E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 44

A mouse death that turned them vegan

#1 Mice are disgusting.  I probably think this because I've seen so many dead after moving to the hills of Idaho.  But seriously, yuck!

DISCOVERY
At approximately 8:36 A.M. on Monday morning, right after I'd made the perfect cup of coffee, I went to step (my foot hung mid-air) when something felt off.  They say after someone has died, sometimes the ghost lingers due to "unfinished business."  Well, maybe that's what happened because something told me not to put my foot down.  That's when I looked to see a skinned mouse sprawled, with an intestine hanging out!

THE CRIME
My black cat, Cole, looked at me from the corner of the room as I screamed.  He licked his paw and then grinned! The kids "got Cole for Christmas;" too bad the name made him a serial killer!

MOTIVE
Motives for crimes usually involve thrill-seeking, financial gain, need for attention, fits of anger or passion.

After Doctor Jones saw the crime scene...and pulled this face....


We began discussing a possible motive.

"Passion?  Was it a crime of passion?" I asked her.  "Cole.  The mouse.  They were in love.  But last night...Cole caught little mousy with another.  That's when it happened."  I moved my arms to set the scene.  "Cole got angry!  Cole got passionate.  Heck, maybe even Cole got hungry."

"Mom!  It WAS NOT a crime of passion.  Cole is. A. Cat. He wouldn't fall in love with a mouse that has no skin."

"What about a need for attention?"

My son, the Zombie Elf, walked into the room at that point.  He's only 11, but he's taller than all the girls now and wears a size 11.5 shoe!  "He didn't kill the mouse for attention," he said.

"Wait.  Why not?"

"Cole doesn't want attention.  I walked past him the other day and he just jumped out and scratched me.  What are other possible motives?" he asked.

"Well, we've crossed off passion, anger and the need for attention.  There are two left: thrill-seeking, and financial gain."

Our bonus kid--who we've practically adopted along with his dog, Stark--against their will, said it actually it could have been for financial purposes.

"Really? Do tell?" I said.

"It's skinned, right?  Cole sold the pelt on the black market."

"No," Doctor Jones said.  "Cole needed a midnight snack. He saw the mouse.  Bam! Mouse death!  End of story.  You're welcome."  

DISPOSAL
Well, I didn't make the mistake I made last time--mainly because I don't want Mike to kill me. 

So, last time...there was a mouse stuck to sticky paper that's meant for spiders!  I called Mike crying and he told me "to freakin' get over it." Which made me cry even harder because the damn thing had wiggled so hard it ripped off its tail. 

"Pick it up with your hands," he said.  "And throw it away."

"I'm not suicidal!" I shuddered. 

Then he told me to hit it with a hammer, but I don't listen to people who yell at me!  Who I DO listen to...is Google.

I sat there as the mouse wiggled next to me.  Dr. Google said the most humane way to kill a mouse is "to freeze it to death."  So, I grabbed a shovel with a VERY long handle and put the mouse into a bag--which took foooooorever.  Then I found five more bags to contain the mouse's grossness.  But after I put the mouse in the freezer, I kept opening the door over and over because it didn't die for eternity!  And then after it stopped moving, I thought I should make sure it froze solid just so it wouldn't "Pet Sematary" me.  But the damn situation backfired.  I wanted Mike to be proud that I took care of the situation, but when he got home and opened the freezer because he was "feeling like meatloaf," he screamed like a little girl. "What...in the hantavirus...is in our freezer?!"  Let it be known that this was one of THE WORST fights we've ever had.  Even more reason to hate mice.

Anyway, I didn't want a repeat of THAT memory.  So I called the dog, Stark, upstairs on Monday morning when I thought no one was looking.  He ate the mouse remains--just in time for my kids to see.  Long story short, two of my daughters want to be vegans.... 

CASE CLOSED
I hate mice.  They cause fights and make me cry.  I'm telling you; I don't know how we live through this.  I just hope we'll look back and laugh one of these days. Until then, I'll be making vegan burgers and lots of salad. Heaven help me.

She gave me something to last a lifetime...the gift of music

As I think of all the women who have been mother figures in my life, I am truly astounded by what they have taught me.

My grandma gave me all of her recipes. When I was on my own, she even traveled hours just to spend a weekend teaching me how to cook everything she loved.

Dee Ready has taught me about writing and language. I love that I can call her and ask advice on ANYTHING and she has the perfect answer and knows exactly how to help me.

Maureen, my mother-in-law, is the most accepting woman in the world—so kind and honest. She’s hard-working and loves with her whole heart. I can absolutely see how she got that from her own mother, Alice, who has also been a wonderful example in my life.

Sue, Kristine, Fran, Denise...and so many others have positively impacted my life.

