Two Grandmas pumping up for football.

I’m already pumped. Bring it on.

Oh my goodness, we were two grandmothers excited over the first look of our grandsons on the field this season. Football is about to begin. We arrived to see the scrimmage game between Monte Vista and Pagosa Springs.

I saw my friend at the fence line and said, “I’m so nervous, I just had to come to see what the team looks like this year.”

My friend tee hee’d and said, “I’m nervous, too.”

We talked to a couple of the fathers at the fence. I said, “It’s so exciting, isn’t it? What do you think of the team?”

One responded, “We’ll have to wait and see.”

The other father said, “It’s important to these kids. To some of them, this is their biggest moment to shine. They will hold on to this experience the rest of their life.”

“I believe that. Their lives might be mundane, but they will never forget those moments on the field when they were heroes.”

One father said, “My son says he misses everything about the Pagosa Football team. College is different. It’s not the same.”

“I know,” I said. “Last night at the softball game, I asked my grandson, Slade, if he was retiring his number 64. He’s grown up on the football field with that number, and right now he’s wearing the same number on his softball shirt. He’s off to college. I think it hit him that those days have passed when I asked him about his number. Slade thought a moment and said, ‘I might have to come back next year to play softball again.’”

After small talk with a couple of the fathers, my friend and I made our way to the stands. She was sporting the latest fashion with a zebra strip umbrella under her arm and a light pink raincoat in case of rain. For me, I go for comfort with my stadium seat, my stand-by layers and a big coat.

Grant it, it was just a scrimmage, the scoreboard was empty, lights out, our cameraman was sitting on top of the goalpost taking pictures, but we were acting like two gitty teenage girls hoping we might get to wear our grandson’s jerseys during the game.

The boys were not dressed in their uniforms, and they were wearing practice jerseys with no numbers. My friend said, “I can’t tell who’s who.”

“I know, I can’t either. Where is your grandson?”

“He’s the one with the black thing in front.”

“I laughed. The black thing?”

“Yes, you know that thing he has to wear.”

“What is it called?”

“I don’t know. Is Creede wearing his gold shoes?” She asked.

“I don’t see his pink socks or gold shoes. But he’s got #1 on his back, I can tell who he is, he’s the big guy.”

During this practice game I was looking for the big guy wearing #1 and she was looking for the player with the little black thing on his front.

The rain came, my friend opened up her Zebra design umbrella, everyone else filed out one by one. We cozied up against each other and watched the scrimmage game until they called it off because of rain.

We sat drenched in the stadium. Wild horses couldn’t drag us away. I asked, “Where are the fans going? If they leave now, what’s going to happen when it’s 5 below and they are sitting on metal seats?”

She agreed.

It was just a scrimmage game, but I’ve already put it on Facebook to all my friends, sent the first pictures of the team and bragged about our boys. I’m already pumped. Did I see magic on the field? No, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the biggest guy out there wearing number one, and she followed the boy with the black thing in front. Two Grandmothers were as happy as they could be.

Final Brushstroke! What is it about football, grandsons and living their dream? See you at the games. Football has begun.

If you should live long enough!

I don’t get it! If you should live long enough…

When did it happen? I can’t figure it out. My children are beginning to correct me in public. My daughter tells me, “Mother, don’t act that way. You’re acting like an old person. Don’t wear that! You’ve got to get rid of that! Don’t say that, old people do that. Be kind. You are embarrassing us.”

I remember the day when I was the mother and they were the children, and I corrected them. They did things that embarrassed me and I corrected them in public. It was my place to make sure they didn’t eat with their mouths open, they dressed properly, and I’d tell them what to say. You need to apologize, you need to say thank you, and you need to be polite.

Now the tables have turned. My daughter says to me, “Mother, we are not going to let you get old. She fusses with my hair in public, straightens my shirt and tells me I need to get on the treadmill.“ I realize it’s all for my own good. I used to know what was for my own good, but now my children are telling me.

