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.