Betty Slade: Play It Again Sam!

Betty Slade: Play It Again Sam!: "Lack of Understanding I have recently acquired a second husband. It’s just what I needed, someone else telling me how to write. His name ..."

Play It Again Sam!

Lack of Understanding

I have recently acquired a second husband. It’s just what I needed, someone else telling me how to write. His name is Sam and he is the husband of a friend.

Sam yelled across the parking lot the other day, “Hey! I didn’t like your article this week, it wasn’t funny - I like it when Al is in hot water - You were too easy on Al this week. I guess I’ll give you another chance, maybe I’ll read next week’s article.”

“Well Sam, I thought I was writing serious stuff, these articles are not supposed to be funny. I’m trying to make sense out of a decision I made fifty-one years ago and he just won’t go away. When I said, “I do,” I didn’t realize I was saying yes to an overstuffed brown chair, a big screen television, Nascar, turkey calling, more junk you can shake a stick at and a dog.”

Last year, at this time, I wrote about two fools in love and it seemed to spark a new height for my writing. I thought this article warranted another run. It was everyone’s favorite about Sweet Al. Phyllis Dillard has her Fang, I have sweet Al and now apparently I have Sam. So here it is! I’m playing it again Sam!

Why do fools fall in love? I don’t know. Al and I have been trying to figure it out for years. Today, April fool’s day is our fiftieth anniversary. No joke, It was April 1, 1960 and what were we thinking? We weren’t. We were in love.

Why did we pick that date? It was on a Friday and we had a free weekend and nothing to do. We had dated for a year, fought the whole time, and couldn’t live with each other or without each other. I was eighteen and he was twenty-two. No one thought a marriage between us would ever work. My mother was fed up with the fighting and said either get married or he needs to go.

 Al was cute, oh, so cute. He drove a brand new ‘60 Plymouth Fury, long and sleek. He wore pressed blue jeans with sharp creases and shiny brown and white wingtip shoes. His red James Dean jacket over a brilliant white tee-shirt with rolled up sleeves was his signature. His thick straight black hair was greased and combed back into a ducktail which came low on his forehead into a widow’s peek. All this made him the catch of the day. He had the cutest buns, he was adorable and he was a Slade. I was in love.

Al, being the perfect gentleman held the door open for me, called before a date, didn’t honk but came to the door, talked to my mother, brought flowers and candy and walked on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from on coming cars. His mother worked hard to make her son look good and have manners; she didn’t know all that work was just for me. She had greater expectations for her beloved son and all this only added fuel to the unquenchable fire of love. All the other girls were crazy about him and I got him. What a way to start a marriage. I wouldn’t recommend it! But what a catch!

And what was the catch? Living together! We didn’t know we had to learn how to live together. Al was a Baptist and I was a Morman. His first job was to make me a Baptist and my job was to stand firm. Well, you can see how the sparks continued to fly. I dug my heels in deep and sat in a Baptist pew every Sunday morning and sang thirty verses of Just As I Am. I thought if they sang another verse I would lean over and strangle Al. I didn’t want to be there and I wasn’t letting Al forget it. God finally intervened on that one and millions of other potential disagreements over the years.

When I write about Al, I always ask him if he wants to say something in his defense, and he says, “Just stay sweet.” The years have brought both funny and not so funny stories. Today we laugh at them. Who would have ever guessed that these stories would be published in the newspaper? I am just thankful you didn’t read it on the front page or in the police blotter under domestic violence.

A month ago a woman invited us to a community marriage seminar. She was telling me about the wonderful speakers. Did we look like we needed a marriage seminar? She was taken by surprise when I told her I could teach the speakers more than they could teach me. After fifty years if we haven’t got it yet, we probably won’t.

I told her she didn’t know my sweet Al and neither one of us were going to change. We really like it the way we are. He makes my breakfast every morning, brings me coffee and loves and supports me in my painting and writing. He listens to my Bible studies and rather enjoys them. Now, am I going to change all that? Absolutely not! I’m not taking a chance that the experts in marriage might fill his head with silly notions, like me cooking breakfast for him or going hunting with him.