I was standing in line at Costco. An older lady, probably 80 years old, was standing in front of me arguing with the young twenty-year-old clerk. The lady had ordered a pizza with everything on it.

The young girl said, “Do you mean a Supreme?”

The older lady in her crustiness said, “I said everything. I’ve been coming here for twenty-seven years, and when I said everything, they knew what everything meant.”

“So you want a supreme.” The girl started rattling off the toppings.

The woman said, “I said everything. You kids today don’t know anything.”

I looked at the poor young girl at the counter. This lady had just ruined her day. I thought to myself, “I don’t ever want to be that way. Old people speak their mind and they don’t care who they hurt. Am I doing that? The way my children are correcting me lately, maybe I’m doing the same thing.

Years ago, I remember Al’s mother. She was from Texas, proud of it and told everyone. She talked loud and embarrassed all of us. Her voice carried for miles. She would tell the cashier all her problems and ailments and her voice reverberated through the whole store. She didn’t care who heard. In fact, I think she rather enjoyed being heard.

I’d tell Al, “Those cashiers don’t want to hear about your mother’s problems or if she is regular or not. Why does she do that? What is that all about?”

 I remember someone correcting her. They told her she was too loud. She said, “I’m not going to suppress my lungs for anyone and I’m proud to be a Texan.” Then she would relay the story to everyone, “Nobody’s going to tell me what I should say or not say.”

Oh me, I believe this next phase of life is just beginning. I guess you can go two ways. You can become childlike or be cantankerous and obnoxious. My desire has been to grow old in grace. I don’t think it’s happening.

Our children think my Sweet Al is so cute and is getting cutter all the time. He’s wearing his pants high and his favorite red socks, which he wears all the time.

I tell Al, “Don’t go to the girl’s work. They are working and you will get them in trouble.” He goes anyway. They are glad to see him.

I tell him, “Don’t take Daisy, our daughter’s dog, by her work, she’s busy.” He does it anyway. She thinks he is so cute, so do the other cashiers.

He picked up two pairs of orange coveralls at a garage sale. I told him he shouldn’t wear them to town, they will think he has just escaped from the county jail and they will arrest him. He doesn’t listen. He wears them anyway. My daughters think their Daddy is the cutest thing ever in his orange coveralls.

Our other daughter was telling me how cute this older couple was. She said she wanted to cry, the little old man reminded her of her Daddy. He was pushing the cart for his wife, he was carrying his wife’s white purse over his shoulder and she was shopping.

I don’t get it. They think their Daddy is cute and they think I’m this old person who needs to be corrected, and fixed up before I go out in public, and that I need to get back on the treadmill. They’re not looking at me with the same adoring eyes.

Final Brushstroke! I guess things come back around if you live long enough. My children are not seeing me old and cute. They are insisting that I should be this new fifty in this seventy-year-old body and mind. It ain’t working very well.

Holes in our pocket? Time to sew them up!

Don’t think I’m saying people are out to get us. But I am seeing things as they are. Al and I haven’t taken time to notice how things are stripping us of the few coins in our pockets.

It’s those little things that go unnoticed. For instance, today I had a rude awakening when I was going through old homeowner’s insurance policies. I knew the premiums were inching up twenty or thirty dollars a month over the last few years. I’ve been too busy to question the bills. I just pay them.

Our homeowner’s insurance went up because the insurance company decided we needed more coverage. Our premium has gone up $800.00 from 2011 until now. I called the agent. I told him, “It’s just not right, you increased the policy, and you didn’t even ask us.”

He said, “Oh, I see you’ve got the Platinum Package.”

“I don’t want the Platinum Package.”

“We can put you into the Gold Package. Your premium will go down $400.00.”

“I’m looking for another insurance company.”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Slade you feel that way.”

Then the agent for my 20% supplementary insurance policy sent notice this month that they will be increasing my monthly premium to $300.00 a month, which will be automatically withdrawn from my account.

I called the agent and told him, “Cancel it.”

His response was, “Why?”

“Because, between Al and I our 20% supplementary insurance will be costing us $600.00 a month. We would rather go on a cruise.”

