The Ugly One

My friend Judy said, “Its pajama weather and we need to put pajamas on Jake (the dog) again but Sam says, ‘Don’t tell Betty anything, she will write about it.’”

“Oh don’t worry about Sam; he loves reading about himself in the newspaper. He just acts touchy,” I assured her about her husband.

My daughter, Allison, called and said, “I feel terrible, I called Daisy the ugly one and she might not make it.”

I said, “I know, I called Daisy ugly too. Your sister, Angel, reprimanded me about saying anything in front of Daisy about her long ears; and warned me about writing anything about her in the newspaper.”

I told your sister, “Oh you love when I write about Daisy. Don’t be so touchy.”

So here I go again. No one wants me to write about them, but they all love to read about themselves in the newspaper. Go figure. I’m writing nice things about Daisy this week. I guess I need to watch what I say, seems everyone is touchy these days.

This week proved to be a lesson for all of us. Our daughter, Angel, owns Daisy. Angel is affectionate about animals. I don’t hold the same affection, as you have all guessed. So when some one says they spent $2,000.00 at the animal vet, I ask, “Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

Something happened to Daisy. She started bleeding from her mouth. My daughter called our son-in-law and said, “Will you come over and look at my dog?”

He did and said, “We need to call a vet.” Which they did, they hauled poor Daisy off to the vet and after a blood transfusion, oxygen, x-rays and several days at the veterinary’s office, Daisy still had a fifty-fifty chance. You can imagine the doctor’s bill.

I thought I was being nice and sympathetic and gave Angel my advice as she was leaving for work, “Prepare to let her go. There are lots of dogs at the Humane Shelter.”

Apparently I said the wrong thing. My sympathetic words brought more tears. Now everyone at her work was rallying around her. “Take my shift, go see your dog, I understand.” They advised her, “Give her a chance. You’ve already spent X amount of money. She is worth it.”

My son-in-law, the voice of reason said, “Decide how much you can spend. You can’t be emotional about it.”

I thought that was sound advice. In my mind, I am thinking, it’s going to take years for her to pay off the doctor. But I guess some things are worth paying for if someone is willing to pay for it.

What did we all learn? My daughter, Allison and I have learned not to call someone else’s dog ugly. Some times we pay later for what we say earlier.

Some people are willing to pay a long time for something important to them. Some of us are willing to write what is important to us and pay for it later.

As for Daisy, let’s just say she is literally worth her weight in gold. Sam’s dog, Jake, will continue to wear pajamas even if he doesn’t want anyone to know about them. And when I hear a story to write, logic doesn’t come into play, either. I am willing to deal with touchy people and pay later. Sam’s not talking to me, but Judy loves talking about Jake. You win a few and lose a few.

Final Brushstroke! We will all pay for what we think is important and we will usually pay later for it.

It Isn't Greener on the Other Side

Money makes it look greener on the other side until you are on the other side. Al and I were in Placitas on a Sunday morning; looking out at a view of Albuquerque. I marveled at Al’s brother’s home with the indoor swimming pool and the outside infinity pool.

David, Al’s brother, wanted to talk. In a million dollar, 5,000 square foot home he lives alone, he is a great conversationalist and when the fanfare is cleared, he speaks from his heart. He has been a millionaire at least four times and lost it all. Or he has given it to his x-wives. Each time he has always assured everyone he would make it back again and he always has.

In the 80’s, our family sat in Pagosa looking at a snowy picture on television; and watched David run out to the Double Eagle Hot Air Balloon. He had a bottle of wine in his hand and greeted his best friend, Ben Abrusio when he landed his transatlantic flight in Japan. His best friend, Ben, died not too many years later in a plane crash. It was devastating to David. He has seen the up’s and down’s, the in and out’s of life.

We were spending a couple of days with David in Albuquerque and in the middle of this Sunday morning conversation the phone rang. Then it rang again and again and again. Each time he answered and a different woman was on the other end of the line.

“I was thinking of you too,” He said to each one of them.

He hung up and said, “These women are all bored.”

The phone rang again. He answered.

“Oh that was Caroline. She was wondering why she hadn’t heard from me for the last two weeks. I told her it was over.”

You probably remember Caroline, a knockout, twenty-two years old, size 2, Double D’s with twin babies. Apparently, at a wine tasting party, she got out of hand, embarrassed David and he called it off. Now she is calling wondering why she hadn’t heard from him.

David says to us as he hung up the phone. “She’s trouble.”

The phone rang again. It was a divorced woman. David explained to us as he hung up the phone, “She gets eleven thousand dollars a month in alimony. That’s what I said, eleven thousand a month and she is bored.”

David continued, “I know her x-husband and he is a good guy. She said she was bored with him and now she is bored because she is single. She spends and spends and can not spend it fast enough before the next month.”

I told him, “Tell her to invest in herself. Go back to school, help little children, start a small business, do something productive. She needs to know the Lord. God’s got a purpose for her life.”

“They don’t want to hear that, they can’t handle it,” he says.

“It doesn’t sound like she is handling it the way it is.”

Then another woman called, “She is married, but bored,” David said, “I told her to think twice before she gets a divorce. It’s no fun being alone. She thinks she is in love with me and thinks I am going to marry her. I’m not.”

“Are you leading these women on?” I asked him.

“No, I tell all of them I have no intentions of marrying them. They all want to get married. They had good husbands, but they were bored and now they are single and bored.”

“When these women turn forty, they start looking around wanting more. Their husbands are good guys but are complacent and they don’t see what their wives are looking for. They need to get it together, too.”

Then David said, “This life is a dead end. It’s empty but I’m not going to change. I’m lonely and I am not made to be alone. I am glad you and Al have stayed together all these years.”

I said to David, “It wasn’t always easy, and several times we both wanted to throw in the towel, but we stayed together. We cared enough to keep fighting for the marriage. By God’s grace, He kept us together. I have never been bored. I can’t understand that line of thinking.”

In the walls of this million dollar home, with all the posh furniture and beautiful furnishings, it sure looks greener from the out side. But David is the first to admit, it isn’t.

Final Brushstroke! Money makes it look greener. There is sadness in my heart for David and all his young girlfriends. I tease him all the time and he takes it and laughs with me. Aren’t we all trying to get it together? But, does anyone want to hear the truth?

Keep smiling, just keep your mouth closed.

Al and I flew to California for a big gala event in which Cal Thomas was invited to speak. Cal Thomas is a columnist and author, syndicated in over 550 newspapers and is heard on over 300 radio stations. Our daughter heads up this event and the front row seats are reserved for us. It is important we look our best and make our daughter proud.

Just one day before the event, we were having dinner and I looked at Al. He was missing his front tooth. I asked him, “Where is your tooth?”

“I don’t know.” He looked around.

“Al, you ate your tooth.”

“I guess I did.”

“What are you going to do? You can’t smile.”

My daughter, Cricket said, “Why does it always happen to Daddy? The best we do, we always look like the Beverly Hillbillies with the rocking chair on top.”

“I know,” I said, thinking how fitting her statement was; considering how we arrived in California a few days earlier. Al had taken advantaged of the airline’s offer: suitcases fly free. This meant no restrictions on Al and all he could carry, unless he wanted to pay for the extra.

Not only that, Al and our son-in-law hit a few garage sales earlier in the week. I told them both, “If it doesn’t fit, don’t get.” Did they hear me? No. They came home with a whole car load of stuff.

“The man said he was getting rid of it and I could have it for free.”

“But Al, we can only carry a certain amount on the plane.”

“I got this brand new large suitcase for $2.00; I’ll put all the stuff in it.”

“Why did you bring home all those screws? You have a 55 gallon bucket of screws at home?”

“I got them with the plastic cases. They were free.”

“But the weight?”

“They don’t weigh that much and I am going to put them in our garage sale next spring.”

“You are taking home garage sale stuff to put in a garage sale next year?”

“I couldn’t pass it up.”

Back to the tooth! I looked around. I didn’t bring everything I owned. I left my paints in Pagosa, now I needed them. “I will fix it up. Al, give me your partial plate.”

“I’ll just go without my teeth. I can’t go with that big gap.”

“Al, it will look worse without your teeth.”

“Yes, Daddy, you can’t go without your teeth. Maybe I can take it to a dentist tomorrow.”

“We don’t have time, the dinner is tomorrow night. Hand me your teeth, Honey.”

Al cleaned his partial plate and handed it to me. “What about White Out?” I asked.

“Better still, I’ve got white French nail polish; I paint the tips of my fingernails.” Cricket said.

“No, no, no. that won’t look good.” Al resisted.

“Trust me. Get me the French nail polish.” I had Al’s partial plate in my hand; I wasn’t going to give his teeth back until I had them fixed. “It’s got a pearl finish. It will be perfect.”