But right now, I’m thinking of my own mother; she is truly exceptional and growing up with her was an adventure. I still remember being quite little, probably a toddler, going with her to practice music. She’s an Italian drummer who used to play in bars until she met God. In fact, she won Miss Carbon County and her talent was wailing on the drums. Those other pansy women probably twirled batons, danced and sang--not my mom!  She even got to meet The Monkees after she claimed her title--and everyone knows that Davy Jones was worth meeting. But that was long before I was born. God and me, well, we must've turned her good because she started playing in church bands, wowing the crowds and God too. I remember falling asleep, using her purse as a pillow, not too far away from her bass drum.  And I have to laugh now, maybe all the wildness left her when I was born and all of it went into me!  Now I'm the one who plays in bars!

Ruby Donathan (now Stilson) around the time she won Miss Carbon County
And somehow, those beats got into my soul. I would dream drum rhythms and music. And at the age of three I knew my instrument would be the fiddle; in fact, I begged my parents for one. I grew up playing, jamming with my mom. She’d teach lessons and sometimes I’d be far in the other room just plucking my fiddle, playing melodies along with the crazy rhythms she taught her students. She'd also practice hard solos like the one from In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.
I loved my mom so much that I studied the songs she did too--and I memorized the solos beat for beat in my own head because even though I played the fiddle and not the drums, somehow I wanted to be just like her.  And I really did find ways to play along.

Later, when I grew up, we went to retreats together where we played music. It was unreal getting to spend all that time with my mom—having sleepovers in the fancy hotel room, playing music and somehow knowing where one another would go without any cues or saying a word. Starting on the beat, stopping simultaneously, totally in sync because she’s my mom, and so much of me comes straight from her.

And now that I’m older, she’s even jammed with the country band (Rough Stock) that I am part of. I can’t explain what it was like the last time. We’d been hired to play for a county fair. My mom stepped up to play "Wipeout" (the Beach Boys' version). She’s gorgeous, like some sort of Jane Fonda who's 70 years old, but looks much younger.  And when she beat those drums into submission, hundreds of spectators cheered.  People stood, kids clapped, wives had to slap husbands and tell them to "stop checking out the drummer."  And the whole time I kept thinking, "That's my mom!  That one! She's mine.  THAT babe on the drums is MY mom."

So, for all the memories, and all the good times...now, I know why my mom and I ended up being so close as I got older.  I sure love you!  Thanks for everything.

My mom is the coolest!


From 9 years ago
I had to jam to Iron Butterfly on Mother's Day.  My mom is in a different state and I can't even fly out to see her because of quarantine.  But here's my jam session anyway.  I hope we can jam in person soon.


 Thank you to Mike and our kids for helping with this.  Y'all are the best :)

How to cope with the loss of a loved one

 Click HERE to read more about Zeke's story

It’s present day and I’m shocked to walk into my front room and see a baby hooked to life support. The machines whir and thump with such force I wonder how the ventilator doesn't hurt the baby. The infant looks just like Zeke, my son who died in 2003, and suddenly it's hard for me to breathe...too. I’m about to step closer when the doorbell rings.

“Yes?” I say to the striking young woman at the door. I’m still craning my neck to get a closer look at the baby.

“You’re a professional writer,” she says, it’s not a question. “You write obituaries.”

“Well, yes. I do.”

She walks in and begins telling me about someone. I’m frantically taking notes thinking this woman is a muted cymbal, capable of so much more if she’d let herself “resound.” After all, no one should let pressure steal their purpose.

Then she hands me the picture that should accompany the obit and I’m stunned.

“But...this is you! Do you have an identical twin or something?”

“No,” she says. “And write the date of death as next Saturday. Don’t forget the ‘y’ in my name. Susan S-M-Y-T-H.”

I want to help this woman because I’ve lost people down the road she's traveling.  And the whole time, the baby's ventilator is getting louder and louder and I can hardly concentrate!

“Once there was a woman who wanted to be a water nymph.” I practically stumble over the words--trying to think of something, anything.
“She thought about leaving her other life, and assured herself everyone would be better off without her. So, she prayed to the gods, begging them to turn her into a nymph and let her live in the Haratha Pond. After all, it was always warm when she went to that bank, full of beauty and life."

I pause, glad she seems engaged in the story. "So, the gods granted her wish, but the woman changed and became stuck in the pond. Without the brightness of her human spirit to warm the place, the weather turned cold and the pond froze over with ice so thick she could not escape. Trapped, she perceived faint shadows and heard distant voices of those she loved searching for her above the ice. This went on for years, but she couldn't reach them or call out to them. And so it was that she realized her transformation had been much worse on everyone than she had ever expected. And unable to speak to—or see—those she loved, the beautiful nymph spent her days in an all encompassing loneliness unlike any she had known before.”

Susan hugged me as if resolved and stood to the rhythm of the life support at the edge of the room. “I think we should call and get you some help.”

The machine tha-whumped in the corner again. “Excuse me for just a moment,” I say. And when I go to see whose baby rests there, I’m dumbfounded; it’s actually Zeke!

“You can hold him now,” Susan steps forward.

“What? You’re a nurse or something?”

“Yes. You can hold him now.”

