basque

(originally appeared in The Patterson Irrigator)

Oh, my goodness, it’s been so long since I’ve written here. I’m terribly sorry about that. I hope you didn’t think something awful happened to me. Like I accidentally drove my wheelchair into a cosmic black hole that sent me back in time where I was eaten by a giant sloth. Or something even less realistic— that I couldn’t write because I was too busy working long hours for Trump’s reelection campaign.

Anyway, I’d like to state, now, that neither of these things happened. I’ve been busy with something else: I wrote a book! It all began when I heard about a writing contest held by the University of Nevada’s Basque Studies Program.

At the time, I didn’t know what I should write about, so I put it out of my mind. But then, a few months later, while sitting on the toilet taking a poop, I suddenly had an epiphany. (I’m convinced that all my best thinking happens while I’m staring at the bathroom wall.) So, I dropped everything (including writing for the Irrigator) to work on this project. I used every free moment to write. For months, I didn’t even watch Netflix (gasp!). Of course, I did take time to poop because I had to keep the ideas flowing somehow.

After I was done writing, I entered my 67,000-word manuscript into the contest. A few months later, I got an email. I had won! And they wanted to publish it into an actual book! A real book with paragraphs and honest-to-goodness CHAPTERS. Like Leo Tolstoy, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf and all those serious authors that we pretend to have read, only we totally haven’t.

This isn’t to say that my book resembles those classics. It doesn’t. At all. You see, it’s a murder mystery. The kind of whodunit you read on a rainy day that makes you suddenly wonder if your uncle’s old neighbor that collected copies of the San Francisco Chronicle in his garage might have been the Zodiac Killer.

The publication process has been long. But my novel, Murder at the Boardinghouse, is now finally available. It’s a thrill to have it in-print. When I hold the book in my hand, I feel a zing happiness— like it’s a cuddly kitten, a pumpkin spice latte or a coupon for a free sandwich.

I’ve always dreamed of being an author, but stringing that many words together, in a row, seemed too daunting— and, frankly, annoying. But now that I’ve done it, it makes me realize that maybe I didn’t have the right incentive. Or maybe I just needed to spend more time pooping.

Nonetheless, I’m thrilled to share my novel with the community I love— and that has supported me and my writing for all these years.

So, I will be having a book signing event on Saturday, October 14th between 11:30am and 2pm at Blues Café right here in Patterson. There will be prizes, yummy drinks, and we’ll be collecting donations for two of my favorite local groups— Friends of the Patterson Library and the Patterson Township Historical Society. And, of course, I’ll have books available to buy— and I’ll sign any copy you bring to the event that you’ve purchased elsewhere (like Amazon).

If you want to purchase a copy locally, you can do so on my website or by stopping by the Patterson Family Pharmacy. They have a great gift shop where you can start your holiday shopping, too! I hope to see some of you on October 14th at Blues Café. I’d love to connect! In the meantime, happy fall—and happy reading. website: elizabetteunplugged.com

Everyone has that one cool older cousin— the one that just makes you think, “Wow, she’s so rad! I want to grow to be just as cool as she is!” The kind of girl that listens to alternative rock or smooth jazz and wears giant clunky Doc Marten boots heavier than a WWII German Panzer tank.

But, this chick wasn’t so cool that she scoffed at the letters her little cousin wrote to her on bright pink Hello Kitty stationary. No, she wrote back diligently, even though, at the time, the little 12-year-old me was about as cultured and interesting as a really bad episode of Full House (The original one… with the damn Olsen Twins!)

But, it didn’t seem to matter to her. She loved me just the same.

That was my Christine.

Given the age difference between us (8 years), as I grew, so did our relationship. I stopped being the annoying little cousin that talked about Legos and glitter pens. I became a grown-up person that talked about grown-up things. Like why the hell did she think that a kalimotxo was preferable to a 7/7? And even before the ATV wreck that messed up her hand, why on Earth did her handwriting still have to be so awful?

We’d talk current events, books, and how to roast the perfect leg of lamb. We’d strategize ways to castrate our least-favorite politicians while gleefully eating our Aitas’ homemade tripota.

When my mom was diagnosed with the brain cancer, glioblastoma multiforme, she was there each step of the way until the end— hugging, and squeezing me, with a remarkable amount of restraint so that she wouldn’t crush my cripply ribs. If you knew Christine, you knew it was nearly impossible for her to hug with anything less than Superhuman strength. But, for me, she managed.

That was my Christine.

As we were both only children, we shared an extra-special bond. We understood the joys, and sometimes burdens, of such a thing, while relishing in the stories of our Aitas— which we told with great vigor and our very best Basque accents. We commiserated together when our parents wouldn’t let us dye our hair purple, but secretly rejoiced when Christine and her badass-self went out and got her lauburu tattoo.

On that September afternoon, 12-years-ago, when she called me to tell me that the pathology report had come back from her surgery, her voice was strong and steady, like a soldier ready for battle. “It’s malignant. Stage 4.” My heart stopped and then began to pound in a beat that nearly drowned out the sound of her next words… “It’s glioblastoma multiforme.“

I knew in that moment what her eventual fate would be. But, I waited to cry until we got off the phone. And I cried. And I cried. And I said a prayer, “Please let her live long enough to see her little boy become a young man. Let her fight it off until then.” And, the fucking lioness that she was, so she did.

Her loss is great, but the life she lived was even greater. She loved fully and deeply— and that gift lives on in all of us. I know there will come a day, very soon, when I’ll reach for my phone to tell her something, but she won’t be there. And my heart will break just a little, once more. But, I’ll hear her voice in my head, “Don’t be sad, caca. It’s going to be okay.“

That was my Christine.

elizabette… unplugged

Local author to sign books

My Christine