976 in southern California. Across the street, an aging widow lived alone in a tiny home only 650 square feet that she and her husband had built in the early 1930s. Her name was Avie, she was in her late 70s, and she had lived alone for more than 40 years.

She was short in stature, partly because of a severe curve in her spine, probably due to osteoporosis. She had been quite the gardener in her day. There was a big blue spruce in the front yard, a rarity for the area, and also a Cedar of Lebanon in the back yard, a persimmon tree and a black walnut tree, along with many very old rose varieties. She even had some lilies of the valley and a couple of rare Jack-in-the-Pulpits.

I would wave at Avie when I saw her outside wearing her big sun hat and watering her yard while balancing with her cane. I said hello a few times, but never really spoke to her other than the occasional greeting. One night her house was broken into by a couple of young thugs who knocked her to the ground, put a love seat on top of her, and stole a can of pennies. They fled out the back door, leaving it open.

A neighbor heard her very faint whimpers, and he told me later he thought it was a cat under her house. He found her and called for an ambulance. Avie never returned to the little house that she built and shared with her husband and where she planted her gardens. She went to a nursing home and passed away the following year.

Through the years, I’ve thought a lot about Avie, and I felt guilty because back then I was young and too busy to reach out to her. I should have stopped to talk with her as she worked in her yard and I never considered the many days and nights that she spent alone, never wondered if she was lonely, never asked if she needed any help with anything.

Now my children have grown up and moved away, and I am divorced. I have only left my house twice in the last two weeks, and in that time I have only talked, in person, to two people who know me. In that same two weeks that I have only eaten two meals in the company of other humans. Those were when I was so lonely for human companionship that I went to eat at a restaurant, not so much for food, but just to be around other people and to hear other voices than my own talking to myself or my pets.

Have I inadvertently picked up the long forgotten baton of solitude left behind by Avie Abbot? How did this happen to ME? And is this how we start to just fade away into the oblivion of someone that people used to know? I’m reminded of a verse in a familiar song: “I am…I said to no one there. And no one heard at all, not even the chair.”

Many well intentioned people have suggested that I volunteer for various organizations and community activities. For many years I traveled that route, “busying” my life with hours of volunteering my time to parent-teacher associations, school functions, and Girl Scout meetings. I increased my services after my children moved away and after my divorce as I tried to fill my hours with “doing things.” I was running as fast as I could from the reality that there was no one home when I got there, and that there was no one coming home “later” either.

There is something weird about all the years I donated my time and energy. There are dozens of groups that welcome the willingness of others who give hundreds of hours of their time and gladly soak them like a dry sponge. But if you stop giving, no one reaches out, or even seems to notice. It is like you were there, and thought you were making a difference, and then just fade away, unnoticed. In all of the years of volunteering, fund raising, parking cars, selling programs, organizing bake sales, delivering cookies, planning events, catering teachers luncheons, I can honestly say that I never made one real friend. Oh, I have lots of acquaintances and people who know my name. But at the end of the day, very few who know my phone number or would think to reach out.

I am only 62, but the thought of a long future filled with vast amounts of companion-less days and weeks feels like cruel purgatory. I will no longer engage in self-serving, busy endeavors to make me feel less lonely. I guess I have lost my motivation, but am not quite ready to fade away. Dear Avie, I should had stopped to talk with you.

 

For the Girls Who Won’t be Homecoming Queen

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Early one morning I followed the blinking, grinding, lumbering school bus on its routine route to pick up students. Always the consummate people-watcher, I studied the colorful collection of gangly, boisterous pre-teens waiting at each stop. Then I saw her – the girl standing alone. She was me, fifty years ago.

Her disheveled brown hair was wild and frizzy, her clothes weren’t stylish, she wore big black eyeglasses, and she carried a saxophone case. I waved at her. She smiled faintly and climbed onto the bus behind the others. I wish I had jumped out of my car and hugged her, but that’s not appropriate in this age of Stranger Danger.

A week later, I happened to follow the same bus, and I saw her again. She was sitting on her saxophone case reading a book. I wanted to shout, “I know you!” But, I restrained myself, waved, and watched her board the bus. I’d like to write and tell her that all the things that consume this most awkward stage of life eventually don’t matter anymore.

Hair. I remember my classmate Mary Trounson with her silky black hair that was long enough to sit on, and Jeneal Jones who was allowed to tease her hair into the perfect bubble. My plain hair was wrinkly and brittle, and my parents wouldn’t allow me to rat it. They even cut my bangs into inch-long fringe when the trend was to have bangs that brushed the eyelashes. I hated my hair. Even now, I’ll get a sassy new do and concentrate to see how the hairdresser fixes it, but I never manage to duplicate the style. After many decades of trial and error, now I just blow it dry and hope it isn’t awful.

