The Elephant in the Room

Recently someone asked me if all those things I write about really happen to me or if I make them up. I told him, “I live every word; I am not that clever.” I wonder how it is that you live with an elephant in the room for fifty years and then one day you discover it for the first time?

I started writing these articles two years ago as a voice for artists, but I am finding it’s not the artist in me people want to read about but the elephant in the room I am living with, namely sweet Al.

Al had been given some Christmas money and I didn’t know it and he wasn’t going to tell me. I came home from town and a big six-foot box was sitting in my living room.

I am seeing a certain pattern with Al. When he wants to do something, he hurries up and does it before I can persuade him otherwise. This was no exception. If I would have known he had some extra money, I would have tried to talk him into something we would both enjoy, like granite kitchen cabinet tops.

“Al, what is in this box? Where did it come from?”

Al passed it off as a matter-of-fact. “Oh, I got some money for Christmas from my brother. I bought a 42 inch big screen TV.”

“And where are you putting it?”

“In our bedroom.” Another nonchalant response, He knew this wasn’t going to sit well with me so he played coy.

“In our bedroom?” I came unglued and bristled. “Our 19 inch TV is just fine and it fits into our beautiful armoire and it stays hidden. I don’t want a big TV in our bedroom. I thought our next big job would be granite on the kitchen cabinets. We’ve lived with plywood kitchen cabinet tops for five years.”

“I knew you were going to say that, I stained the cabinet tops for you and they look fine. In fact people always say they like the plywood and we should keep it that way. It’s my Christmas money.”

He had a point, it was his money, but I also had a point. I have a beautiful armoire with hand painted cabbage roses which I painted to match our bedspread and it hides the TV.

“My next question was. “Will it fit in the cabinet?”

“I think so, its 44 inches and the cabinet is 45. I have an inch to spare. I am going have our son-in-law and the boys help me install it, it looks too complicated.”

Al called the guys and I stewed. The guys arrived and I went to my computer. I needed to do something, I couldn’t watch this undertaking. I could hear them in the other room, discussing and laughing about one thing and another. I thought I better check on them. No telling what they were doing.

The TV wouldn’t fit and they were about to take off one of the doors from the armoire. My son-in- law said with screwdriver in hand, “We are taking off the door to make it fit and you will have to leave it off so you can use your remote without any problem.”

“Have one door on my armoire? Absolutely not! I am not going to have one door off and the other one on. Just take my cabinet and put it in my studio. Just hang the screen on the wall. Can’t you put the TV in your hunting room?”

“Honey, you know I watch TV in our bedroom. Don’t you want to be with me? I want to be with you. I love you.”

Now he brings up love! “What does love have to do with it? I’m going upstairs to write.”

The TV was blaring and popcorn was popping in the microwave. I could smell it. Now what were they doing? The TV was hooked up, my two big grandsons built to play football, were sprawled all over my bed watching football and eating popcorn. They had moved in for the next big game.

“My bedroom is not a sports bar,” I spouted, still disturbed by the chain of events.

The fun shut down for an instant, the party stopped; and one of my grandsons looked up innocently and said, “Grandma, don’t you like it?”

My son-in-law laughed, “When you bristle like that and get out of shape, I know another article is coming on.”

The TV is in the cabinet and both doors are on. It’s a miracle. Al and I sit 5 feet away from this 42 inch TV. As the kids drive by, they comment, “Grandma and Granddad are watching Dancing with the Stars, they can see the program from the top of the Lower Blanco.

Come Nascar season in February, Al will be able to see the stitching on Jeff Gordon’s suit and the sweat on his brow. And as the cars go round and round on the track, I am going to be upstairs writing about them. No, I am not that clever to make these things up.

Al surely knows how to dodge bullets. I read this article to Al and he said, “It’s a beautiful TV. Don’t you want our grandsons to come over to watch football games?”

Of course I do. Another good point! Yes, the elephant is in the room and I am living with it. The elephant and the brown chair, it is surely getting crowded.

Final Brushstroke! I am speechless. Another scrimmage and I guess we both won. I’ve got a happy husband who loves me and the grandkids will want to come over to visit.

How Far is Your Reach?

How far is your reach? Far enough apparently!
My son lives in the Philippines. In my son’s estimation of his mother, my reach is too far. I have entered into his world through Facebook. I have been making comments on his Wall and I began replying to his friends and employees in the Philippines. It was my way of being a part of his world. I thought I was bonding.