I look at my sweet Al today, he’s lost his widow’s peek, he still brings me flowers from the yard, a daisy or lilac, he calls me baby doll, tells me every day how much he loves me, and he kisses me goodnight every night. He is there for our children and grandchildren and will do anything for any of us. He is still a young man in love.

Our life has not been the norm but whose has? It’s been a great life. When fools fall in love, nothing else matters. One thing for sure Al has never forgotten an anniversary.

Final Brushstroke! Who wants a second husband, when one will do just fine?

Stirring the Pot - Keeping the Stink in the Air

Perfect for the Pot

A male reader said this week about my column, “You were pretty easy on Al this week.” Another friend asked me, “Is Al okay with what you write about him?” Several women have said, “Your article is the first thing my husband reads.”

Now I am wondering, what entices husbands to run for this column? Are men thinking they go through the same thing and they too stay in hot water? Or poor Al, I know how he feels. Maybe there is some redneck there? Whatever it is, I am thrilled you are reading them.

Al says, “Just don’t make me look like a fool. It sounds like I am a wimp.”

“Believe me, you are not a wimp.” I tell Al. “People love to read what you say.”

Al says about me, “Betty, it is like you having a big pot of dung. You walk by it, stir it and stir it some more. The stink finally settles down, and then you walk by and stir it up again. You keep the stink in the air.”

I laugh and think, “That’s going to be my next article.” With that remark I say, “This is fodder for the pot.” I run to the computer and start writing and I stir it up a little more.

There is a proverb that says, “A women without discretion is like a swine with a gold ring in its nose.” I don’t know what that might mean and I don’t want to know. “Lord, deliver me. I can’t help myself.”

At a family dinner we were having a fun discussion about a television show. I was enjoying the debate and my mind was already forming the next article… until I heard my daughter explain to my grandsons, “It’s like this, we give your grandmother an inch and she takes a mile.”

Is that how my family sees me? “When did I take a mile? I am the one who always goes the second mile, don’t I?” I said, defending myself.

I hope these articles don’t come back to bite me in the backside one day. I can see the sheriff coming to the door taking me away for spousal abuse; the humane society blackballing me from their banquets; the library banning me from the computer room; or the kids committing me to the funny farm as I am yelling, “I thought we were all having fun.”

My sweet Al continued with the debate, “Betty, you ride off without the horse.”

That’s true, I act before I think. When I do, I have writer’s remorse, then I repent and then someone says, “Go girl, I love it, keep writing”, and I do it again.

Then Al says to the kids, “Mom is always getting her boob in the wringer. When will she learn?”

The whole family is shaking their head in disbelief and eyeing me. I act hurt and offended and all the time I am thinking, how can I work this into the next article? Who cares who is right or who is wrong? Apparently some of the family members care.

I should have started out with an alias and lived in Aspen Springs. I could have called Al, Bubba. Too late, I have blown my cover. I can’t help myself. When I go out in public, I feel people looking at me. They point and say, “There’s the woman who writes about poor Al. He must be a saint to put up with her.”

They are right. My sweet Al is a saint and puts up with plenty. Maybe there is such a thing as “Writer’s Anonymous.” I have all these enablers around me. The more they talk the more I write.

Are there any WA meetings around here? I can hear myself say, “I’m Betty, I’ve been sober and I been off the computer for four hours.” They all clap. Then I leave the meeting looking for the nearest computer.

People say they read what I write and they can’t wait for the next article. For some one who has comes off the Lower Blanco, how in the world can I turn that down? For me it is a sweet aroma in the air. So I write, stir up the pot, send the articles to the newspaper. As long as they will print them, I’ll send them.

Have you become enablers to my problem? Everything I hear you say is another good story. It’s not my fault. Send me your comments, apparently I have no discretion, I will share it with all of Pagosa.

I might need you for a character witness some day when I stand before the judge. “Honest Judge, I was not home writing, I haven’t touched my computer; I was in the bar with my friends.”