Clothes. Back in the 1960s, girls didn’t wear pants to school. My mother sewed many of my dresses, and my store-bought outfits consisted of basic jumpers and long-sleeved shirts. Our shoes were practical because many of us walked to school. There weren’t any drop-off lanes back then. As an adult working woman, I finally could afford fashionable clothes, and I proudly wore the best suits and dresses. Now, I’m semi-retired and work from home in my jeans and comfortable sweaters, and it takes a major event with a free buffet and wine bar to make me wear fancy clothes. I want the girl at the bus stop to know her lack of fashion sense doesn’t matter.

Glasses. I was 10 when I tried on Sally Maltz’ glasses and was amazed that the distant trees had leaves. I’ve worn glasses since then. Twenty years ago, my ophthalmologist tried PRK to correct my near-sighted vision, but it didn’t work. I tried contacts for several decades, but soon needed one to read and one to see distance. I settle now for my transition bi-focal eyeglasses with cute frames. It’s okay.

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Musical instruments. In school, only nerds lugged bulky cases for musical instruments, but I’m thankful I learned how to practice and play music. I have fond memories of blasting my saxophone in the Wendell High School Pep Band, and I continue to play my piano into my sixties. It’s great therapy.

Books. Students once teased me, “You’ve always got your nose in a book!” I still read books, and have written a few. Books are lifelong friends, and they never go out of style. The stories sparked my imagination and encouraged me to explore and travel. I enjoyed reading to my children, and now I read some of the same books to my grandkids. Reading a book while perched on a cold saxophone case can lead to grand adventures.

To the girl at the bus stop, I hope you gain some self-confidence through this complicated stage of your life. I envision you in the future as you speak with self-confidence, play wonderful music, write a few books, and laugh with friends and lovers. Someday you might drive behind a noisy school bus and see your younger self waiting alone. Wave to her, with profound vigor and sincere encouragement because you both dance to the beat of a different drummer.

 

Published on The Huffington Post Feb. 10, 2016.

Advice to Young Women: RUN

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running woman dreams

A young reporter requested an interview about what advice I would give to younger women. I assumed my wisdom was needed because I’m older and still dress myself and use the toilet unassisted. Picking my brain through the cobwebs required the gumption of a valiant explorer, so I agreed to the conversation and scheduled a meeting at my favorite coffee shop.

In the olden days of my early journalism career, I conducted interviews using a legal pad and pen. I always carried a dozen extra pens because they would consistently run out of ink the moment my subject started to cry about the pending book or government plot or non-fat recipe that would change the world. After the in-depth investigative reporting, I would hurry back to my jobs at the TV station or magazine office to type the story on a manual typewriter. I am a dinosaur.

The interviewer appeared to be only 12-years-old and cheerfully ordered a grande, iced, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla macchiato with soy milk. My hazelnut latte suddenly seemed boring and old-fashioned. She opened her laptop and said, “Let’s begin.” I sipped my coffee with feigned sophistication.

“What is the most important bit of advice you would give to a young woman today?” Her fingers arched, ready to pounce on the keyboard.

“Run,” I answered.

She stopped mid-peck, slightly irritated, and looked at me. “Could you elaborate?”

A certain smugness bounced through my aging brain. I had all day. She was on deadline.

I settled into my chair and assumed the mindset of a revered guru leading the fresh fledglings to the mountaintop. I imagined being the blind master giving instructions to David Carradine in the 1970s show “Kung Fu.”

“Ah, watch and learn, Grasshopper.”

Again her finger stopped and I received the look of confused pity. I decided to elaborate in a more conventional way. Here is the summary of my remarks.

Young women need to run. They should rush to take advantage of every opportunity, and if they can’t find what they want, they should create their own. Youth provides energy and risk-taking ability that diminish through the decades.

Young women should run away from negative influences. They can’t allow their amateur exuberance and desire to please everyone to cloud their common sense. There are awful people in the world who want to hurt them, steal their resources, and leave them wounded. It took me too long to discover that fact.

Young women should run together. Other female friends can share the load, join in life’s celebrations, and bring dessert after a calamity. Some young women will be fortunate to have comrades that last for several decades. I have a core group of college friends, and we have shared the important events of our lives: weddings, births of our children, births of our grandchildren, and the deaths of our parents. We’ll probably end up playing poker together at some senior citizen center.

running old woman

Young women should run alone. I can’t run anymore due to a knee injury and because I don’t want to run. But, in a symbolic way, running alone means a woman can survive using her own talents, resources, and determination. When times get tough, and they will, she must pick up a sword and slay the dragons on her own.

I finished my dissertation and coffee at the same time. The interviewer raced to add the last sentence and save her article. Suddenly she gasped with alarm. Her computer froze, and her work was lost. I handed her some paper and a pen.

“Shall we order more coffee?” I asked.

 

Featured on Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop  blog Jan. 31, 2016 and on The Huffington Post.

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