But her words are slippery with motive and I worry over the honey in her tone.

“Okay....”

After she disconnects the tubing, I’m holding my baby in the front room, and I’m not even asking why he’s back after 17 years.

“It’s you! It’s really you!” I nuzzle him...his fuzzy hair, his soft baby-smelling skin.

But then something goes terribly wrong and he’s puffing up like a distended balloon about to pop. His silent cries are so big I worry the sides of his mouth will split like the Joker. And my baby is gasping for the kind of air I can’t give because I don’t know how to hook up the damn machine!!!

I’m screaming then, begging anyone—the nurses, God, my family—anyone to fix my baby. But the damn nurse is gone and I don’t have the stamina or skills to fix my kid. And soon the crying stops, and he turns into this stiff doll in my arms. I’m bawling because he won’t wake up and no matter how hard I try to warm him, he’s cold....freezing inside and trapped in that lifeless, broken body. And now he and I are the muted cymbals, never wanting to make music again as I hold him for days.

A funeral director shows up later with a hawk nose and beady eyes. “We have to put him in a bag now and then place him in this box.”

“No! He’s my baby.”

“We'll get pictures first! Don't worry.  Don't you want to remember this!"

But I don't want to remember anything, especially the death in my arms.  I just want my baby back... breathing and recognizable..not this swollen doll that reminds me of his last painful moments on earth.

"You’ve held onto him long enough. Now let go! He’s gone.”

So I nod, but I’m crying so hard there’s snot running onto my chin and tears have made my cheeks sticky.

“What happened,” hawk-nose asks.

“He’s died in front of me all over again, sir. He’s died again.  I had a second chance and he died again."

The man puts Zeke in a clear bag and sets him in the box before closing the lid. After he leaves, I rush to the box, throw open the lid—and gasp. It’s not Zeke anymore....

Susan’s in the box--she has sightless open eyes and unfeeling hands. I kneel down and cry—these body shaking sounds that could crack mountains. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save her either. Damn it! Damn it!!!!! Why does life have to be so hard.  I'm never good enough damn it!”

I wake up then, sweating and crying. “Mike! Mike! Do I feel warm? I’m having feverish dreams. Maybe I’m sick?”

“You’re fine, Elisa. But you’re shaking. Sweetheart!” He completely woke up at two in the morning.

I tell him everything then, about the suicidal woman, the ice, and Zeke’s reappearance in my dreams.

“It was just a dream,” he says. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re all right.”

“But only part of it was a dream.” I sob. “ I watched Zeke die again. I watched it.... He couldn’t breathe again. And I couldn’t do anything to make him better. I thought God would heal him at the last minute. But God must have needed him more than I did ‘cause He took my little boy.”

Mike held me as I cried and cried. I’d never give up the memories of Zeke from 2002 to 2003 because they also contain him.... But it’s not always easy to remember.  I read a book once about people electing to get a single memory removed.  At least I know what mine wouldn't be--despite the pain.  Those memories also have my angel baby in them.

“Life can be so terribly hard. We’ll always be together?” I asked Mike. “The thought of losing you, the kids or our closest family, well, it's too much.”

“We’ll always be together, Elisa. Of course we will be.”

And so I decided to bring the kids out to do something fun today. I don’t care if we go on the world’s longest hike, fishing, playing in the trees or even skateboarding.... I just want to treasure every minute because life is short and the best things we can do are trust God, treasure the people we love and make sure they know how much we care about them.

I'm still quivering inside from that dream.  I hope today will get better.



Click HERE for more information about THE GOLDEN SKY, which details Zeke's story.

100-year-old gives advice that could carry people through hard times

I only had one wish for my birthday this year in February and that was to meet Ford Call.
The thing is that we’re both groundhogs (as he said), both born on February 2nd. The main difference is that this year he turned 100 and I became a whopping 37.

Ford just died....and as such, I wanted to share the article I wrote about him before the Coronavirus, before the stores ran out of bread and toilet paper, and before Idaho lost a legend.

_________  Article from February, 2020
It’s astounding that Ford is turning 100 this year, on a palindrome!  That means you can read it the same forward and backward – 02022020.  “Racecar,” “repaper,” and “madam,” are all examples of palindromes. This is the only time in history that our birthday will do this with the day, month and year–and it’s the coolest thing ever that’s he’s turning 100 on this phenomenon!

Anyway, after waiting weeks and weeks for this interview, I finally got to meet the famous Ford Call on Thursday, and the conversation we had will stay with me forever. We talked about his memories and what made life special for him: how he married twice in his life, had five kids and three step daughters, how he farmed, went on a mission and even served in the military…, how he loved and lost, and I realized quickly that he’s leading a life that positively impacts others.

Ford grew up in Bingham County,  and even lived through the Great Depression. “We were all in the same boat,” he said. “We had plenty to eat, but I knew farm commodities were pretty low. I worked with my two older sisters in the beet fields, thinning, hoeing and topping beets.”