“Are you going with someone else?”

“Probably, we don’t need your services at this price. I am never sick. I haven’t made a claimed on this insurance for the past six years. Why are you going up on me?”

He didn’t answer my question, but said, “You have the L Plan, since you aren’t sick or use the insurance, we can move you into the F Plan. That means, your premium will go down from $300.00 to $124.00 a month. The only problem, you won’t have total coverage. You will have to pay $2,400 over the 80% that Medicare will pay. Then your insurance will kick in.”

“I’ll have to think about it. I’ll call you.”

How do they all get their hands in my pocket, and unabashedly just take money out of my account? They act totally innocent. Then, to add fuel to the situation, they try to sell me something else. Why didn’t they sell that to me in the first place?

Part of understanding the change my Sweet Al and I are going through, I’m starting to look at some of these things. It’s time to start questioning these people who I thought had our best interest in mind. Hello! They are in the insurance business. They are selling insurance. Of course, they are going to put us into the Platinum Plan or the L plan.

In the past I’ve let Al handle it. I didn’t question it. It’s time to get the sewing machine out and sew up some of these holes in our pockets. I’ve got to smarten up. I’m shopping around. I’m asking questions. Amazing, how agents seem to become more workable, creative and have a better plan. I don’t want to mess with these things, but I have to.

I remember years ago saying to my longtime friend, Betty Lucero, “Why is it always a fight?”

She said, “Why do you see it as a fight? You are just confronting the situation. Don’t see it as a fight.”

Final Brushstroke! Okay, it’s not a fight. It’s time to confront these things that are stripping us of our coins. It’s time to sew the holes up in our pockets. 

A Redheaded-90-Year-Old Grandmother!

I should’ve seen her coming. I should’ve known I was about to blow sky high. When you put a Cel phone into the hands of a 90-year-old grandmother, it is like putting a Porsche into the hands of a sixteen year old. It gives them the license to squeal their wheels, conquer their world, and the power to say, “I’ve arrived.”

Well, I also arrived early at my watercolor class. I have a method of setting up, getting ready to dazzle the guests at the Wyndham Resorts with my 45 years of art experience and knowledge. The students arrived early and found a place where they would create a beautiful watercolor. It was their moment to discover the world of art in Betty Slade’s watercolor class. Yes, it would be a moment of greatness for everyone. It didn’t exactly happen that way.

I noticed a little redheaded lady playing with her phone. I know how it feels to conquer technology in your later years. It’s like standing on a mountaintop and shouting, “Look what I’ve got. I even know how to use it.”

Ten minutes before the class began, grandma received a phone call. I thought it would be quick. After all, these students paid to learn how to paint. The call went on and on. The students were looking at me, at her, and then back at me.

I introduced myself over the muffled voice coming from the phone, and then I had the students introduce themselves and tell a little about their art experience and where they were from. Grandma was still talking on the phone.

 I looked at the clock. It was 8:55. We still had a few minutes before we started. I sent the list around for them to sign in. I did all the preliminaries. Grandma was still talking.

When the clock struck 9 am, I said to her, “Please take your call outside.” She held up her hand and shook her head. I said it again only with more authority, “You need to take your call outside.” She shook her head again and put her hand over her eyes.

Remember, the rest of the class was looking to me to do something. Their eyes were going back and forth from me to her. They were waiting patiently.

I needed to do something to save the day. I looked at her niece who came with her. She looked the other way.

Finally, grandma put down her phone and I said very stoutly, “Everyone, please turn off your phone. It is not right for the other students when your phone rings. It disturbs the class. It’s courtesy.”

She said with entitlement, “That was a very important phone call, I needed to take it.”

“I don’t care, it’s disturbing to the class.”

Then she said, “I was talking to the people at the Arlington Cemetery. They are going to handle my dead husband’s ashes.”

I looked at her sternly. She wasn’t going to pull that card on me. I said, “It’s rude to talk in front of people and keep everyone waiting.”

The class gulped and softened with a quiet, “Oh, how sad.” They had switched allegiance to her side.

