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.