Clean-Up on Aisle 7

by Courtney Pierce

For those of you who have read The Dushane Sisters Trilogy, you probably know my Mom nearly as well as I do. Yep, that’s her, fictional Ellen Dushane, along with all the stories about her that I wove into the prose. Mom has a wicked sense of humor, of which I took supreme advantage when I got her permission to kill her off in the first ten pages of The Executrix. In exchange for this tiny favor, I promised Mom that her spirit would loom large as the primary character across all three books: The Executrix, Indigo Lake, and Indigo Legacy. 

I kept my word. The three middle-age sisters have a field day memorializing their dead mother, with three very different views of their history.

Real Mom is 85 now, and even though she has a health wrap sheet as long your arm—heart surgery, cancer, diabetes, neuropathy, and a host of synthetic replacement veins—she keeps going like that cymbal-banging Duracell rabbit. When the time comes, she’ll be 100% recyclable, a poster child for the Green New Deal.

Mom’s a staunch New Englander, born and raised in Tuftenboro, New Hampshire. Yankees can hold a life-long grudge over insignificant things, like not returning Tupperware from decades ago. She still has a Down East accent where steps are “stayuhs” and driveways are “doh-yahds”. Pronouncing Rs is not part of her vernacular.

Looking back, my teen years were full of special moments with Mom. Every week we'd sink down into fuzzy orange beanbag chairs (gotta love early 70s decor) with a bowl of popcorn to watch an episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus. It was just a Mom and me thing. We'd laugh and laugh at the silly walks, silly voices, and silly situations, like slapfests and the impromptu Spanish Inquisition.

Oh . . . and here's a good one.

Imagine Mom’s delight when she discovered Liquid Paper! At the age of 64, she altered the

year on her tattered birth certificate to make herself 65, because she wanted senior discounts. At the age of 70, she clumped the fluid again to make herself 75 to get a free Thanksgiving turkey at the grocery store. When she brought home the bird, acting like she’d won the lottery, we informed her that the turkey was intended to be donated to a less fortunate family. The kicker was that she didn’t need to show her birth certificate at all. She felt guilty, so back to the store we went with her short-lived prize.

At the age of 78, she globbed on the correction fluid again to make herself 80. She thought it would seal the deal for getting a handicapped parking tag at the DMV. My sisters and I quibbled over which one of us would hold the precious access to a great parking space. You see, Mom was a 1950s housewife who never learned to drive. Little did we know that the laminated tag would equate to a life sentence as an unpaid Uber driver. My sisters and I ended up arguing over who would NOT hold the tag.

Which brings me to the next Mom ditty.

Mom is not a qualified operator of any form of machinery. However, the lone exception is the motorized scooter at the grocery store. That calamity cart is hers and, if it’s not available, she’ll send the clerk into the depths of the store to find one. Scooter cop. Mom assesses those using them as to whether they really need it or not. If she suspects it’s being used as a lazy wagon, then “Katie bah the door,” as she often says.

Photo: 7th St Medical Supply

Once Mom is behind the go-levers, she’s off and running at full-tilt-boogie. I’m helpless to keep up with her. She becomes a blurred image as she rounds the corner to the freezer section. She even leans into the turn with grace and style. I swear she tries to ditch me to instigate a chase. 

And when I hear a series of back-up beeps—some loud, some faint—they act like a GPS as she Pac-Mans around the store. I can drill down to her exact location when the beeps are followed by a store-wide announcement:

“Can we get a clean-up on aisle seven?” the overhead speaker booms.

On this particular clean-up occasion, I erupted into a full run to aisle seven before Mom could flee the scene in her getaway vehicle. An end-cap tower of Cap’n Crunch boxes had collapsed like scaffolding in Times Square.

“Oh, Lord. Mom, what did you do?” I said, out of breath. I offered her my best scoldy face.

“Why do they put this stuff right in the aisle?” she said and shook her head. “There’s not enough room to get by.”

“Operator error, I think.”

“Too bad I can’t eat this stuff," she says, sweeping her arm over the candy cereal carnage. "If it was Special K, I could reach right down and get as much as I want.” She ripped her grocery list in half and handed me the long-sided portion. “Here. You get these, and I’ll go after the rest." Off she whirred for toilet paper.

Mom logic. Inside, I smiled. Grocery shopping in a bumper car is an especially fun event for her. Unlike other independent retired people, she can’t go to a brick ‘n mortar store whenever she wants without an expensive taxi (or a free daughter).  

The internet is Mom’s true lifeline. I sometimes introduce her as Addie Cart, an in-jest nickname about her addiction to pressing the “Add to Cart” button on Amazon. Her Prime account gets quite a workout. Every day she awaits the arrival of another box—cat food,  crackers, face cream, toothpicks, protein drinks, you name it. If she makes a bad choice or orders the wrong quantity, one lucky sister receives it as a gift. 