Ford also talked about working the land without any equipment and just the skills they’d been given from their father. Later, Ford served an LDS mission and after coming back and getting married, he was drafted into the military.

His first son, Michael Call, was born while Ford was serving our country in the Philippines and then Japan. Ford didn’t meet Michael until the boy was two years old. “Were you excited?” I asked, so eager to hear the rest of his story.

“I sure was!” Ford grinned, this smile that is completely contagious.

After that, Ford turned to farming, like his father before him.  “If I could give people advice, I’d tell them to be what they want to be.” When Ford was a little boy he wanted to be a pilot, but when he grew up, his father offered him a great deal on the farm. That’s when Ford knew he wanted to take over the family business. “My dad was a good man. He let it be my decision.”  After time passed, Ford ran 180 acres in Wapello, had a dairy (milking 120 head of cattle), and also farmed 640 acres 15 miles west of Blackfoot on Hoff Road.

When Ford had been married 30 years, his beautiful wife (who had been Miss Blackfoot years before), passed away after a battle with cancer. Their youngest son, Mark Call, was only 12 years old at the time.

Ford became a widower at an early age. His two oldest children, Michael and Claudia had already moved out of the house, but he had his three youngest children (Kathleen, Christy Lynn and Mark) living at home.

Ford stayed extremely busy after his wife, Elna, died.  He’d loved her so much and it was terribly devastating when she passed. He worked hard, even joined the school board in Firth. One night, Bill Messick, a fellow member of the school board said he had something important to talk with Ford about. It ended up that he wanted Ford to meet a woman who lived in Layton, Utah. Carol Hughs Holland had also lost a spouse.

They first met the day after Thanksgiving and when Ford talked about it, his eyes sort of sparkled.  “I was very impressed when she walked into the room.”

The couple was married a little while later coincidentally on February 2nd, Ford’s birthday. When asked if he had a favorite birthday from the past 99, Ford talked about marrying Carol. The two were married for 44 years, until she died on September 1st just over a year ago.

“I loved them both equally,” Ford said of Elna and Carol, explaining that they were both exceptional people.  During his first marriage, he said they worked hard to raise a family and provide for their children.  Their daughter Kathleen had gotten scarlet fever and chicken pox simultaneously and consequently lost her hearing. This spurred Elna to pursue a career in education, learn everything she could to help Kathleen and eventually attain her master’s degree.

During his second marriage, Ford said he and Carol spent a lot of time together. Her three wonderful daughters (Michelle, Elena and Shawna) were already grown up when Ford married their mother, and Ford said so much of their time, especially in later years, was spent just with the two of them.

Ford has one heck of a story, but I  guess what stuck out to me is the feeling he can give a person. He makes people feel valuable...worth something, like he doesn’t judge someone from the cover.
Michael, his oldest son confirmed this by saying, “He’s always been kind.  He never says anything unkind about anybody and he has a mind like a trap.”

Mark Call, his youngest son said, “He’s always been even-keeled, mild-mannered and kind to a ‘T.’ He’s more forgiving than I think I’d be, too. And he has a strong work ethic.”

As we talked and swapped stories, Ford shared some of his favorite poems.  (In fact, his family says he has one such wisdom to offer for almost any occasion.) For his 100th birthday, and this time in his life, Ford quoted Boyd Packer, “The old crow is getting slow.  The young crow is not. Of what the young crow does not know, the old crow knows a lot.  At knowing things the old crow, is still the young crow’s master.  What does the slow old crow not know?  —How to go faster.  The young crow flies above, below.  And rings around the slow, old crow.  What does the fast, young crow not know? ….Where. To. go.”

I’ve met a few people who were born on Groundhog’s Day and I’ve been impressed with each one for different reasons (Norma Furniss was one such Blackfoot legend).  Ford Call was no exception, and I left knowing our conversation is one I’ll always keep with me.

I guess what I’ll always remember about my 37th birthday was meeting someone who I’d like to be an awful lot like.  He told me that life, “Well, it’s the sum total of experiences that define who we are.”  Talking with him was the best present I could get. It wasn’t just because I met one of the neatest people ever, but because I know he can see value in people, and that made me somehow see a bit of value in myself….

I like my new 100-year-old friend and now I know why I was so excited for our birthday.
The sum total of Ford Call’s experiences equal a life-changing man who blesses the lives of all he meets; I only hope that I can say the same, someday.

Happy birthday, Ford.  YOU are one of the good ones.
-Elisa
_________

Looking back, I'm grateful that I got to meet Ford for our twin birthday.  He truly inspired me. 

A cat murderer

“I’m not gonna be late, Mom,” she practically sang. “Not today. Not ever again. I don’t want to get kicked out of school.” And like a Disney princess, she flitted around and made our entire family smile.
    The thing is that the kid has good grades, she just has something genetic called “lateness”- where late is actually on time.
    This all happened before I got the phone call….
    After I arrived at work, Ruby called, frantic.  “Oh my gosh! It’s dying! It’s dead! It’s dead!”
    “What?  Where are you?”  I thought I could hear tires on pavement. “Are you driving?”
    “Yes, Mom! It’s dead.  Ohhh.” Her words vibrated.  “Wait - it’s,” her voice dropped low, “having a seizure.” Then she screamed like someone had stolen her boyfriend. “It peed on me. And now...it’s dead again!”
    “What in the world is going on.  Pull over!”