I received these e-mails from my son. “My leadership team has discovered you via your comments on my Facebook. We now start meetings with someone checking to see what you have commented on about me. Their ice breaker; my greatest moment of humility. When I’m fussing at them about something and say something stupid from the heat of the moment, one of them will comment by lowering their voice then saying, "my dearest son...", and end with, "love, your mother". I guess not even the miles can save me from your reach. This morning, I got upset about something and one of my managers said, I’m going to call Ms Betty and ask her to pray for you. There was an awkward moment (for me) of silence, then, everyone busted out laughing. All in fun, I laughed too. But so you know, all of my employees see your comments as I couldn’t bring myself to delete your profile or restrict you from seeing certain content. Not that I hide anything or have anything to hide, please just don’t ever bring up something really stupid.”

“Something stupid?” I responded, “I would never do that! Ha.” My son wrote to all of his friends and said he would like to live in a jello house. I wrote back and told him he was raised in a jello house with no structure and raised by an artist. His older sister was the only one with any structure. Apparently I gave out too much information on Facebook and I am not informed on current things. I didn’t know the movie or the bi-line.

Another e-mail reads “I’m a bit flattered that my friends think I have such a “lovely” mom. Have had my eyes opened to just how dysfunctional other people’s families are by their reactions. I’m ok that you pray for me publicly, and comment about my friends/employees. It has become fodder for the office, but a great way of people knowing where my insanity and generosity comes from. See you soon.”

His employee Fred is always looking for love. I responded to him that maybe he was looking for love in all the wrong places. I sent Fred instructions to make a list of what he was looking for in a mate, and then he would know himself.

I was on my way of making friends with my son’s employees in the Philippines, all 2,000 of them until I received another e-mail, “Mother, appreciated, but I need to be their leader, and you my mother.”

He came home for the holidays. We laughed over all this Facebook stuff. He went shopping to pick up some little gifts from the local gift store, and met a lady who reads my column and thought I wrote about things that happen to everyone, but no one had the courage to say it. She told him, “Encourage your mother to keep writing.” He answered her with, “I don’t think so.”

Yes, my son ran from my reach for years and has finally come home. Stupid things? Yes, I continue to do them, but the love of a praying mother far reaches beyond oceans and continents and her reach has no limit.

Final Brushstroke! There’s not much you can say, your mother will always be your mother.

When Grown Children Come Home

Many children came home for the holidays, ours included. We enjoyed them and sent them back to their homes. What happens when grown children come home permanently? The rules change.

Once we the parents made the rules, now our children make the rules. When our children moved back to Pagosa permanently, they were concerned we might be like we had always been. Why would we change? Of course we would act like we have always acted. We are the parents. So our children moved home, sat us down and issued Al and I new walking orders.

Al and I have been empty nesters for twenty years. I use to look around and say, “Where are my children?” They lived from one coast to another and out of the country.

The first set came home five years ago, they wanted to leave the city and raise their children in a small town. They wanted to give them the opportunity of playing sports and a better life, maybe not so much a bigger life, but a better one. Also they wanted their children to have a sense of family and know their grandparents.

The first instruction was don’t discipline our children. “If you discipline them, it will confuse them. We will discipline them ourselves and Daddy, don’t yell at our children.”

Al and I said, “Okay”. We rolled our eyes at each other and thought, “We hope we can do that. When we see things we don’t like, we need to keep our mouths shut.” That’s the second rule.

Now our youngest daughter has come home. She was very successful in her business but missed family and had talked about coming home for years. Her instructions to us were, “I ‘m not moving home because I can’t make it on my own, and I am not living with you, I am living by you. I don’t want people to think I can’t make it on my own.” Okay, the third rule is, say it the right way.

Now our daughter has acquired a brand new puppy. “Daddy, don’t feed my puppy from the table. Keep her inside, she gets cold. I need for you to take care of Daisy while I work.” We now have a Puppy Day Care. “Would you mind turning up my heat before I get home?” Of course, we say. Fourth rule: Be on call for your children.

Our other children ask us, “Pick up the kids at the school; one of them left their homework, do you mind taking it to school,” and Al and I say, “We would love to. We don’t mind.”

These articles for the newspaper have now become the hotspot in the family, of course all in jest. They know I am going to tell all and have nothing to hide. My son-in-law tells everyone to watch what they say; it might end up in the newspaper. The things that once were family jokes are now public domain. Don’t make family business public business, that’s the next rule.

Of course I can’t heed to that rule, I am on a roll. I am thrilled to be writing and I am grateful someone is reading what I write. The family pretends to be offended but down deep they like it. My son warned me today after reading Traveling with Sweet Al, “It is one thing to be funny but another thing of giving the persona of being rednecks without teeth. Some times you cross the line.”