"I hit an extra zero, so I got ten instead of one," she says.

"Just what I always wanted . . . Miralax."

"Don't laugh. It's good stuff." She winks at me. "You'll thank me one day."

My stomach cramps at the thought of actually swallowing the chalky mixture.

My Real Mom

As eccentric as my Mom is, she is forever entertaining. And I love her to death and beyond. I can't go wrong when she stores my original book manuscripts in her cedar chest, a place where her most treasured mementos are kept. She's convinced those early drafts will be valuable one day. Who knows? I hope she's right, but I remind her that becoming famous is not why I write.

The thought of losing Mom is sometimes more than I can bear. That’s why I wrote The Dushane Sisters Trilogy. To get ready. A practice session, so to speak, to protect myself from emotional devastation. I use the safety of humor as my armor.

And here she is . . . the late, great fictional Ellen Dushane. But today I celebrate my very-much-alive Mom, Helen.

Photo: Micah Brooks

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Kalispell, Montana with her husband, stepdaughter, and their brainiac cat, Princeton. Courtney writes for the baby boomer audience. She spent 28 years as an executive in the entertainment industry and used her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. She studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, Courtney is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and She Writes. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal.

Print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com.

Check out all of Courtney's books: 

courtney-pierce.com and windtreepress.com 

New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."

Coming in 2020!

When Aubrey Cenderon moves to Montana after the death of her father, the peace and quiet of Big Sky Country becomes complicated with a knock on the door from the sheriff. An injured grizzly bear is on the loose and must be eliminated before it kills again. The sheriff's insistence that she buy a gun for protection will present Aubrey with some serious soul-searching, because the grizzly-on-the-run is hunting for her too . . . for a different reason.

Holy Mother's Day, Batman!

By Courtney Pierce

This year marked fifty-eight years of Mother’s Days for me. Fifty-seven of them have been celebrated for my mother, a central figure of my latest trilogy: The Executrix, Indigo Lake, and the final soon-to-be released installment, Indigo Legacy. Of course I don’t use her real name―and thankfully she is still with us―although she did give me permission to kill her off in the first ten pages. Mom laughed about it, knowing her spirit would hijack all three books. She looms over her three daughters as the unseen main character, guiding and controlling their every move through DNA. .

My mother. The woman who guided my life makes me want to give back to her ten-fold. I’ve always been a giver kind of gal, not one who receives easily. Mom loves a lily plant at Easter, gifts for no reason, and heartfelt cards on holidays . . . like Mother’s Day. Her garden releases a stream of trivia and wisdom as we pick vegetables. Mom still calls me at 5:05 a.m. on my birthday, the exact time I was born.

There is one thing, though, I’ve never presented to her: Mom always wanted a granddaughter. Instead, I gave her my independence.

But this year, May 14th held something new, a first in my life. The day heralded my very own Mother’s Day. Even before the June wedding, I have an eleven-year-old stepdaughter. How can I even put into prose what it feels like for this budding girl to crawl into bed with me, set her head on my chest, and wrap her arms around me. My throat tightens. I swallow hard in an attempt to keep my voice even as we talk about nothing. All those words I said to my own mother boomerang back to me ―like I know only now how much they were understood.

When I delivered my soon-to-be stepdaughter to school with a boatload of birthday cupcakes for her class, her friends hovered around me like an exotic animal on display at the zoo. Curious. Lots of warm smiles. Wonderment filled their eyes at what it would be like to have a new mother. (Apparently, I’d been the real-life subject of dinner talk in homes not my own. The fiancé.) Can I tell you I felt more like Mary Poppins? What would they have done if I’d pulled a coat rack from purse?

My first Mother's Day present

Being introduced as “this is my new Stepmom” makes me whip my head around to see who she’s talking about. Then the wake of her words echoes in my head and taps me on the shoulder to say, “Yeah, you, dummy. She means you.” The realization fills me with trepidation for the enormous responsibility. So fragile is the psyche of a young girl, but she needs to know she’s not the boss. Discipline is necessary to turn a girl into a lady. The difference between being happy or alone for the rest of her life will be to think outside herself―beyond Music.lys, Instagram, and Selfies on her phone.