    Ruby said she pulled over, and then through sobs, she told me. “I hit,” she cried, “a cat. And I didn’t know what to do, so I picked it up, put it on my lap and started driving to school again because I can’t be late anymore!  And then it died. It died.  I’m a mur-der-er.”  I could barely decipher her words through the crying.
    “Wait!  You’re late to school. You can’t get expelled.  Hurry, Ruby!”
    “Waaaaaaaaa!” she wailed, the cry only a seventeen-year-old girl can produce.
    “Fine. I’ll call the school and see what I can do,” I said.  But when I called, they wouldn’t believe me!
    “Listen, we’ve heard a lot of excuses from your daughter,” the secretary said in a monotone.  She should work at a mortuary, seriously. 
    So I called Ruby back.  “Okay…you have to bring the dead cat…into the school.”
    “Oh - heck no!”
    “Yes, Ruby!  Do you want to get expelled? They won’t believe me. They sure as heck won’t believe you.  But who will they believe? It’s the freakin’ cat that just died on you!”
    “Mom!  There are kids there.  Kids my age. I can’t just walk into the school with a dead cat.” 
    She had a point. After all, “Pet Sematary” just came out. So, in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the best plan. But it was the only plan we had.
    “Well, it’s your only chance.  Sometimes you have to fight for what you want.”  It was a dumb thing I’d heard off some 80s sports film.
    “This…is the worst week ever.  First I got called into the principal’s office, then I became a murderer, and now I have to walk - through my high school - with the same cat that I murdered.”
    I couldn’t help it and at this point I broke out laughing.
    “Mom, a soul was LOST today!  Lost. I’m holding its dead body. In. My. Arms. And this is funny to you.  Who are you, Mom? Who!”
    She hung up and I could almost imagine her sauntering into that school, maybe colored smoke would billow around her as action music blared like she was saving Private Ryan! 
    Anyway, I got a call about 25 minutes later. “I walked right into the principal’s office and the first thing she said was, ‘Is that a dead cat?’ So, I told her, yeah, it was. Then she started going on about how she believed me now and could trust my story. But she said she needed one thing from me; she needed me to stop being hysterical.  And she also doesn’t like dead things in her office.  And even though the cat died and it peed on me and this is the worst day ever, I’m not getting expelled.”
    “That’s great, Ruby.”
     “Yeah.”
     Something else dawned on me.  “But…where’s the cat?”
    “Oh, it’s in my car.”
    “What the - nasty.”
    “I have to do the right thing, Mom. I have to bring it back to its family after school!”  She bawled and bawled again. “Okay,” she sniffled, “everyone is looking at me weird.  People already saw me walking with a dead cat. They don’t need to see me crying in class, too!”
    “Ruby. You’re in class right now?”
    “I’ve gotta go,” she finally whispered as if she hadn’t been keening moments before.
    I hung up the phone and thought that I don’t know how anyone lives through raising teenagers.
    Later that day animal control called and said they had removed the animal from her vehicle.  They also told her they'd discovered it was a stray and had no family.
    "How...exactly did they confirm that?"
    "They have their ways.  I'm just glad it was a stray."
    "Wouldn't that make it worse. The poor cat had no one to love it."
    "That means no one will miss it!"
    Those geniuses at animal control...they sure know what to say.
    But seriously, raising teenagers IS NOT for the faint of heart.  Buckle up, buttercup--its gonna be a long ride.


-from the fall of 2019

Unemployment and the stages of grief

Yesterday I lost my job. It was a corporate take over which rarely turns out well for management.
Anyway, after I got home, I immediately went through the 5 stages of grief.


DENIAL
    "This is just a thing," I told Mike.  "Blip!"
    "Yeah. They'll probably call you tomorrow and say they want you to come back...because they decided you're necessary."

ANGER
    "What the heck!  You know they aren't going to call.  Why are you suddenly joining me in my denial?!  That's not what I need.  I don't need that. I don't need this!  Who wants to run a newspaper anyway?!  Not me. Not my children...  Not even my granchildren's grandchildren!"  Then I glared at my husband like he was the one who laid me off!!!

BARGAINING
    "There has to be something you can do," he said.
    "You're right! I'll put on my best business dress and tell them I can do anything! They want toilets washed--that's perfect! They want coffee--I'm their girl."
    "Yeah, 'cause that's not extreme.  Elisa, you're not the janitor."
    "Yeah, but maybe I can be.  Let's do this!!! I'll become humble AND a surviver.  God is gonna love this plan!"
    "Ummm.  Yeah, about that plan..."