I went to work. “If I had a little Plaster Paris, Bondo or a little wood filler, I could make you a tooth and I could Superglue it to your partial plate.”

I looked at Al. He was devastated. “Just kidding, I am just going to paint a little tooth on your partial plate; no one will be the wiser.”

“Betty, that’s $10,000.00 worth of dental work you have in your hand. Don’t play with it.”

“No problem, Honey. I’m an artist; I know what I am doing. You will just need to smile with your mouth shut. I’ll have you fixed up in a minute.”

“OK, let me look at them,” I said as I handed them back to Al. “Good as new and it was free.”

The day of the gala event, Al visited the neighbor. The neighbor was pulling out wild blackberry bushes and gave a bunch to Al to take back to Pagosa.

Al was smiling all the way home. “Look what I got. The man was getting rid of them. I need to put some water in them.”

Ten minutes later, Al walked in the door, with an inch gash on his head.”

“Al you are bleeding. Let me fix it.”

Al looked at the big white bandage and said, “That looks terrible.”

“If I had my paints, I could paint a flower on it or camouflage it some way. You’ll just have to go this way.”

I looked over at Al at the banquet. He gave me a big smile and a wink, showing his fake tooth and the white bandage riding on his head.

I looked at him, shook my head and thought, “God loves you. I love you too. I wouldn’t have missed that wink and smile in this moment for anything.”

Final Brushstroke! Free is not always the best way to go, but sometimes it is our only way if we don’t want to miss the moment. Good thing an artist is in the house.

Cashing in on frustration and Hitting Pay Dirt!

At a writer’s conference, we were asked to read something we wrote. I read the article about my frustration with my sweet Al. You might have remembered it, Traveling with Sweet Al and checking into a posh hotel in Reno, Nevada. Everyone laughed and laughed.

An editor in the group said, “Send me one of your humorous articles for my publication.” A broker for writers asked me to join his team of writers also. “Your humorous articles will work for a marriage counseling magazine.”

Who would have thought I could write for a marriage counseling magazine? Make money writing about Al? About couples who fight? And get paid for it? I was about to hit Pay Dirt with a 300 word humorous piece.

I arrived home, kissed Al at the door. He thought I was excited to see him and I should go away more often.

I looked him over in his camouflage. He told me about his hunting that morning. He shot and missed a ten-point buck. His good shooting eye wasn’t so good any more.

I listened to his tale of woe. Even camouflaged, Al couldn’t hide from me. Like a ravenous dog, I was drooling and licking my chops; Al was looking like pork chops to a starving writer.

I moved to the computer. He didn’t know how rich he could make me. I’d tell him later. I was counting my money in my mind, but my fingers froze to the computer.

Al looked at me with loving eyes. I felt a little guilty, but I went for it anyway. I wrote a 300 word humorous piece and hit send to both publications. They might be carrying stories about Sweet Al soon.

I know there is a bone of contention buried somewhere around here, I need a shovel. I’m digging until I hit Pay Dirt. I might be asking advice from a marriage counselor soon, but for now, I am going for it.

The Final Brushstroke! Digging up trouble can make for a great story, but not necessarily good for a great marriage.

Mixing up Signals

My family laughs and tells me I am covering the news. I tell them I didn’t know I was doing that, I thought I was writing because someone was willing to read it. So from a grandmother, this is how I look at football and the way I would report it.

This time of the year our family talks football, before the game, during the game and after the game, before meals, during meals and after meals. As soon as we get home the video goes into the computer and we watch the game again and again and again.

So as a grandmother; to be in the know of the game, not yelling at the wrong time, clapping for the other team and embarrassing the family, I needed to learn more about the game of football.

So my son-in-law sat me down and gave me a quick course on plays and how a football game works. It’s about signals. When the quarterback gets his numbers all mixed up, it is to fool the opponent, not to show a poor education. It’s a secret signal to our players.

For anyone who is not an avid football fan, it is more than a bunch of guys running at each other with mean faces with oversized shoulder pads, wearing short shirts hiked up around an overlapping middle and tight pants. It is not throwing other players down and throwing around a ball; or the worst possible thing is being carried off the field on a gurney. No, no, no, this is serious business. This is the only business in town for the next three months. Especially for this family, so I need to know my stuff.

There is a method to all of this madness. I was told: this year is a running game, not a throwing game. They are not running the shotgun, but the quarterback is under center and the line has changed. There are new plays. Just as well, I didn’t know the plays last year. I don’t have to unlearn anything.

The player is told “Run your route”. This means run to where you are suppose to, don’t stop and look around for the ball, the ball will be there when you get there. Don’t look until you get there. In my mind, I wondered when he would finally look around.

So if the player is running like he is afraid and trying to get away from the other team and doesn’t know where the ball is, not to worry, the one with the ball knows where he is if he runs his route.

If the receivers are fast, the quarterback will take it into consideration and will throw it further down the field than if he is a slower runner. It is a science, “ball traveling the speed of the player”. That’s news for me. I thought the quarterback threw it as far as he could.

As I understand there are four coaches, the head coach who is looking over the whole game. He knows where his players are. There is the defense and the offense coaches who run their part of the game. Then up high at the top of the bleachers is a coach with earphones looking down over the whole game in an aerial advantage, kind of like God. He will signal them where and what the players are doing and what the other team players are not doing. I can relate to that!

We have two extra large grandsons who play on the line. Apparently there is no glory on the line, except for those who know if they played their position right and if they pull down their man, making a hole for the running back and keeping the quarterback safe.

No, the players on the line will not and probably never carry the ball. As a grandmother, I think they should at least touch the ball once in awhile just to get a feel of it. But apparently it is not necessary.

As I understand it, the boys love their new coach. He is more concerned about them than the game. The boys know how much he loves them and they will play their hearts out for him. That’s a successful coach in my book. Come win or lose.

The coach is aware of how much energy and time the parents put into getting the boys to practice, picking them up after practice and going to all the games. No matter the price of gas at $3.65 or more, they fill up their tanks and drive over Wolf Creek, or to Four Corners or wherever.

My kids tell me that I write it as I see it, not how it really is. So I am reporting what warms a grandmother’s heart above everything else.

As I understand the head coach is from the old school. After the game, the coach tells the players, go and tell your parents and grandparents, “thank you for coming”.

So these sweaty boys stink and all come and hug my neck and say, “Thank you, Grandma.”

And I say, “Oh, that’s the sweetest thing I could every want to hear.”

In the eighth grade our youngest grandson asked me to wear his jersey. I wore it proudly. I said then, “It won’t be long until he won’t be asking me, but some young girl.” Yes, catch those moments with all your heart, they don’t last long. You might notice, I’m not wearing #72 this year.

Maybe this grandmother doesn’t know all the plays or the rules and she gets her signals wrong, but this I know, these boys are learning respect for their fellow players, for their coaches, for their parents and grandparents.

Football is more than getting the glory; they are learning about character and aspiring to be men. Coach Garrison is the man of the hour and I say “thank you”. Am I trying to brown nose? “No”. Does that mean that my grandsons get to carry the ball? “No”. Does it mean, they get any favors, “No.” It does mean, I’m getting back a couple of grandsons who are learning how to be men. What more could I ask?

The Final Brushstroke: You might get your signals mixed up, but the heart knows what the heart knows.

How big are they anyway?

It is funny about life. When I started writing these columns I wanted to write about things that would change the world, I felt there was too much noise out there. Well, this one is full of noise and by writing it, nothing is going to change, everyone likes it the way it is.

I recently wrote about the price one pays to have their big boy toys. If you remember, Al’s brother was dating a twenty-two year old. I asked the question, “What in the world do they talk about?”

Wow! I have to pass these comments along. They are too rich to hold to myself. I think I am going to take a disclaimer, “These comments are not necessarily the opinion of this writer, I’m just stating what I hear.”

E-mails started coming in on the Big Boy Toys article.
Hi Betty, I just read your "Big Boy Toys" story to my husband and we both laughed our heads off. "What do they talk about?" Dennis said, "Diapers... for him and her." We love your column and look forward to it every week. God Bless and keep up the good work, Dennis and Roxie Schick, Pagosa.

Sam, the one who has the 74 year old neighbor who went to Alaska on a Monster Motorcycle, says, “Betty; Betty, Betty, you are never too old, and nothing is too big. That brother of Al’s must be something else, I want to meet him.”

“This is another great article. I'll vouch for you, these are true stories. EW, Grass Valley, CA

Al’s brother, David, 78 years old, read the article and called. “I had Caroline over the other night; remember she is the twenty-two year old I told you about with the one year old twins.”

“Yes, I remember. You were going to beat up her boyfriend.”

David proceeded. “When Al and your daughter, Allison, were here in Albuquerque, I invited them over to dinner. I also invited Caroline. She came with her two little babies.” Then he laughed, “Caroline had on a tight shirt showing the tops of her breasts. Al got embarrassed and kept looking the other way.”

