Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Ambrose Storytelling Endowment Premieres this Month at University of Idaho

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The Ambrose Storytelling Endowment at the University of Idaho was created by bestselling author Elaine Ambrose as a tribute to the memory of her brother, George Ambrose, and to support the tireless power of storytelling. George and Elaine grew up on a farm outside Wendell, Idaho, and were known to spin a clever yarn at any moment.

The endowment will support a student scholarship, faculty research award, and an annual on-campus storytelling workshop through the College of Letters, Arts and Social Sciences (CLASS). The first workshop is scheduled for March 21, 2018 at the University of Idaho. Benjamin James, assistant professor in the Department of English, will organize and lead the workshop. The program includes interactive discussions about story selection, word choice, finding the best voice, and elements of storytelling.  Elaine Ambrose will speak about “Telling Your Story.”

“From boisterous tales around rustic campfires to eloquent readings from leather-bound books of great literature, storytellers share enduring myths, legends, fairy tales, and adventures to amuse, educate, and motivate every culture on earth. It’s my honor to acknowledge my brother George and to support excellence in storytelling at the University,” said Ambrose.

Elaine Ambrose graduated from the U of I with Phi Beta Kappa scholastic honors with a degree in Journalism. She is the bestselling author of ten books, a syndicated blogger, and humorous speaker. She was the National President of the U of I Alumni Association and served on the Foundation Board of Directors.

George Ambrose also graduated from the University of Idaho after being a leader in the Interfraternity Council and serving as an ASUI Senator. Both George and Elaine sang with the Vandaleer Concert Choir, and Elaine traveled with the choir to Europe, and George traveled to South America with the Vandaleers. George continued to tell stories and jokes just hours before he died from cancer in May of 2017.

Leona Ambrose, mother of George and Elaine, funded the Ambrose Family Scholarship before she passed away. The endowment funds scholarships for students from the Magic Valley area in southern Idaho. In 1998, Elaine funded the Vandaleer Travel Endowment to help with the choir’s tour expenses. For more information about the scholarships and endowments, contact the      University of Idaho Foundation, 875 Perimeter Drive MS 3143, Moscow, Idaho 83844-3143 or email [email protected].

Singing Backup with the Angels

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In December of 1962, the village of Wendell, Idaho hummed and bustled with excitement during preparation for the holidays. We were farmers and the crops had been harvested, stored, or sold, so it was time to organize and rehearse the Christmas programs in the schools and churches.

Mary Holsinger, the doctor’s wife, volunteered every year to direct the children’s choir at the Presbyterian Church. I was ten years old and eagerly joined the Sunday School Choir. For the performance, we wore starched white bibs with big red bows.

I found my voice during rehearsal for “Angels We Have Heard on High.” As the chorus stretched out the word “Gloria,” I opened my mouth and produced a sound that shocked and impressed Mrs. Holsinger.

“You can sing!” she said, almost in disbelief that the disheveled class clown had any redeeming value. “Let’s sing this again.”

As if prompted by the harking of the herald angels, the children’s choir erupted in a harmonious rendition of the famous song written one hundred years earlier in 1862. I took the chorus to new heights of volume and passion as I hit the high notes and slid down the musical scale to reach “in excelsis Deo!” My love of the music equaled my adoration of the Christ Child, somewhere away in a manger.

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I continued singing in choirs throughout high school and college and was selected for the prestigious Vandaleer Concert Choir at the University of Idaho. We toured Europe in 1971 and I sobbed because of the glorious sounds as we harmonized while singing Handel’s “Messiah” in ornate cathedrals in France, Germany, Holland, and England. It was a long way from Wendell.

After college, I became the wedding singer. The best I ever performed was when I stood in the upper alcove in the St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church in Lewiston and sang “The Lord’s Prayer” and “Ave Maria” in Latin for the wedding mass of my sorority sister. I felt so filled with the spirit that I could have floated over the congregation and blessed everyone with everlasting gratitude, world peace, and abundant joy to the world. I wish I could recapture that feeling.

After years of singing at weddings, I was demoted to be the family funeral singer. The mood was different when standing in front of crying people while trying to do justice to “Amazing Grace.” I still cringe when I remember screeching off-key at Aunt Buff’s service. After that, I didn’t sing at any more funerals.

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Now, my singing is limited to when I take a shower or drive my car. I still can belt out feisty renditions of songs from Tina Turner or Carole King, but my audience is as limited as my range. I can’t hit the high notes anymore, and the low notes sound anemic. Of all the singing, my favorite songs always will be the lullabies I softly sang to my babies and to my grandchildren as they drifted off to sleep in heavenly peace.

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I humbly thank Mary Holsinger and the Virgin Mary for inspiring me to sing about angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold. Maybe someday I can be a backup singer on the tour bus to Heaven. Hallelujah.

Hometown Reality Show

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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.”

Don’t Bake a Mouse in a Cake

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My blossom on the youthful tree of life was not attractive. By age 11, I was a near-sighted, left-handed, gangly, goofy girl with wrinkly hair and absolutely no ability to conform. Outside of chores, the only activity for youth in the southern Idaho farming community of 1,000 people was a program called 4-H. The organization for youth was led by adult volunteers who promoted the four personal areas of focus: head, heart, hands, and health. Desperately hoping to help me focus and find some element of usefulness, my mother enrolled me in a 4-H cooking class with the admonition that I behave and not embarrass her. I failed on both assignments.