DEPRESSION
    Mike looked at me and held out his arms.
"Ahhhhhhhhh..." I wailed like I'd just lost my uterus and all of my normal hormones.  "Not to be dramatic, but I'm going to die...."

WINE
    And after crying so much I'll be dehydrated for a year, I wiped my eyes and did the first thing I could think of.  I drank two HUGE glasses of wine.  So it's not quite acceptance, but it's the next best thing.

Anyone looking for a writer who's now on the market.  Anyone...?  Anyone?  Damn it!  Back to my wine *smiling through tears*
 -A very dramatic (for today at least) Elisa  *Can someone please give me my uterus back!!!

The importance of standing up

Long before my current job.... I should’ve known something was strange the day he offered me the job. He told me he really liked my haircut, and then afterward – as I was walking away – said he thought I was a beautiful woman. I told one of my friends immediately after, stating that his words made me hesitate, wondering if I really should take the job. 
“Oh, Elisa!” She laughed and told me everyone thought he was gay. “You have nothing to worry about.  And who would hit on someone during an interview? He was just being nice.” 
So, I thought about things and took the job despite my resolve. Things were okay at first, even more professional than I’d hoped. I would share ideas and soon I wasn’t just sharing them for my team, I was placed in front of departments and even talking to the “highly important” CEO.
Soon after that, my boss asked to start having weekly meetings with me.  At first he left the door open, but soon, he began closing the door so the air felt stale and I’d get fidgety and nervous despite how calm and collected I could be talking to entire departments – AND their leaders.  The meetings were…uncomfortable for me. One time I told him this, and he said they weren’t uncomfortable for him.  “So, what’s the problem?” 
Maybe the whole thing was just in my head?
Then, the final meeting – the one that left me reeling – is something hard to explain. The man sat, wearing an oversized suit and sporting hair plastered to his head.  Then, he used a single word, something so disgusting I can barely say it aloud. I suddenly felt worthless, like my beautiful dress was really hundreds of years old, moth-worn and falling apart.  I felt my pride ripped from me and suddenly I was every bit the scared little girl I had been during a terrible moment years and years ago…. And his words and the ravenous look in his eyes made me want to cry.
My professional demeanor and good work-ethic hadn’t helped me gain his respect and the realization stung my eyes because nothing I could do – nothing – would make him appreciate me for the reasons he should have.
I didn’t talk with anybody about it for a couple of days. But when I got home that night, I shut my bedroom door and cried and cried on my bed. It wasn’t that I’m a prude, not really. It was just that I felt so disrespected that someone thought they could talk to me like that. The next day I ended up visiting with one of my friends who works in a human resource profession. I’m not sure why, but when we went to lunch I just broke down. She became irate when I relayed what had happened.
“It’s not right,  Elisa,” she said. “What he said was really bad.”
“But I can’t tell anyone. That would make me some type of social leper at work. None of the other guys there will want to talk to me. They’ll be scared they might say something that will offend me. And the women, I just know this would affect how everybody would treat me.” And feeling completely claustrophobic, I realized how truly terrible situations like this can be.
Somehow the conversation shifted and we began talking about my oldest daughter and her job. Suddenly the woman said, “What if your daughter’s boss treated her like that?” 
Days later, after thinking about the conversation with my friend, I went and told the HR director. “I know this will affect my job… But it’s just not right.” And I’m embarrassed to say it, but I sobbed even though I’d told myself not to.  It was terrifying to say something, knowing I might get someone in trouble and negatively impact their life despite what he had done to me. 
The HR director always spoke in a monotone and every word sounded laced with judgement.  He grabbed a notebook, asked me the same questions over and over, in and out, backward and forward…. 
Finally, at the end, he said he had to do an investigation. 
Those two weeks were excruciating.  All of my special projects and big presentations were taken from me during that time. Although my boss tried acting normal it was even more uncomfortable being around him than it had been before.  I wanted another job, but it takes longer than a few days to find a good place, and plus it was really depressing thinking I might need to leave because of something this man said.
Anyway, a couple of weeks later, the HR director called me back in and said my boss had admitted to everything. As a countermeasure, to ensure this would never happen again, they had given him a personality test.
“Oh? A personality test?” I asked, confused. 
“We’ve disciplined him, but now we want you to learn to understand him more. So you can work around this.”
“Work around his behavior?” I whispered, shocked. 
After that, the HR director said there were things I could change about myself, too.  For example, he said, “Sometimes you wear form-fitting outfits.  They do meet dress-code requirements, but they aren’t helping the situation.”  
“So, this is my issue…because I’ve worn form-fitting clothes?”
“Oh, no!” he said.  “That’s not it at all, but I do think that response shows something else I wanted to talk with you about.  I do think you’re being a bit emotional about the whole situation.  Try to take your emotions out of it.”
I wanted to ask then if it was my pure emotion that caused my boss to take away my projects right after I’d reported him. Was it my “emotion” that had made that man see me in a terribly skewed light…one where my sole value was placed in an act that’s reserved for my husband?  I felt unsafe and this HR director was supposed to be the person to confide in?
Although many of my friends said I should have stayed and fought…I’ve never been one for lawsuits and so, I quit the job.  What’s odd is that within a week I was offered two amazing jobs – and that after a month of working somewhere else, I received a call from the VP of HR for the entire company I had worked for before.
“After a recent audit, I read your file.  What happened?” she prodded.
I didn’t tell her everything because it was in the past and I didn’t want to go there again.  But I did tell her about the personality test that I was supposed to gain insight from.
Within the following months, neither of those men worked for that company anymore.  Come to find out…I hadn’t been the only one.
And although some pretty terrible rumors circulated about me after that – amongst the people who stayed – I was glad the whole ordeal had ended.
I thought about all of this today because a man in Bingham County told me he doesn’t think women really get sexually harassed at work but it’s just a claim some people make for attention. “The Me Too Movement was a very scary thing for men,” he said. “Now, women think they can claim anything.    I bet one-percent of the harassment claims are real.”
I told him this story, and whether or not he believed me, I don’t know, but I sure wish that people would wake up!  It was so much harder to say something because of the fallout, the fact that I had to quit a good-paying job, the rumors, the judgement (mainly from women)….  It’s so much easier to try pushing the bad behavior aside; why is that so insanely hard for people to understand?  Saying something took strength, ignoring it would have just slowly taken my dignity.
I guess I wanted to write this to say that sexual harassment does happen. I inevitably stood up because I don’t want my kids to ever get treated that way and if people don’t say something, the bad behavior will continue…for generations.  As someone once told me “you promote what you permit.”
Maybe I should have fought and stayed, but for me it was much better to simply leave and find a healthy environment; after all, that’s what anyone deserves.
If you find yourself in a bad situation (whether at work or your personal life), stand up for yourself. Sometimes it’s hard to be brave – trust me – but everything will fall into place…things WILL get better. 