I said to myself, “Thank you, Lord, I got Al and not his brother. He has the hair but Al has the heart.”

My daughter said, “Mother, it’s true, she was so big, I mean BIG, really BIG; I thought she must be nursing. So, I asked her if she was still nursing. She was huge, she could have. Uncle David stepped in and said disgustingly, “NOOOOOOOOO, they are implants.”’

I said, “Well since they ARE dating, I don’t think nursing is acceptable in the dating arena.”

When Al came home, he said, “The babies fussed all night, Caroline was up and down, yelling at her babies. She is young; she doesn’t know how to take care of them. She couldn’t enjoy her meal. None of us could. So I brought the steaks home.”

I looked at the steaks and said, “That’s too bad. Your brother is a great cook.”

Al said, “It embarrassed me. You could see everything and they were BIG, maybe bigger than a Double D. She bent over and everything fell out. She was flaunting them.”

I said, “Al, what do you know about Double D’s? I didn’t know you were looking?”

“I wasn’t, I kept looking away, but you couldn’t help but look.”

I said, “What is she thinking and what is your brother thinking?”

Al’s brother called. “Al and Allison got to meet Caroline.”

I said to him, “I heard. Since you are the grandfather here and you have the money, if you insist on dating these young girls, buy them some decent clothes and teach them how to dress properly? You’re playing with life. You don’t really care. You should be the adult here; these young girls do not know any better.”

“I talk to them and try to help them,” He said.

Then I proceeded, “By the way, the steaks were great.

“David, since you are out there clubbing, you could redeem your life, help them out. But you would have to change your ways.”

“How’s that?”

“Stay celibate.”

He said, “Never! It will never happen.”

I guess some boys are not going to turn loose of their toys. So how big are they anyway? I know this will give Sam something to write about. Sam, apparently they are too big.

Final Brushstroke! I’m taking a disclaimer on this one. There were three witnesses so I’m passing it along as truth.

A Real Woman looking at a Real Man

Gail Oakes commented to a Facebook friend. "I didn't know there really was a Pagosa Springs. I just remember C.W. McCall singing about the Peterbuilt careening down Wolf Creek Pass, way up on the Great Divide, truckin' on down the other side (put his foot on the brake and it felt just like a plum) and slamming into the side of the feed store in downtown Pagosa Springs. They don't write songs like that any more!"

Yes, Gail Oakes, there is a Pagosa Springs and there use to be a Feed Store in downtown Pagosa. I was here to see it. They don’t write songs like that any more and times have changed since then. The Pagosa Feed Store is gone but there are still some real men in Pagosa Springs.

I went to an art function. A lady said to me, “I read your articles and I love to read about Sweet Al.”

My immediate reaction was, “My biggest fear is I might make Al look bad or make it sound like I am belittling him.”

Her responds was, “Al is a REAL man. You are a REAL woman looking at a REAL man.”
I said, “Do you mind if I quote you? I love it. We are just who we are. I don’t apologize for who we are anymore.”

Being real is not about having a lot of money or not having money but becoming the person we are suppose to be. I believe it is something we all strive for.

Our friend Pat, the Cowboy is the real deal. When I see Pat, I tell him, “You’re the authentic thing. I’ve got to write about you someday and I’ve got to paint you in that old jeep.”

Pat, the cowboy rides his horse every day, wears a dirty old hat, red handkerchief around his neck and scuffed up boots. He gives free riding lessons to all the kids in Aspen Springs who can’t afford to pay him.

Can he afford to give free lessons? No, but his worth is more than money. He is a man of his word. If he owes you, he pays you even if it leaves him a little short. He is learning to live life in a real way.

On Sunday, he slicks back his hair under a brown felt cowboy hat, ties a clean red bandana around his neck, his boots shined and he wears the best clean shirt he owns. He shows up in his old beat up rusty jeep.

He has seen it all. He owned a big ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico, owned jumping horses, he even wrote a few westerns for Hollywood, owned a limousine with a driver, rubbed shoulders with big money and big names. But life got out of hand for this old cowboy, one day he turned back to his roots and got real.

This week in church, he told how he had everything the world could give to him and then he hit bottom. He cried because he was so thankful for how blessed he is now. He didn’t have much but appreciated life. I saw a real man cry. It touched my heart so deeply. He apologized for his tears and I thought, you’ve never been more handsome.

Another example of a real man is Lee Petty. Recently on the Nascar Hall of Fame, they honored Lee Petty, the father of the Petty Racing Team. He said, they were so broke, he drove for groceries. His wife packed a lunch for him and he ate it while he was racing. Today they drive for millions of dollars. Back then $150.00 was big.

His sons said he was tough and a hard man and they didn’t really get to know their father, he was too busy driving. His grandsons said they were scared of him until he invited them to lunch. Everyday, he sat down with them and taught them about winning and told the stories of his days behind the wheel.

The grandsons said it was so special getting to know their grandfather. Their grandfather became real to them. His own sons missed him in all the fanfare and even said, “We didn’t know him like that, we wished we had of.”

The price of a real man! Who can count his worth? There is something authentic, handsome and even right down sexy about a man who looks a little worn and has worked hard for his family.

Some times it takes a lot of living and a lot of working to finally come to terms with one’s self. That’s when others might see him cry, see him shed a tear or two. That is when he becomes a real man and never looked more handsome.

Final Brushstroke! When you don’t have to prove yourself; to yourself or the world, then you become real.

Souls Fluttering and Soles Flapping!

It was a moonlit summer evening, a dance in the town park. We paid our five dollars, ate our barbeque sandwich, and as the wrestling team waited on us the High Rollers sang. It was a night to remember.

We settled into our lawn chairs listening as the band played Cotton Eyed Joe and Mustang Sally.

The crowds flocked to the dance floor, a grassy patch, and they began to move to the music. I couldn’t help but notice Ron Gustafson. He was one of the first out on the grass. He grabbed a little cutie and began dancing. I saw John Travolta emerge like “Saturday Night Fever”. We all looked on in disbelief. Surely he would collapse after that dance. But no! He grabbed another young lady and twirled her around and around. Where did this man learn to dance? He had caught the fever.

I reached over to my sweet Al and said, “Honey, look at Ron. We need to learn how to dance like that. My mind was starting to tap. Why hadn’t we taken advantage of all the dance classes this last winter? They advertised them weekly in the newspaper? A line dance started up, I wanted to join in but I didn’t dare!

As a few young cowboys 2-stepped by. I leaned over and asked my daughter. “Where did they learn that?”

She said, “Coach Candelaria teaches dancing to all the seventh and eighth grade PE classes.” She pointed him out, “That’s him now throwing his wife up in the air”. In the mean time he did another twirl-twist and up his wife flew again.

“I am impressed.” So I turned to Al, “Let’s dance. Everyone one is dancing.”

Al replied, “I’m not a good dancer. You know my good leg is two inches shorter than the other.”
“You know I don’t pay any attention to that. We need to get out there and dance.”
Al stalled, “I will when there are others on the dance floor. I don’t want anyone watching me.”
“Al, nobody cares how you dance.”
“Maybe they will play Nat King Cole or Stardust.”
“The High Rollers are not going to play Stardust. That’s the music of the fifties.”
“When they play a slow one, then I will dance with you.” He says with a wink.

I waited patiently through many fast songs and a few cake auctions. We watched as a family all in matching plaid Bermuda shorts were whooping it up all over the place. By now, the loud shorts, all the locals and even Ron was on the dance floor again, everyone except Al and I. (Later I learned the Bermuda shorts were driving through to California, saw the Hoe-down and stopped. They bought a home-made pie and danced their shorts off.)

Finally, the music slowed down and Al said, “Let’s dance.” He led me into the crowd of dancers. He twirled me around and we began to dance.

Al is holding me tight and I’m looking into his eyes. I’m imagining I am dancing to “My Special Angel”. Memories from days gone by came over me. I was in love all over again.

Suddenly Al dips; then he trips again and trips again. I’m abruptly brought back to reality
“What’s up with this?”
“It’s the shoes.”
“What do you mean the shoes?”
This is a man who can’t say no to new shoes. He has twenty pairs of tennis shoes in his closet.
“My soles turned under and I tripped on them.”
“Al, what in the world, why would you wear these shoes with the soles flapping?”

“I glued them. They must have come unglued.”

About that time, I was becoming unglued. “Throw away those shoes when you get home.”

“Ok but they are good shoes. They just need to be glued again.”

The music continued to play and the conversation changed from days of love and memories to Al’s unglued shoes.

We continued dancing, my soul was no longer fluttering but Al’s soles were still flapping.

When we arrived home and I said, “Give me those shoes.”
“No, they are still good. I will wear them out in the yard.”

