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.