“Each relationship nurtures a strength or weakness within you.” -Mike Murdock

What do your current relationships nurture within you?

Fight in the Grocery Store: Part 2

So, my hair is naturally strawberry blonde.  I’ve thought many times how lucky I am that it wasn’t all red because I can be feisty enough as it is!

This story is about my strangest trip to the grocery store, but it starts in an unexpected place: Over five years ago, I dated a man who I thought was wonderful, amazing...the best person ever.  He was a cowboy who broke horses for a living and would go herd cattle through the treacherous mountains.  He was a great boyfriend until I discovered a catch; he was married.  Embarrassing as it is, it took me an entire month to break up with the guy.  I just refused to believe he’d lied to me…and his wife…and well, everyone except his brothers.

After that, I obtained a superpower; I could spot a married man a mile away.  My friends were impressed by how accurate I became.  They even did some investigating and confirmed that I’d been right.

“I just don’t know how you do it,” my friend, Kara, said.

“Well, for starters there’s this weird confidence about them.  The don’t mind getting turned down because they’ll ‘get some’ whether it’s from you or their wife.”

She paled.  “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

Later that day, I shopped at the grocery store, and stood looking at various flavors of Doritos when a gorgeous man came up to me.

“You like Doritos?  I like Doritos!” Fabio said to me.  “What are the odds?”

I just stared at him.  The man had a tan line where his wedding ring should have been!  “99-percent of Americans like Doritos!  That doesn’t make me your flippin’ soulmate.” I said, then grabbed the closest bag to me, and marched to the front of the store.

As I stood waiting to check out, the man found me in line.  “Hey, I have somethin’ to say to you.”
“Yes?” I glared at him with all the hatred I could muster.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to approach a girl – who you think is beautiful – and try to strike up a conversation?  I’ve been going through a terrible time and I finally got the guts to say ‘hello’ to someone because my counselor has been encouraging me to.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just raised a brow.  Did “Fabio” – with those deep eyes and that perfect skin – expect me to believe HE had trouble approaching women?  “Well, better luck next time,” I said and turned away. 

“Elisa,” Kara said later,  “you should feel terrible.  That poor man probably just got divorced or something.”

“And what if he did?  It’s a rough world out here.  I’m just easing him into it.  And I call b.s. on his story.  A man who looks like that...if he’s single, there’s something wrong with this world.”

“You call that ‘easing’ someone into it?  Maybe his wife died, or cheated on him with their even better looking butler.”

“Lay off the romance novels for two seconds!” I laughed.

So, even though this was years ago, part of me still feels terrible.  I do wonder if “Fabio” was suffering some tragic loss.  But there’s another part of me that still thinks he was married! 
So, despite how weird things currently are at the grocery stores in Idaho, with the silence and (some places with) plastic barriers, the partially barren shelves, and that half the people are wearing masks; it’s still not as weird as when I almost made a grown man cry over some Doritos.

The only people I like hitting on me are old men because at least they’re entertaining!  If they tried to pick someone up (over a bag of chips), they’d have something much better to say than “you like Doritos!”