“Who changes when children come home?” No longer do we put them on a curfew; they put us on a curfew. No longer are we embarrassed by what our children do; now they are embarrassed by what we do. They don’t want to worry about us, so they tell us when and what to do.

I know we drive our children up the wall, and we’ve been called on the carpet more than once. I thought we were very self-sufficient before our children came back home. They thought they came home to help us. I didn’t know we needed help, but apparently we do.

This holiday, all our children came home, we laughed until we cried, mostly at my expense. They all feel sorry for their Dad. I have been issued another rule, Stay away from Facebook. “We would hate to block you,” they say.

I thought I was bonding with children and grandchildren and their friends, apparently not.

I can’t keep that rule; I’m having too much fun. It’s like when our teenagers were at home, they obeyed the rules when it was convenient, they had selective hearing and we now hear what we want to.

One thing for sure, we do not want to live without our children in the same town. They are our best friends. We need our children, they keep us young. I guess we need to learn the rules. I have forgotten them already.

Final Brushstroke! It’s funny about family. They take on who you are and they don’t want to be like you, but they still want to come home and eat your food. It’s all good.

A Redneck - We are One!

A Redneck - We are One!

Recently I wrote about the hunter from Oklahoma who drenched my daughter and me with gas at the gas pump, he didn’t notice and I called him a Redneck.

Since then I’ve given a lot of thought as to what constitutes a Redneck. When Al and I began living life, we were ambitious, rubbing shoulders with white collar society; we too were rising to the top and we thought we were somebody.

Then Al retired early, and we moved to Pagosa Springs. We took a cut in earnings, but we were happy to leave the concrete jungle of city life with all the traffic and expectations. We slowed down and became innovative. We became blue collar workers. I painted and Al moved furniture or whatever laborers do. We were happy serving others. It had its rewards and we became important in a different way.

Redneck just crept up on us. We went from white collar to blue collar, to no collar to Redneck. How does one become a Redneck? It’s when a person becomes his own resource; when he can’t afford to hire things done, he does it himself with the ability or lack of ability he possesses. I think it is also calling sub-standard, normal. But, what is normal?

When something needs fix’in and there is no money to fix it, you wrap duct tape around it until you can afford a new one. If the tailpipe falls off, you put wire around it to hold it up. If someone breaks your radio antenna on your car, you use a coat hanger. When others move, they give you all their old stuff; it might come in handy one day.

It just takes a little imagination and resourcefulness to live without money. I could write a book, “How to live without money” It would be a bestseller, but without money, it would be hard to market. So living without money can take you so far, but not far enough to make money; just far enough to live below your means.

Our friends from Arizona came to visit us and we were talking about living in the city. Al and I both agreed, “We couldn’t do it.” Our friends said laughingly, “Well, you would have to shut the door on the blue truck.” We all laughed, but I thought to myself, “Do we look that bad? We must be verging on redneck status.”

The old blue truck has become a dog house for Al’s dog. She has a kennel but she prefers to be where Al is. Whenever Al drives around the property, the dog jumps in and rides with him. It has become Shy Ann’s life; her mode of entertainment, travel and kennel. Al leaves the passenger’s side open so the dog can jump in any time. The dog sleeps in the truck during the day and it has become her dog house.

Shy waits in Al’s truck for him to drive around the property. She has moved to the driver’s side. Al laughs and says, “Isn’t she cute?”

I am beginning to see how Redneck has crept in. I hadn’t thought about it until our friends mentioned the old blue truck with the open door. Friends have come by and said, “The door is open on the blue truck.” Al says, “Oh, that’s Shy Ann’s mobile home. I leave it open for her.”

Can I change Al? The answer is “No!” I use to say everyone who lives in Pagosa has a dog by the name of Cheyenne or Dakota riding in the back of the truck. I am noticing lately, the dog or dogs have moved inside the truck into the front seat with their master.

Have we seen ourselves lately?

It is so easy for “below standard” to become the norm. Al’s brother says, “I respect you, but I couldn’t live that way.” So what does “that way” mean? Does it mean, when anyone drives down the Lower Blanco, they see Al’s old blue truck with the open door and his dog sitting in it as proud as she can be?.

Al has an unwritten code about his dog, “Love me, love my dog.” His code has put him in the dog house several times. He’s never spent the night in the old blue truck, but he has come close. He would have his loyal dog, I guess it wouldn’t be too bad.

Final Brushstroke! Yes, Redneck has crept in. Al’s happy and so is his dog. For me, I better be careful who I call Redneck.