Do you know how hard it is to pull a pair of shoes out of the hands of a man who has a shoe fetish? Almost impossible! He proceeded to get Shoo-Goo Glue from the drawer. The shoes are back in his closet. I’m waiting for the right time when he is gone. Those shoes will soon be gone too. Maybe I should appreciate Al’s soul like he appreciates a good pair of soles? Well we both need lessons….

Final Brushstroke! Dancing is like moving as one to the music that moves your souls or soles, whichever the case might be.

Don't We Want to Win?

“Don’t we want to win?” Apparently I asked the wrong question at a recent gathering,

It is funny, we can be all loving and sweet, but when the games start, it is another story.

My son-in-law and I are competitors, especially when there is a dollar bet on the table, the rest of the family will bow out. No one else in the family cares if they win or lose. They play these mindless games like Chicken Foot or Thirty-One where there is no strategy. They are just having fun. To me the fun is in the winning. So apparently I have a problem. I say, “Why play, if I can’t win?”

My daughter says, “We are just having fun. Mother, you turn into this beast when you play.”

I say, “After the game, I’ll be sweet and nice, but during the game, forget it.”

My son-in-law and daughter threw a party for family and friends. I stepped into it again. It was a big shrimp boil. The shrimp and crab legs were boiling in the pot and the conversation was apparently simmering among some of the guests when I walked up.

I met the new football coach for the high school football team. We were introduced. He said, “Are you as sweet as your daughter?”

I said, “No, she is sweeter than I am.” A few laughed.

Some of the parents, grandparents and the coach were talking football when I came into the conversation. I threw out my favorite player’s names and said, “With them we can win.”

The conversation stopped. Apparently I said the wrong thing. One of the grandmothers grinned, looked down at the ground and stirred the dirt with her toe.

I knew she had an opinion so I said to her, “You have an opinion. Don’t we want to win?”

She bowed out of the conversation gracefully, I should have, but I wanted to know, “Don’t we want to win?”

My grandson came later into the conversation and asked the coach, “Can one person win the game?” He was referring to the extra large young man from Bayfield who monopolized the game last year. It appeared he carried Bayfield through the season.

The coach said “No, it is a team sport. Everyone plays in order that the one player can get through to the goal. That’s how the game is supposed to be played.”

The shrimp was still boiling and the conversation was soon boiling too. I realized everyone had an opinion, but there is only one man who has the job. That job is to build a healthy team, teach the boys respect for each other because football is a team sport.

It all sounds noble, but when I sit in the bleachers, I forget about loving my neighbors, I want to see our team win. Forget about grandsons, family love, feel warm and fuzzy.

So, am I as sweet as my daughter? It depends if it is during the game or not. I must apologize to the coach. I truly want my grandsons to learn how to respect their teammates, be good sports, and be kind and generous. I am thankful the coach is doing that. I can say that now, but when I am in the throws of the game, I am going to be the first one yelling, “Put so and so in. With him we can win the game.”

And Coach, you’ve got a hard job, and you are not going to make everyone happy. I’ll probably be yelling at you most of the time. But I have a feeling you are up for the task. Grandmothers like me don’t seem to scare you.

Football practice has begun. Parents are hauling their boys to practice. The boys run the field, tackle each other, get knocked down, pushed and scraped. They will learn their plays and build a team.

Come Sunday, I will be toting my Bible, talking about loving my neighbors, but come Friday night, I’ll be yelling with the rest of them, “Let’s Win. Kill them!” Something comes over me; it is the smell of winning.

Let the games begin. There will be more sparks flying than at the shrimp boil. Everyone will yell at the coach, yell at the boys, praise the boys and praise the coach. Then afterwards, they will go out for pizza and forget their differences until Friday night comes around again.

Final Brushstroke! There are two different kinds of win. One is winning the game and the other is winning your neighbor. The wise man knows how to do both.

Daddy's Little Girl

Whether a daughter is seventy-three or three, they never quit being Daddy’s Little Girl. I am seeing this scene played out in front of my very own eyes.
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I recently wrote “When Grown Children Come Home”. I got flack from the family on this one. They said I didn’t tell the whole truth. I told the truth as I saw it. They are finally speaking to me again, but maybe not for long. I decided to go for it again.

The Grown Children article caused even a stir among our friend’s children. Why is it? Is it because a family doesn’t want to change, they like it the way things are, or they don’t feel it is necessary? I don’t see any change in the near future in our family either.

I have observed Al’s relationship with our youngest single daughter who is over thirty and has come home. When she moved back to Pagosa, she reminded us she could take care of herself and has for twenty years, but she came home to be with family.

I think my sweet Al is the problem. Al caters to our daughter. They argue a lot about nothing. He teases her, she gets into a huff. They go garage sale shopping together, fishing, and they love their dogs. She programs her dad’s shows for him, explains to him how to answer his phone and is a very good daughter. She tells him what to do and he does it. It’s a great relationship in their minds and everyone is happy.

I am staying out of this match made in heaven; it would be like separating two mad dogs, they would turn and bite me for sure. But it’s too good not to write about, so I am pouring me a cup of coffee and watching this thing go on between a dad and a grown daughter. This is one of those family things. I remind him she is grown up and she should be doing things on her own. Al maintains she is alone and he needs to take care of her.

Our son-in-law says, “She doesn’t need a husband because she has DADDY.”

It’s true. Al keeps oil in her car and washes it, takes care of her puppy, makes sure she gets up early for work, even takes breakfast over to her house and visits with her before she goes off to work. The list goes on and on and on.

I’m with our son-in-law I’m not hearing wedding bells any time soon either.

Al is the best ironer in town. So our daughter says, “Daddy, will you iron my blouse?”
“Yes honey,” He says.

Am I jealous? Absolutely not, he does and will do the same for me.

But this is one where I sit back and say, “Al, she doesn’t need you doting over her.”

And he responds, “But someone needs to, so I do it.”

A few weeks ago, our grownup daughter went out to a party. Al woke up at two in the morning, didn’t see her car, she wasn’t home. He started worrying about her, so he called her and told her she needed to come home.

Mind you, she’s been on her own for 20 years and has had the freedom to come and go as she likes. Al is being a concerned dad.

“This isn’t really happening?” She said. “I can’t believe you called me at a party and told me to come home. I am old enough to know when to come home. Don’t ever do that again, you embarrassed me.”

Her friends got a good laugh out of it and thought Al was cute in doing so. She didn’t. They argued in a lighthearted way and continued doing what they do, being Daddy and Daddy’s Little Girl.

So when do you cut the ties? And can you cut the ties, let them grow up and still love them?

I say, “Yes!” But no one is listening, they like things the way they are.

Al says she is stubborn. She won’t do what he tells her to do. He knows what is best for her. I look at Al and think, “And where does she get this from?”

Is anyone going to change? Why change and mess up a great thing.

We have three daughters and if you ask Al, each one is his favorite. In his old age, he won’t have to worry; his girls will take care of him. I’m not sure about me.

I’m praying, “Oh Lord, don’t let me fall into the hands of my children.”

I tease with my daughters, “You won’t put me in an old folk’s home, will you?”

Not teasing, my daughters answer, “If you’re not difficult Mother, or it IS Shady Farms.”

Final Brushstroke! It’s all in the family. A girl will always be her Daddy’s Little Girl. Some things will never change.

Big Boy's Toys - Just a Bigger Price!

As soon as “The truck is too big” article came out, I received several replies. It hit a nerve with several people. I thought I was the grownup here; apparently I am the old one here. This is from Sam. Betty, Betty, Betty, TOO OLD? TOO OLD? TOO OLD? Our boy toys are NEVER too big; and we are never too old for new and bigger toys. If I could afford it, I’d have me another plane and just fly the wings off of it. I have a neighbor who is leaving next month to travel to Alaska on his monster motorcycle, he is 75 and I don’t think I’ll tell him his motorcycle is too BIG, or he is too old.  Hang in there Al!! Love your column!!!!!

A neighbor said, “Ease up Betty, don’t be so hard on Al.”

A co-worker at Ace asked our daughter if her Dad drove a big silver grey truck.

Our daughter said, “Yes.”

She said, “I thought so, I watched him go back and forth, up and back in the parking lot for ten minutes trying to park. Tell your mother, I agree, the truck is TOO big for your Dad.”

Everyone has an opinion. So here goes, to all the grownup boys with their big toys and big price tags.

Al’s brother calls the same day, leaves a message on the machine. “Al, lay off the butter. And it would do well for Betty to lay off the butter too.”

“It will do well for Betty to lay off the butter too?” These were fighting words. I’ve know Al’s brother, David, fifty-one years. We decided a long time ago we needed to love each other for Al’s sake, so we do. We live in different worlds, sweet Al is our only common ground.

When Al’s brother called back later, I told him I wrote about him and his 30 year old girlfriends, and called them his big boy toys. I also reminded him he turned seventy-eight this month.