Twelve pre-teen girls enrolled in the 4-H club, and the leader had the meetings in her home. I usually sat on the floor so I wouldn’t disturb the meticulous décor. The couches were covered in bright floral chintz with coordinated fabric covering the matching side chairs. Festive garden-themed wallpaper featuring red velvet roses covered the walls, and pictures of pastoral scenes hung in gilded frames. A carved clock ticked softly on the polished marble mantel. I still had traces of manure on my shoes and didn’t belong in such a regal setting.

Each club member was required to do a cooking demonstration, and I practiced at home for weeks before it was my turn. I wasn’t thrilled about the assignment to make a lemon cake but I had promised my mother I would do it. I assembled my recipe, ingredients, and supplies and reluctantly stood in front of the group.

“Elaine, will now complete the demonstration for a delicious cake,” the leader said as she read from her manual to the group of wiggly girls. “Pay close attention to her technique and remember that we can all learn from this effective method as we increase our attentiveness and observe problem-solving procedures. Someday, you will have the privilege of cooking for your own family.”

I donned my hand-stitched apron and carefully positioned my pre-arranged supplies and ingredients on the kitchen counter.

“You must use a sturdy, large bowl for this batter,” I said, feeling wise and competent. “And a wooden spoon is necessary for proper mixing.”

I dumped the ingredients into the bowl and began to stir. The leader watched intently and made serious comments on my evaluation page. A few of my friends giggled with anticipation because they suspected I would deviate from proper protocol. I couldn’t disappoint them, so I added a new twist to my demonstration.

“Sometimes an added ingredient can be fun for the recipe,” I said. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out a dead mouse I had found earlier in the barn, and dropped it into the cake batter. I stirred solemnly and waited for the mayhem. Some of the girls shrieked, others covered their mouths in horror, and the rest looked at the leader for her reaction. I just kept on stirring, naively thinking I would be commended for introducing a brilliant way to spice up the dull meeting. I imagined receiving a trophy on stage at some worldwide 4-H conference.

I underestimated the leader’s rage. On the verge of tears, she grabbed the bowl and tossed it into the back yard, knocking over one of her prized begonia plants. I could see the tail of the little mouse sticking up from the batter. This wasn’t my finest hour. I realized I probably wasn’t ready to have the privilege of cooking for my own family and definitely hadn’t observed problem-solving procedures or improved the group’s head, heart, hands, or health.

The leader called my mother and demanded that she immediately get me, and I was ordered to stand outside and wait. A few minutes later, my beleaguered mother maneuvered the station wagon in front of the house and rushed to the door. She didn’t look at me, and she suddenly seemed older. As my mortified mother offered profuse apologies to the leader, I slipped into the back seat of the car and tried to be contrite. I heard the leader say that I was never allowed in her house again and that I was kicked out of the 4-H club. Forever.

I never did retrieve our nice, heavy mixing bowl. My mother was humiliated and refused to consider the humor in the situation. I still feel bad about the incident because it caused her shame within the community and irritated a good woman. The next day, I was sent to the potato field to pull sunflowers. I didn’t mind because I didn’t need to scrape off my shoes or sit quietly in a room with red velvet wallpaper. Sometimes, though, I still stifle a snicker.

 

The Dilemma of the Dead Waitress

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My mother once owned Farmhouse Restaurant, an unpretentious diner outside of Wendell, Idaho. Travelers came from across the country to enjoy platters of chicken-fried steak, real mashed potatoes, monstrous loaves of Basque bread, a salad bar heaped with local produce, and a tempting selection of fresh pies. The eatery was voted “Best Road Food in America” in a 1996 nationwide survey of truck stops. Major media carried the story and NBC news anchor Tom Brokaw vowed to stop by during an Idaho vacation. The media referred to Mom as “jolly.”

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I have a true story about the restaurant that only a few people know. One summer night, an hour before closing, one of the waitresses sat in a booth and died.

My teenage daughter, Mom, and I were eating a late dinner at the restaurant and noticed that our waitress hadn’t appeared for a while. She was a gentle widow in her late sixties and worked a few hours during the week to supplement her Social Security income. I got up to investigate and found her slumped in a back corner booth, her hands still surrounding a coffee cup. She was dead. This wasn’t a good scenario to have in a busy family restaurant.

I quietly alerted the restaurant manager to call the police and signaled for my daughter to join me. I explained the dilemma of the dead waitress and we began to clear the tables and inform customers we were closing early. We told the stragglers that it was a surprise promotion and their meals would be free. They left happy and never knew about the body in the corner booth.

We almost succeeded in clearing the restaurant when one of the other waitresses began to wail loudly. She had discovered her deceased friend and didn’t care that other patrons were gobbling their last bites of free pie. My mother escorted the sobbing woman into the kitchen while my daughter and I cajoled the diners and explained that one of the staff unexpectedly had left early. That was the truth.

The police arrived and everyone assumed they were coming for a late snack. Soon the restaurant was empty except for the officers, the coroner, the sad waitress, the manager, and us.

“Looks like a heart attack,” the coroner said as they gently lifted the body onto a gurney. “How about some of that fresh berry pie to go?”

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We boxed up pieces of pie for the officers and coroner and closed the restaurant. Then we sat and stared at the empty booth. The coffee cup remained on the table.

The coroner’s report indicated the waitress died from a sudden heart attack. For some dark humor, we agreed it was fortunate she wasn’t carrying a tray of food at the time. Everyone was fond of the waitress, and we paid our last respects at her memorial service. Back at the restaurant, we shared pie and coffee and told stories about our friend and about life in the restaurant business. Near closing time, someone left a generous tip next to a bouquet of fresh flowers.