Final Brushstroke: We are all stirring the pot. It’s kind of how everyone looks at it. It might stink to one but a sweet aroma to another. Thanks for reading.

Stuck in Pagosa - Does any one have a chain?

Gently Drawn Away

Stuck in Pagosa! Some have found themselves too broke to leave, too broke to stay. They are stuck. Others are stuck in their minds. They can’t go back and they can’t go forward. They just rock and spin. They are stuck.

For Al, he’s already been stuck five times this winter and the winter is not over. He rocks the truck, spins his wheels, and he thinks he’s going somewhere. He has learned to keep a chain in the truck and some good soul always seems to come along to help. I have to mention he has also pulled out many cars himself. It’s the Pagosa way.

I found myself stuck in line at the Post Office. Where’s that chain when you need one? I would throw it over one of the rafters. I looked around, seventeen people were standing patiently; I smiled at one of my neighbors and nodded at a couple of women. I gave them the eye and raised eyebrow. It was that nod that says, “Its okay, we live in Pagosa.”

There was one clerk with one leg propped. He rarely looked up, just continued to do his job. The line stopped. I was hoping someone would yell, “Any yellow slips?” No one did.

I wanted to yell “Fire”, but I restrained myself. I just needed a forty-four cent stamp. “Slow down and breathe,” I told myself. I looked around, no one was carrying flammables, liquids, or a bomb. We are relatively safe in Pagosa.

I knew the gentleman in front of me. He was standing braced, his legs locked. He was sleeping. I thought of cow tipping. I nudged him and he jumped.

“I was sleeping” He said. “I have learned how to sleep on my feet. Place your feet this way and you can do it too.” He proceeded to show me how.

This could come in handy but not today, I was ready to move on. I said to him, “I counted seventeen people in line. Isn’t there another clerk?” I looked around; we just added two more people to the line.

He responded in his good nature, “It’s Okay, I’m on the clock.”

My clock was ticking too but it wasn’t my employers. I had things to do and people to see. It didn’t dawn on me that maybe it was the gentleman in front of me who I needed to see.

We continued to talk. Both of our families moved to Pagosa around the same time, thirty-three years ago. We had seen a lot of history go by in our little town and today it was moving in slow motion. But we both agreed there was no other place but Pagosa we would rather be.

“I love the people of Pagosa,” I said.

And he responded, “The people of Pagosa are good people. They love God and they love their families.”

Finally, another clerk came to the counter. We both knew him. My friend in line yelled at him, “How’s one finger?” The clerk with the rubber on his finger smiled at him and got busy.

M friend in line continued to talk, “I knew him when he was a young man in a lot of trouble. He turned his life over to God, and he has really turned out to be a good man.”

“Yes, I know him too. He referees my grandson’s games, and in the summer he is an umpire for the baseball games. Maybe that’s why he does it; he knows how easy it is for young boys to get into trouble. He is a good example of giving back.”

Finally, I reached the clerk with the one finger action. I said to him, “We’ve been talking about you.”

Busily working, he responded, “Yes, that man helped me get my life turned around way back when. He’s a good man.”

I responded, “Yes, that’s what he says about you too.”

Some times it is a good thing getting stuck at the Post Office. You meet people you’ve known forever but haven’t seen for a long time. They remind you why you live here. Even for those in line you don’t know, you all belong.”

Are you stuck in Pagosa? My teenage grandson commented the other day. “I don’t know why all my friends are so ready to get out of here. I love living here.” His mom told him, “It’s because you have lived and been in a lot of places and you know what you are NOT missing.”

We’ve all felt stuck at one time or the other. Whoever gets stuck, we can’t get ourselves out; we need the kindness of our neighbors. We have learned to carry a chain in the trunk and be there for each other.

Where else could you meet someone in the Post Office and reminisce about the good people who have helped you or maybe you’re a link in the chain and made a difference in their life?

There is no place like Pagosa we were rather be. Stuck or not, we are sticking.

Final Brushstroke! Stuck in Pagosa is a good thing. It gives you an opportunity to meet good people and there is always some good soul who will help you through it.