He said he just got back from the gym.

I said, “I guess with those thirty year olds, if they see you without clothes, you would do well to go to the gym.”

“It’s not that. It’s rigorous, dating these young girls. I’ve got to stay in shape; they take a lot of energy.” Then he laughed. “I had a date with Caroline the other night. She is twenty-two. Her boyfriend got mad and I was going to have to beat him up.”

“Realllly! And he was scared of you? Oh my, the price of big boy toys!”

Al’s brother said “I’ll send a picture of Caroline; she is a knock-out, except Al doesn’t know how to retrieve pictures from his phone. Maybe your daughter can retrieve it for him.”

“I know,” I said, “His phone is too big for him too. Back to this girl, do you realize you are dating someone the same age as our granddaughter? She could be YOUR granddaughter.”

So what in the world is a twenty-two dating a seventy-eight year old man?” I asked him.

“It’s because I know how to treat these girls. These young bucks don’t treat them right.”

My son-in-law says, “It’s his money!”

My daughter says “It’s his charisma!”

I say, “What in the world do they talk about? It’s ridiculous.”

David says, “I don’t do anything, they just start flirting with me.”

Al says, “It’s true. He walks in the door, women’s heads turn. He doesn’t encourage them. They fall all over him.”

David tells me, “I’m bringing a girlfriend this weekend to Pagosa. Betty, don’t get religious with her.”

I cock my eye, lift my eyebrow and think, “Oh me. I’m too old for all this nonsense.”

So you see. Everyone is in his own world and apparently doesn’t mind paying for his toys. Al likes his big truck and his brother likes his young girlfriends. Everyone has their toys and I have my stories and I love writing them. I know you think I’m making this stuff up, I’m not! If I’m lying, I’m dying!

Final Brushstroke! Everyone has their toys. But oh the price we pay for those toys.

Seven Bags, Large Suitcase, Purse, Three Hats and a Therapist

How did I get into this? I asked myself that question after being lost in a blizzard in Denver, Colorado for an hour and half. My plans were to pick up a friend in Denver, then off to a four day Writer’s Conference in Estes Park, Colorado where I would pitch my book.


I had worked night and day getting ready for this Writer’s Conference. My two bags were tidy and organized, my manuscript was polished and I was ready.

When I finally arrived with poor instructions, I was greeted with a pile of things in the doorway. I saw one big suitcase, purse, three hats and seven open bags with a variety of things falling out of them. There was sticking up and out, hangers among shoes and underwear in one of the bags. Another bag sported a CD player with tapes, makeup and sweater. And the bags go on and on.

I looked at all her bags and I said kindly, I thought you were a traveler. Apparently you have never learned how to travel.

She answered, “Oh, I do travel. I am use to traveling and living out of my car.”

“So, let me help you take your stuff to the car,” I said as we made three trips.

When we arrived at the conference, everyone one was having a bad day. In my mind, I just wanted to leave. If I had not paid for the conference, the room and meals, I would have left. But being practical, I knew I had to see it through, besides I had the car and I couldn’t leave my friend stranded with all of her stuff. Mind you, she was going to live out of my car for four days. We made multiple trips getting her things to the room.

This friend continued to lose things and in so doing she searched every bag every time. She couldn’t find her room key, her watch, her tapes, and her medicine. She had left her medicine at home. She called her husband who made a special trip to bring her meds. I was watching this friend and thinking, “I thought she was more together, but of course, I have never traveled with her, just have had lunch with her on several occasions.

About this time, traveling with sweet Al was looking better and better. I thought to myself, “I’ve got to apologize to Al for the hard time I give him. Where is my sweet Al? He would be carrying his bags and mine too. Instead I am carrying hers.”

The conference continued. Mind you, my friend is a therapist with a degree. She counsels people who can’t get their life together. She needed counseling. I didn’t come to counsel her; I came to pitch my book.

My friend continued to baffle me. She wanted to write and had one thing she wrote about twenty years ago. Why was she at the conference? On the way home, she misplaced a bunch of CD tapes she had just purchased. Half way down the mountain from Estes Park, we had to turn around and go back. Trying to retrace our steps to find her tapes, I once again, shook my head and wondered how she could be counseling others when her own life was such a mess.

When we reached Denver’s city limits, she said she knew the way to her apartment. We missed the road and wandered through downtown Denver. Four days earlier I had driven Denver streets looking for this place, now I was lost again. Her husband was laughing when we reached their home and he said, “That’s my wife.”

I looked back to see if we had left anything. She had left one of her bags sitting on the sidewalk. I walked back to the car and picked it up. I was not as tolerant as her husband. So I delicately and tactfully asked her, “What the heck is going on? You’re a mess. You’ve got to get your act together. I won’t be traveling with you again.”

She said, “Oh, you don’t mean that, do you?”

“I think I will bring Al next year.” I said.

After the lost tape incident, she finally had a break through; enlightenment came to her in the morning light. Good thing, I was about to have a break down in my darkest night.

This seventy-four year old therapist began to self-analyze. She came to the conclusion, “My life is like these seven bags, I have been stuffing stuff into my life for years, trying to figure out who I am and what I need to be doing with my life. I keep looking through these bags trying to figure out what it is I am looking for. I keep wearing a different hat. The medicine represents the wellness of my soul, and the thing I needed the most, I left at home.”

She was so excited about her new discovery; she said she had to write about it.

I said, “Me too.”

She called this week. She hadn’t written a thing since we came back from the writer’s conference. So much for her enlightenment!

For me, I was looking for a publisher and for answers to this world of writing. I found a publishing house who will publish my book but most important, I kept looking for my Al and all his bags. It’s a funny thing; we have the best thing sitting in the chair next to us and we don’t recognize it until we are put to the test of unfamiliarity.

Final Brushstroke! Would we really want to change someone else’s bags for ours? I’ll keep my sweet Al. I’ve grown accustom to his sweet face and all his stuff.

Some things you just can't change!

Our family was having Sunday dinner, laughing and talking about life and I brought up the price of butter. I said, “Instead of your Uncle buying your Dad, Rogaine, better he buy him a pound of butter.”

They all laughed and said, “You’ve got to write an article on this one.”

“Well, it is a little close to home, twist my arm a little. Here goes!”

Al’s older brother is a curious kind of fellow. He’s got a Midas touch. Whatever he touches turns to gold. He knows how to make money; but for his married life, he strikes out big every time with alimony and attorneys.

It’s probably the women he chooses. He won’t date anyone over thirty years of age. Mind you, he’s turning seventy-seven, but the women still flock to him. He puts on his MMo Joe, and the women hand him their key. It is a sight to be seen. He has refused to get old.

On the other hand, Al loves his family, very much married and looks married. You do know how married looks? It says, I’m married and I can have that extra buttered bread and gravy, I’m OK with home haircuts, and I’m carrying my wife’s purse because it is too heavy for her.

Al understands he is getting older and he is okay with it. He has moved into his older years with grace and richness. Not only that, he has ME, his faithful wife who reminds him, he is loved by writing articles about him.

One thing David has is his faithful and loving brother, Al. He depends on Al for everything and Al has been and will be loyal to him to the end and will never disappoint his brother if he can help it.

Al’s older brother still sports a gorgeous full head of hair and believes Al should to. Trouble is, poor Al doesn’t. So David believes that Al should grow hair on his head and so every time he goes to Costco, he buys Al another bottle of Rogaine. Because Al doesn’t want to disappoint his brother, he faithfully uses it.

Every night, Al sprays this whipping cream substance on top of his head. He stands there with a nest of whipping cream atop his head and every morning he checks to see if he has grown another hair. He started with three hairs on top of his head, he insists he now has five and I think he is stretching it. For me, I’m not counting. I see his heart and he is beautiful.

So back to the family dinner! I’m not so loyal as to Al growing hair, I don’t care. The enormous supply of bottles of Rogaine is building up on the shelf. Al can’t use them fast enough. I’d like to trade them in and get some money back. I see serious cash here. I’m licking my chops and rubbing my hands together and I see dollar signs. I think we should trade them in and get the money back.

Al says, “No. My brother bought these and I have to use them.”

I say, “Al, it isn’t going to happen. Forget it. You haven’t grown one hair since you started using this stuff.”

Our son-in-law says to Al, “Dad, you should shave your head, it is the style and you would look twenty years younger.”

I said, “I love your Dad just the way he is. I don’t care if he has three or five hairs. He’s seventy four years old and its okay. He’s not trying to pick up a thirty year old. Anyway, I don’t think he is.”

So the family continues to joke and Al still is trying to grow hair for his brother. So what is the moral to this story? I don’t think there is one. Maybe it is this! Some things need to change and other things can’t change and some people don’t have enough sense to know the difference.