Fight in the Grocery Store: Part 1

Standing in the grocery store yesterday, I watched, a bit mystified.  Most of the shelves are stocked now with some essential items people need – even Top Ramen.  Too bad the coffee grinder at the store is shut down because apparently if you’re going to get “corona” from ANYTHING, it’s the public coffee grinder.  It is odd how quiet the store is though.  Half of the people inside wore masks – and everyone stayed far away from each other – so somber it’s reminiscent of a library!  I used to work at a library in my teen years, but I’m so hyper and happy that it was a strange combination.  In high school I’d dyed my hair the colors of the rainbow and the head librarian said I had a personality to match.  She just wanted me to stop making the patrons laugh so much...because the library is supposed to be quieter than death...or something.

Anyway, being solemn is NOT a gift God gave me. So, yesterday, I stood half an aisle away from an old man and I raised my voice to ask, “How are you doin’?” 
“Ornery as ever,” he said, and pulled his mask down so I could see his momentary smile.  “Don’t you run that paper in Blackfoot?”

I nodded.  “Why yes, I do.”

“I get it,” he said.  “Figure as long as I don’t see myself in the obituaries, I’m doing all right.”
“I hear ya there.  I heard someone say six feet apart is better than six feet under.”

He laughed pretty hard.  “You take care!  Hopefully I can come visit that office of yours sometime when this whole thing blows over.”

“I’d love that!” I grinned.

Then he put his mask back on, and hobbled away.

The cashiers now have thick plastic barriers around them like they work for a bank that might get robbed.  It cracked me up because there’s one young cashier who’s freaked out about germs on a good day.  You should see her after the virus.  She has this head scarf thing and all you can see are her eyes.  I really hope she’ll be okay, not just in regard to corona, but mentally; I can’t imagine how scared she must be.  “That head thing really brings out your eyes,” I said to her, meaning it.

“I’ve missed you!” She laughed.  “You always have something different to say.”

“It’s so quiet though,” I whispered, turning to look at the grumpy people who stood in line behind me...almost a football field away.

“Is this one of your strangest trips to the grocery store?” she asked.


“Well, no....but it’s up there.”

That’s when I thought of something hilarious; it’s not a moment I’m proud of, but it’s my strangest trip to the store.

To be continued tomorrow....

Sincerity and Wax

Sincerity is something often lost....

A few years ago, I sat next to my stunning coworker.  Everyone noticed Sara's beauty, and various men would visit her quite often throughout the days. Sara and I talked for a moment about life and process improvement.  Throughout the conversation her shallow responses continued to surprise me until, June walked into the room.  Now, June wasn't someone people called “attractive,” even if God did her her an extra dose of kindness. Sara, ascertaining the "plainness," immediately looked at the woman and said, “That shirt looks fabulous on you!”

June glowed and thanked Sara. I was proud of Sara's kindness, but after June left, Sara snidely turned to me and said, “Didn’t she look terrible. I hate that shirt!”

Sincerity, derived from the Latin, breaks into: sine (meaning without) and cera (meaning wax). It comes from a tradition of broken statues being repaired with wax, so perfections could be hidden and painted. To be without wax is to be real, to be original. People see what they get.

While having lunch with my family this Sunday, we talked about the Latin root of sincerity. My husband immediately said, “It’s not as beautiful as the statue analogy, but it makes me think of apples in the store. I once bought the reddest apple I could find, but when I bit into it, the inside had completely bruised. The only thing that made it look so wonderful, was the wax.”
My son also piped in. “Don’t they fix imperfections with gold in Japan? Broken bowls end up having gold streaks?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said because I’ve heard stories about such practices.

“Wax could be when we try to fix ourselves, but gold is when God does.”

One of my oldest daughters smiled. “The statues that are worth the very most now aren’t the kind fixed with wax. They’re the kind with broken arms and missing pieces. People want to see what’s real, and what time did.”

I thought about the whole thing and called my writing mentor later that night. “I’ve heard this so much, but imperfections do make some things perfect. I’d much rather be sincere, than like that woman–full of flattery and fake compliments.”

She told stories of how some of the most influential people in her life have been the most sincere. “It’s because you can trust them,” she said.

I’ve thought about how I’ve written memoirs about my life, memoirs that have been like ripping open my chest, just to see what makes me tick. Some of the compliments and criticisms have either empowered me to continue sharing so I can heal along with others. The criticism has both helped and hurt. But each bit of feedback is something I can use as wax to fill holes I have from the things I’ve been through.

Not only has the study of sincerity–and the honesty of those around me–taught me about motives, it’s also encouraged me to set the wax and paint aside.

I might be more battered than people realize, but I’m still standing and that makes me worth far more than a cheap fix or something any amount of “repairs” can do.

Having interviewed many people for stories over the years, I just wanted to encourage others to set the wax aside. We’re amazing for our battle scars and all.

I’m proud of who I am. Because when people see my flaws maybe they’ll realize their scars make them more precious, too.