My husband-to-be has placed his trust in me to be an associate moral guide, to help him teach his daughter manners and refinement, parental respect, and to eat healthy. I will be his partner-in-love, with principled fiber to germinate her future independence. That’s a big deal. I don’t make light of what lies ahead. But as I always do with serious subjects, I dig to find the humor. Pre-pubescence shouts my new daughter's eminent transformation like a guttural war cry in Braveheart. Her bedroom floor is littered with sports bras that hold only padding. My missing lipstick is magically found in the back seat of the car, post-raid of my bathroom. And my favorite cotton top is marked by an empty hanger. Who could have predicted I’d be buying zit cream after decades of being zit-free.

The man of my dreams is thrilled to not have to deal with the embarrassing questions, ones that only seasoned, battle-worn women know the answers to. The relief in his expression is priceless when the bathroom door closes behind me.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” I say and stick out my tongue.

A faint chuckle decorates the air in the kitchen, punctuated by the pop of a cork. “Take your time,” he says. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

Mother’s Day, 2017. The next day, May 15^th, was my birthday. When the phone rang at 5:05 a.m., my Mom and I had a very different conversation.

Photo: Loma Smith

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her new family. She writes for baby boomers. By day, Courtney is an executive in the entertainment industry and uses her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor and mystery. She has studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, she is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and She Writes. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal. 

Check out all of Courtney's books at:

courtney-pierce.com and windtreepress.com. Both print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com

 

The Dushane Sisters are back in Indigo Lake. More laughs, more tears...and more trouble. Protecting Mom's reputation might get the sisters killed―or give one of them the story she's been dying to live.

New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."

Colorful characters come alive in Courtney's trilogy about the Dushane sisters. Beginning with The Executrix, three middle-age sisters find a manuscript for a murder mystery in their mother's safe after her death. Mom’s book gives them a whole new view of their mother and their future. Is it fiction . . . or truth? 

Get out the popcorn as the Dushane Sisters Trilogy comes to a scrumptious conclusion with Indigo Legacy. Due out in summer, 2017.

Shout Out for Charity

June 2015

by Courtney Pierce

As a baby boomer, I’ve maintained my idealistic view of the world and the belief that one person can initiate change for the good. It must be my combination of dogged determination and Peter Pan Syndrome. I blink, wide-eyed like a child, when we humans make bonehead moves that benefit the few and devastate the many. That makes no sense! What are we thinking?

Beneath the humorous and emotional prose in every one of my books lurks a theme of charity. Serious adult problems are met with an adolescent response and humor. My characters charge ahead, creating no end of trouble for themselves to reach a goal that benefits someone else. In my first trilogy series, Stitches, Brushes, and Riffs, a boomer couple unravels the question “What would you do today if you had the chance to be immortal at the end of natural life?” My characters make that decision over three books and – no spoilers – become inspired to make their mark on the world with a touch of magic. They accomplish their mission through what they love: art, music, and animals.

David Castillo Dominici

In my current series, The Executrix, three middle-age sisters stumble into their charitable aspirations after their mother dies. Each sister makes a mess of their benevolent path in their own way, but when they come together they’re unstoppable at honoring their mother’s memory, transforming an unruly poodle into a service dog, and helping an elderly mobster reconcile his life by writing his memoir. The fun continues in the sequel Indigo Lake, which if I can stop laughing will be out by the end of the year.

None of us wants to fade away. We want to leave something behind to say “I was here.” Through the gift of story, my goal is to make readers laugh, cry, and to whip up endorphins that inspire. Charity starts with empathy, whether for a character, a cause, or a connection to something bigger than ourselves. Then it must become tangible. For some, a donation of money or a trip to Goodwill completes the circle. For others, charity can be as simple as holding the door open for a stranger or taking a second trip around the block to search for a neighbor’s missing tabby cat.

I wrote a short story last year called The Nest for the Windree Press Christrmas anthology A Gift of Christmas, which was based on my husband’s and my deep love of animals. The inspiration for the story came from a true incident of our finding a baby owl temporarily blinded from hitting a window. While I fictionalized the tale with magical realism and characters from my Stitches series, the real process of nursing the bird back to health was magical truth. After leaving a healthy donation to the kind vets who helped us, we walked on air for weeks. The bird was finally released back into the wild with our hearts lifting its wings.

Small gestures can generate big returns.

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Oregon with her husband of thirty-six years and bossy cat. She enjoys writing for baby boomers. Her novels are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. Courtney has studied craft and storytelling with best-selling author Jennifer Lauck at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. She is also a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association.

In Courtney's latest novel, The Executrix, three middle-aged sisters come together after the death of their mother, and the manuscript they find in her safe will test the thickness of sibling blood. While Mom’s prose makes her larger in death than in life, it is the elderly neighbor and his unruly standard poodle who inspire the story that will change the sisters' future. 

Visit Courtney's website at www.courtney-pierce.com. Her books can be purchased at Windtree Press, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo Books, and at several independent bookstores in the Portland area.