Well, the conversation went from funny to funnier and one day I must share more with you. Some things are too funny to keep under wrap. Maybe it is one of those family jokes that should have stayed in the family. And maybe, if I don’t change my ways, growing hair will be important to Al, he might start looking around. The price of butter won’t make any difference and he will have an ample supply of Rogaine.

Final Brushstroke! Some things will never change and it just doesn’t make any difference. And some things change whether we like it or not. The Rogaine supply is growing and Al’s hair isn’t. I’m still contemplating serious cash.

The sisterhood of Traveling Stories

The women of Pagosa might not all fit into a size three traveling pant, but we all fit into the stories of Pagosa. We have learned to live in the country, we have tugged and pulled and lain on the bed and zipped up, and have learned to fit into these crazy stories. Some stories have become more comfortable than others.

I went to the library. The librarian said, “Road kill!”

I knew she knew what I knew.

She then leaned over the counter and I leaned in.

She had a secret to tell me. She whispered. “We have twenty pounds of bear fat in our freezer.”

“Hum…? Bear fat?” I thought, “What would any one do with bear fat in their freezer? I’ll have to ask Al.”

“Honey, what do people do with bear fat?”

“I don’t know. I knew a lady that kept some in a Ball Jar on the window sill. She said when it turned from clear to milky she could tell the change in the weather.” Al’s mind started spinning.

“No, Al, I refuse to keep a jar of bear fat in the window. We are not a bunch of Rednecks.”

My fickle friend, Sam said, “Do you really have road kill in your freezer?”

“Yes, we do.”

He asked, still shaking his head in doubt, “And you eat out of your freezer?”

“Yes, we do Sam. And when we invite you over, we will be serving you meat out of the freezer.”
Sam turned squeamish and choked.

“Sam, we have never eaten road kill, except for a deer or elk Al hit on the road. I guess you won’t be coming to our house for dinner, will you? I don’t make the rules in Pagosa. I have found if you don’t bend to the way it is, the rules will break you.”

I asked my daughter, “Do you think other people have road kill in their freezer?”

She said, “Mother, you would be surprised.”

“Well, it sure makes for good stories to write about.”

A Facebook friend wrote from New Zealand. “I laughed at the old turkey in your bed.” Oh me, now Al is known in New Zealand. So you see how these traveling stories from Pagosa get around.

Jake, the pajama wearing dog, with a six inch hole in the back shows his rear, but has become famous. Responses about Jake came from China, The Philippines and around the country.

From China, a friend writes, “We miss our hunting dog. We couldn’t take him with us.”

From the Philippines, an owner writes, “The Prince has jasmine rice mixed with dry food and heated canned food in his own skillet. Sundays are for junk food where a small fries and cheeseburger from McDonalds are the best part of the week. His ya-ya brushes his teeth every day, and showers him in his own bathroom twice a week with orange peel wax and oatmeal cream (he has never seen a mud puddle that he didn’t walk around). The daily coat brushing is his version of the heavy handed pat although I found a point on his scalp when scratched that will put him to sleep. No pajamas needed as the city dog shares one thing with the country dog, his love for his cedar bed and his owner.”

A writer writes about his dog, Harley. “Totally related to this. Harley (so named, he's the closest I'll ever come to owning a Harley), loves his bed. He gets in it every night and waits until we cover him up w/his blanket, where he sleeps completely covered up until he hears the slightest stir in the morning. Sometimes, when he gets up, the blankets come with him - our little turtle dog. He’s eleven now.”

I have found these traveling stories fit all. They are like a pair of good blue jeans. They might not look that good on some of us, but worn enough, they become comfortable and we wear them anyway. Everyone owns a pair or two.

Final Brushstroke: At the moment, I am eating wild turkey, shot by my grandson, who has his story to tell and Al is hugging his dog.

If Walls Could Talk. What Would They Say?

Sipping on a cup of coffee - eating authentic Mexican Food - talking about anything and everything, we meet at the Granny Kitchen in the Lucero’s home in Clovis, New Mexico. Many friends and family have put their feet under the Lucero’s kitchen table and great ideas and warm hearts have come from there.

As I sat at the table and admired the faux finishing on my friend’s walls, I needed to e-mail her son, telling him how much his masterpieces meant to me. So I wrote, “I enjoyed looking at the walls in your mother’s kitchen. They are beautiful. You painted and signed those walls with your heart. You are a true artist.”

This was his comment. "Thank you so much! Those works I did during my personal recession are revealing an inner agony to "exist". Those works were birthed in sheer agony. When I look back on them, it is almost surreal! Thank you for your kind words and your ability to see "into" the work."

“These last years have shattered all that we believed to be of substance, and from the fragments of life that lay lifeless on the ground mixed with the ashes of many, we begin to reform our selves and our work using only the memory of what we once called our craft and our lives.”

”With our remaining strength and our will to exist, we once again test our passions against a very fragile canvas called life. Maybe this is what glory is made of.”

I sent these words to my friend and said, “Never paint over those walls, they tell your son’s story? We almost missed his story because we were enjoying our own story. How sad for us if we had.”

We run from agony. It feels to us those are the times we look so bad and we want to hide from everyone, but in them they are probably some of our most defining moments. We might barely be surviving in a crazy economy, or our bodies are hurting or our hearts are breaking and we are crying out in our pain, but somehow we live in our masterpieces.

One of my friends, who has done some important things in the church community; at one time a leader of several organizations, is now giving care to her aging mother. She said she had cried out to the Lord, “These hands have done some worthwhile things and now look at them. I am homebound, cleaning up and taking care of my mother.” The Spirit of the Lord said to her “Your hands have never been more beautiful.”

Again I am reminded how beautiful our hands are when our hearts are hurting, or when we are giving beyond ourselves, we are probably living our defining moment.

I have just finished the third draft of a 62,000 word novel on the Mysterious Life of Mary Magdalene. The hook line and the theme throughout is “A woman knows her own pain.”

Where is this book going? Why did I write it? Who’s going to read it? What’s the next step? The answer is, I don’t know.

Maybe it is like the walls in the Granny Kitchen. With all the busy activity around the table, all the high power talk and ideas, all the food and good friendship, the walls we write on go unnoticed. But, once in a while a person looks to the side and notices and understands the artist, writer, poet or caregiver and their defining moment.

So the son’s comment, “Those works I did were during my personal recession, revealing an inner agony to "exist". Those works were birthed in sheer agony. Thank you for your ability to see "into" the work."

Final Brushstroke! When we take time to see “into” someone else’s work, we see their test of passion against a very fragile canvas called life.

Your Truck is too big for you

“Al, your truck is too big for you.”

“No it’s not. I drive just fine. I know how wide my truck is.”

“You ran over the last two curbs?”

“I didn’t see them.”

“Of course you couldn’t see it, the truck is too big.”

“I’m a good driver.”

Honey, I know you are, but you can’t handle big vehicles like you use to. Give yourself permission to say, ‘It’s okay.’”

I was gnawing on a bone and I wasn’t letting it go. So the conversation went from the truck and landed on the dinner table with friends.

“I told Al his truck was too big for him.”

“No it’s not.” Al defended himself in front of our friends.

My friend echoed my cry. “I know what you are saying. Our children bought us a brand new truck, it sits so high I can’t see over it; they wanted to do something nice for us. They didn’t ask us what we wanted or needed, they thought they were doing us a favor. It is too big for us too. It’s so big, we take our old car on vacation.”

“Al doesn’t want to admit we are getting older.” I continued, I wasn’t letting it go. Saved by the bell, Al’s phone rang. Al had traded his simple phone for an I-Phone. He played around with it trying to figure out how to turn it on.

I said, “Not only your truck, but your phone is too big for you. You’ve had it for three months and you still don’t know how to answer it.”

“No it isn’t, and I know how to answer the phone. Thank you very much.” He said.

My friend intervened. “Every season has its limitations.”

“It’s so true,” I said. “It’s like giving a sixteen year old a new Porsche. They do not know how to respect it. Or these kids are brilliant on the computer but they can’t count back change. So it isn’t about getting old, but about knowing the season and its limitations.”

I was relaying this conversation to another friend who is our daughter’s age. She said, “I know what you mean. I spent yesterday with my folks helping them buy a new truck. My father didn’t want me to go and I said, ‘Yes, I am going. Look at me, you can’t hear and I can.” My father wanted a three quarter ton truck with dual wheels and a big engine for pulling things. I said “No, Mother can not get into a big truck like that.” He ended up with a half ton pickup which is still to big for him. He thinks he is young enough to pull horse trailers and move things.”

When do we finally move in to the next season in our minds, let go of our expectations and how we use to do things? Maybe it is when we get an accurate understanding of where we are. I don’t think it is about getting old, digressing, or being less than we use to be. It is understanding where we are.

“Well, let me tell you the end of the story. Al’s brother called, who is four years older than Al but is still dating thirty year olds. He was irritated. “Al, what the h___ were you doing? I called you and all I could hear was a bunch of old people in the background talking about getting old. You never turned off your phone.”

In the process of fiddling with the phone at the table, Al left it on and his brother listened to the whole conversation. I said to Al, “I rest my case. I told you that phone is too big for you.”

At seventy-seven, Al’s brother doesn’t think he is too old to date thirty year olds. He thinks he navigates very well and the young girls think so too.

Just because you think you navigate well and have the ability to buy a big truck or an I-phone, or a Porsche for a teenager, or date thirty year olds at seventy-seven, it doesn’t always suit the season. Maybe Al’s brother needs a wife like me to remind him how old he really is.

Final Brushstroke! Oh, to have the understanding to seize the season we are in and let go of fanciful notions. Every season has its purpose. Don’t miss it.

Stepping over the line with foot in mouth – Not a good thing!

My daughter said, “Mother, know your reading audience. This article is perfect for your Bible study ladies, but not for the newspaper.”

“I’ll work on it.”

She added, “I’ve learned in Pagosa, don’t talk about religion, politics or Walmart.”

And I added, “Or cell phones.”

This is my story and I’m sticking to it. Tuesday was the day. My leg hurt, I had a broken blood vessel, a dark day to boot, couldn’t get anything done, and I thought tomorrow had to be better. I need prayer.”

On Wednesday morning the Activities Department called and said, “You have six students, we forgot to call you last night. Be here at 8:30am.”

“Oh Me! It’s 7:45. Yes, I’ll be there.” I went into overdrive, a three minute shower, a comb through the hair and off the Blanco in fifteen minutes. Mind you, I still needed prayer.

I arrived and readied the room for the class. The students showed up on time, bright eyed and bushy tailed. They were anxious to learn and I moved into even a higher gear.

“Show Time!”

I went into my element. Performing with great gusto; the paintbrush danced across the watercolor paper, it was magic. I shot brilliant and dazzling information to them. Miss Personality had arrived. My leg was still killing me, but art overshadowed the pain in my leg.

The students were all beginners except one man. This man, from Texas, taught a high school art class. Everything was going good so far.

Four students from the same family; one set of grandparents and their college age granddaughter and her fiancée were attending the class. The art teacher sat at the back of the room and an older lady sat next to him.

The teacher and the older lady were busy working on their watercolor when the black belt fundamentalist grandfather whammed me with the question. “What church do you go to?’

I told him. He started thumping the Bible at me. I couldn’t get away from him.

“God help me,” I cried. He wouldn’t quit. I finally said, “I’m a believer, believe me, I am a believer. Let’s get back to painting.”

The granddaughter who was not of his persuasion began to talk in defense. The fight broke out. The grandfather continued to rant. Mind you, I needed prayer and now I’ve got a holy war on my hands.

I lassoed them back into painting. Then the granddaughter’s phone rang. I said, “No phones in the class.” She looked the other way and dismissed me with her hand, and continued to talk on the phone.

The brush off immediately stirred the pride in me and I thought, “How rude! Hey, it’s my class.”

When she got off the phone, I told her, “Please, don’t take any more calls, it harasses the class.” Whether it did or not, it was harassing me.

Then I looked at the art teacher and ask him, “Do you have trouble with phones in your school? How do you handle them?”

He replied, “Our school’s policy is, ‘no phones on the property.’”

I said “Good. That’s the way it should be.” (Mind you, I’m still off my game from the day before and now stirred over the dismissal with the hand.)

Then the young girl said, “My teacher tells us to go online for an answer. We need our phones.”

Then the grandmother jumped into the mix. “My granddaughter has to take calls from her mother, if she doesn’t answer the phone, she will be in big trouble with her mother.”

“During class?” I asked, “Well, her mother needs to learn boundaries. She should know better.”

The Bible thumping grandfather said, “Yes, her mother needs to learn boundaries.”

The grandmother rolled her eyes. I had apparently entered into a family feud and I didn’t have enough sense to keep my mouth shut, I was now a part of it.

Three hours later and six finished paintings, I cleaned up the classroom, climbed into my car and collapsed. “What just happened? Lord I need prayer, deliver me from myself.”

Final Brushstroke! Best not leave the house without praying. Holy ground is different for different people. Walk carefully.

A Salute to the Women of Pagosa

I love reminiscing with the old timers of Pagosa. I recently wrote about the Girls of Pagosa, now I want to salute the Women who left even bigger shoes to fill. In the 70’s and 80’s there were few licensed builders and with no money the women worked along side their men hammering, sawing, painting and building. The women of Pagosa raised children with a lot of heart, not afraid to work and with guts to stand in a man’s world.

The school needed a bus driver for the Lower Blanco. I thought I could do it, how hard could it be, just picking up and delivering children? Wrong. In January of 1979 with four feet of snow on the ground, worse winter in history, I became a bus driver. I left home in the dark at 6:00am every morning. It was so cold I couldn’t get the door open to my own frozen vehicle, drove to the bus shed to warm up the bus. I didn’t last long as a bus driver but apparently long enough to give a few people a laugh or two.

Recently I met a lady who grew up in Pagosa. Her dad was the head of the bus shed for the Pagosa School District. She reminded me of something I had forgotten. This is one of those things I would like to forget.

This is how the conversation went, “My Dad knows you.”
“How’s that?”
“You were that crazy lady that stuck the school bus several times. He had to come and dig you out.”

“Oh, those were hard days,” I told her. “I remember when I had to put chains on the bus. I thought I was going to die. It was so cold my fingers stuck to the metal. There were a couple of sixteen years old boys on the bus and I said, ‘Get out and help me.’”

They looked at me and said, “We don’t know how. We don’t have to.”

“Get out here anyway. You’re too big to sit there watching a lady put on chains.” We got the chains on the bus. Today I am sure a lawsuit would be in the making. But then, it was growing boys to be men and girls to be ladies.

I talked to Jane Stewart who owned a business in down town Pagosa in the late 70’s when it wasn’t popular for women to be in business. She taught many of Pagosa’s youth how to work, including three of our children. I’ve thanked her many times for putting good work ethics into our children. She tells about the time when Judge Hyde was holding court. The jurors had parked in front of her establishment during lunch. She walked into the courtroom, stopped the court and told Judge Hyde to have the jurors move their cars. He did and they did. It took guts which she had and has.

I remember seeing Mrs. Ross (Troy and Cody’s Mom) every week at the laundry mat washing the team’s football uniforms after practices and games. She was getting them ready for the next game.

And who could forget Mrs. Helen Ash on the front row singing her heart out, “I’ll Fly Away.” Also, there was Mrs. Lucille Rackham, grinning from ear to ear, with a skillet frying up Rocky Mountain Oysters.

There was Evelyn Davidson with seven children, several adopted. She was the best mom in the world. Gilbert tells of the time when he and the boys went out hunting, they came back with nothing, while they were gone, Evelyn shot a big bull elk off their front porch. When he got home, she told him to go out and skin it.

How many of you bought milk from Mrs. Fay Brown? Our family bought four gallons every week in big glass bottles for a dollar a bottle. We raised healthy kids on farm milk. Today, the health department would step in. No telling how many cows Mrs. Brown milked everyday.

I remember seeing Mrs. Ruby Sisson driving her green 1955 Chevrolet down the dirt road coming in from the Upper Blanco every morning. She was on her way to school to teach the youth of Pagosa. She was one tough little lady.

My daughter reminded me of the Gallegos girls and women who went on cattle drives every year.

I wish I could mention all the Pagosa women’s names; their faith, their hearts and the legacy they left behind. They have written their lives on the hearts of the children and people of Pagosa. They were moms, teachers, bus drivers, church goers, business owners and farmers who showed up every day.

These women and others have left some big shoes to fill. With the same heart and grit, the girls of Pagosa are showing up every day living their stories and hopefully one day someone will show up and write their stories.

Final Brushstroke! Who can find a virtuous woman, her worth is more than rubies. My salute goes out to the Women and Girls of Pagosa.

Hit the Ball, Drag Joe

I am sure every one has their family jokes. We have ours. You know how it is, you give the punch line and the family laughs.

Over the years our family has had its mode of operation. Al says “No,” before he hears any details. I say “Yes,” before I think. Al digs in his heels and I ride off without the horse. It has been a lifetime pattern and that when the punch line, “Hit the ball, drag Joe” came into play.

Once in awhile Al gives in and I win. He goes reluctantly and I smile as if to say, “Aren’t we having fun.” But the family knows I am not going quietly and Al isn’t going easily.

You’ve heard the old saying, “You can take a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” I have found if you salt the oats, you can make him thirsty.

A good example happened recently. A young man, who I have known for years, was in jail. He needed a home. He didn’t have any place to go, so the court ruled for him to stay in jail. The day of his court date was his sixteenth birthday. There were tears in his eyes and his heart was soft and he was sorry.

He needed someone to believe in him, and I did. I could help him. So I said, “Yes, he could come and live with us.”

Al said, “What were you thinking? We can’t raise a sixteen year old boy.”

I wasn’t giving up on this one. So I said, “But he needed a placed to live. What’s the problem?”

“Call his attorney and tell him you can’t bring him home.”

Well I salted the oats for days before I called his attorney, I prayed and prayed for the young boy, called everyone I knew who he could live with. Then I turned my prayers on Al. I prayed and prayed for Al to change his mind.

Then when I figured God had worked on Al, I asked him, “Have you changed your mind yet? Can we raise him?”

“No.”

More prayers and finally I got it, my own oats were salted. “Al is right. Our life style is not conducive for a sixteen year old boy.”

I have not given up on this young man and somewhere and somehow along the line I am going to help him. The family knows how determined I am and how determined Al can be. So this is how our family joke began years ago and has continued as of today.

When I say, “Hit the ball and drag Joe,” our family knows. When I say I am going to do something, they immediately ask, “What does Daddy say about it?”

I respond, “Oh you know.” They laugh. They know their Dad probably said “No,” and I am determined to finish the game.”

If you are wondering and have never heard the joke, here goes. A professional golfer was going to teach his novice friend how to play golf. About the fourth hole, the professional golfer dropped dead with a heart attach. The novice finished the game. When he got back to the clubhouse, someone ask him if he enjoyed playing golf. He said, “Well, it was a great game until my friend dropped dead and for the rest of the game, I hit the Ball and had to drag Joe.

So now that I have let you in on one of our family jokes, you know the punch line and have been indoctrinated into our family.

Final Brushstroke! You win a few and lose a few. The game is always interesting and it is always worth playing even when you hit the ball and have to drag Joe.

You've Got to be Kidding!

When I wrote about the hound dog, I knew I was walking on sacred ground. All of Pagosa owns at least one to five dogs each. I received so many comments about dogs I couldn’t help myself; I had to write another dog article!

My friend tells me her dog sleeps in pajamas. Her husband sheepishly says, “Not all the time.”

I raised my eyebrows; this is good stuff, does this really happen? “You’ve got to be kidding; your dog sleeps in pajamas? Al would die if I put pajamas on his hunting dog. It would challenge his manhood. He probably wouldn’t mind if I put a red vest or camouflage on Shy Anne if it meant getting his game, now that I’m thinking about it.”

My friend continues, “Our dog sleeps with us, and by putting him in pajamas, it keeps the hair off the sheets.”

“Okay, I think I can understand. Wouldn’t it be easier just to let him sleep on the floor? I’m just asking.”

She continues, “Our dog has a closet of clothes. When our dog goes out, I put booties on him, his feet get cold and I put a coat over his sweater.”

I made a mental note. “You mean the layer look? I must be missing something here. Maybe there is a difference between city dogs and country dogs or maybe there is a difference between a man’s dog and a woman’s dog.”

Our yellow Labrador is country and so is Al; Al would have fits if I put a coat on his dog. She owns only one coat; when it gets dirty she runs to the river even in the winter. The Rio Blanco is her bathtub and in the summer her swimming hole. Her thick coat of hair is good enough to keep out freezing cold and in the summer she sheds it in the heat.

We do not walk our dog, and she has never been on a leash. Her favorite pastime is retrieving birds. She roams our property and knows her boundaries. She knows to stay home where she is fed. Her daily routine is following Al to the garage and back. Her social life is barking at her best friend, Daisy, the dog next door.

Al’s dog thinks she can drive the old blue truck which has turned into her doghouse on wheels. Al takes her around the property in it and she is content being a country dog. No one follows her around with a pooper-scooper. She is hearty, never has been to a doctor, except for shots. She has a dog’s life and is happy. Now I am wondering?

Al and Shy Anne have their favorite hunting shows they watch in the evenings. Al pats her head and tells her the same old hunting stories and she relives every story and hangs onto his every word. She gets scraps from the table and is over weight. We should put her on a diet, but she would be the only thin one in the household. She would feel she was being punished and deprived.

At nights, she sleeps on her own cedar mattress on the floor. Her dog bowl gets washed when it looks dirty. Whatever Al doesn’t eat, Shy Anne eats. Al and his dog is a pair made in heaven. They belong together. I wouldn’t say they are starting to look alike, but they surely act alike.

They prowl the kitchen at night for a snack; Al pops a marshmallow in his mouth and gives one to Shy Anne.

So what is the difference in dogs? It must be the way they are loved. They all seem to be the perfect match for their owner; it is more what their owner needs than what they need. Al needs a good hearty dog, one who can move quickly from moving objects; such as car wheels, jacked up cars and swinging hammers. Al needs a dog who embraces heavy handed pats; and. one who gets excited when a gun is cocked.

Maybe it’s their master who needs to be adjusted. Meanwhile, I am keeping Al and his dog away from the city. They think they have a pretty good life. How does the song go? “How can you keep them down on the farm once they see Paris?”

Final Brushstroke! Keeping Al and his dog down on the Lower Blanco makes them fat, happy and content. Life is pretty sweet. It’s a dog’s life.

Never Say Never - Road Kill in the Freezer

How does anyone go from “Never” to “I guess its okay?” It starts with shock then it works itself into normal.

Back in the ‘60’s we had a neighbor lady, a widow. We called her “Crazy Old Lady Badell”. She had a big, fat, white furry cat which sat in her lap. She stroked it daily and the fur flew. She found great comfort in that cat.
It died.
My friend said to me, “Crazy Badell froze her cat.”
I said, “Froze her cat? Why would she do that?”
“Well she was really attached to it,” she said.
“I knew she found great comfort in that cat. I need to see it for myself.”
“Yes, it’s in her freezer. She’s crazy. I’ve never heard of such a thing as that.”

Then several years later, I opened my freezer and a wild turkey was starring me in the face. With its wings spread across the entire chest freezer, I yelled “Yikes, what’s this? Al, what have you put in my freezer?”

“Don’t touch it, don’t mess up the wings, it’s a trophy.”

I struggled with that turkey for months. Finally I said, “Get rid of that turkey or I will feed it to the dog, I need the freezer space.”

Al says, “I hope you didn’t mess up the wings.”

“Al, just get rid of that bird. I’ve fought with it long enough.”

Then there was the badger, the road kill. “Al, I don’t think it is safe to put road kill in the freezer with our food. It will contaminate our food.”

“Oh don’t be silly. It’s fine. We’ve never had food poison, we are all healthy.”

Then there was the bear hide that took up half of the freezer. “Al what is in that big black bag in my freezer?”

“Oh, my friend got a bear and he gave me the hide. I want to have it tanned.”

Two years later, I was still packing food around that big lump.

Then came the buffalo hide. “Enough is enough,” I said to Al

Al gave me a rebuttal, “This hide is valuable, it is a buffalo hide. Don’t touch it.”

I didn’t buy into it. “Al, get rid of that hide or I’m throwing it out.”

“I don’t know what to do with it, give me some time. It’s fine where it is.”

“No Al, it’s not fine. I need the freezer space.”

So that’s how you go from saying “Never” to saying, “I guess its okay.” After the initial shock then you start figuring out how to live around it.

I talked to a friend, “Is this normal? Are we going to die with some kind of disease from those animals in our freezer? It’s gross.”

She said, “My husband does the same thing.”
I guess if some one else is doing it, then it must be okay. “What is in your freezer?”
My friend said, “I have a wild pig with big white teeth in mine.”
“Well, Al brought home a coyote.”
You go from shock, that’s crazy, to a mutual society. Then it is upping your friends.

I walked into the kitchen, Al is using my blender. “Al, what’s that pink stuff in my blender? It looks like Milk of Magnesia.”

“Oh nothing! They are just deer brains, I’m blending them. Then I’ll apply them to the hides which will make the hides soft.”

I should have known. Al got another wild-hair idea; he had been reading his Trapper Magazine again and decided to tan hides. Maybe he’ll get that buffalo or bear hide out of my freezer.

“I knew I should have thrown out those hides when I had a chance. Al, sterilize my blender when you get through.”

“Betty, you are so touchy.”
“Touchy or not, sterilize my blender.”

I have taken away all of Al’s fun and he is driving me up the wall with all his hunting stuff. I use to think we had a little class, but now I know we have none. I am wondering about the Health Department. I’m not shocked at anything any more.

Turkey season is here. I might be living with another turkey in my freezer. I’m still sleeping with an old turkey in my bed.

Was old Mrs. Badell so crazy after all? Maybe a cat in the lap is the way to go. Mrs. Badell is way dead and gone and her big, fat cat is probably mounted and sitting on someone’s mantle.


Final Brushstroke: I don’t know what brings more comfort; sleeping with an old turkey in the bed, or stroking a fat cat on the lap.