But, I didn’t waiver, I said to her, “Please turn off your phone.”

Finally, we all pulled ourselves together and continued creating beautiful watercolors. That evening Al and I met with our children for pizza. One of our daughters said, “Mother, tell them about the 90-year-old woman at your painting class.”

I was still a little upset about it all, but I put on my storytelling hat, gave a slight laugh, and began telling about my experience that morning.

My other daughter said, “Mother, what’s wrong with you. You didn’t have to use that tone. You could have softened it. You’ve been angry lately, I’ve not known you to be this way.”

“It wasn’t my fault. It was her fault. She was using her dead husband’s ashes to be rude.”

My son-in-law jumped into the conversation and took my side. He told of his woe about a phone call earlier that day during a meeting. He understood.

I quipped back, “It’s just rude.”

“But you should have been nice.”

“I was, I was just stern.”

“You could have said it with a different tone. Did you apologize?”

“No. She should have apologized.”

“Mother, you need to be kind.”

We left the restaurant and the pizza was lodged in my throat. I was determined never to tell my family anything else again, except maybe to my son-in-law. But, then again, I’ll have to choose my stories. He gets a little uptight about these articles. Oh me, what’s a person to do?

Final Brushstroke! I should have taken the higher ground and been kinder. Sometimes it feels so good to wallow in the mud, even if it’s just for a few minutes, but it doesn’t produce a good night sleep. I’ll try to be kinder next time.

Writers don’t always love their words!

Oh for heaven’s sake, I was on my way to a writer’s conference to learn how to be a wordsmith. I should not be in public when I’m tired and overworked. I knew I was verging on overload, but it did not come out until I was in the car with three other fellow writers.

We picked up a writer on the way. She was very tall and very thin, probably 6’2”, 98 pounds. With a little makeup and a new haircut, she could be beautiful.

I decided to make small talk. I should’ve stopped there. I didn’t. I asked her how big her farm was.

She said 259 acres and she owned 29 alpacas.

I knew what it took for Al to keep up our few acres on the Blanco, so I said to her,

“Do you work your ranch all by yourself? You look too weak to do all that.”

She bolted out of her skin. “I’ve never been called weak.”

I quickly said, “Maybe, I meant to say frail.”

“My friends know that I’m not weak. Give me your hand.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it until it hurt and turned blue.

I pulled it away and shook it to get the blood circulating again. “I believe you. You are strong.”

She was probably thinking, This little fatty is calling me weak, I could beat her at arm wrestling.

I wasn’t going to give her my hand again, but I was digging the hole deeper. Why didn’t I shut up? Remember, I’m tired and overworked, and I shouldn’t be in public. I asked, “Does anyone help you with the work?”

She was not ready to give it up. She said,  “No. I had some big poles in my barn and they were in my way. I got a rope and threw it over the rafter, and I pulled them up one by one, and I moved all those poles by myself. I can’t believe you think I’m weak. The only thing I don’t do is tune my tractor once a year, but I do everything else.”

“That’s amazing, I know that Al tries to do everything himself, too. He can’t keep up with everything, and we don’t have alpacas.”

The four writers went to the all day meeting. Afterwards, we jumped back into the car, all except for Jesus. We left him in Montrose, CO. That was another mistake. We made our six-hour trip home.

My comments really disturbed her. She must take great pride in doing all that work herself. Half way home we stopped the car, and everyone went into the store except for the two of us.

She got out of the car and walked around. She said, “I have to work the kinks out in my long legs, I’m not use to sitting this long.”

“I understand.”

She hit me again, “I can’t believe you said I was weak.”

“Well, it was a compliment.” Listen to what I said next. “You don’t look like an old ranch woman, I see you as a genteel lady. You don’t look like a raw bone cow. I thought that was a farmer’s term of endearment.” Then I said, “Maybe it is your soft voice and baby talk. Your voice is so soft.”

She bolted back, “I taught school for 30 years, they didn’t want to hire me because I talked so soft, but I had no problem with disciplining the children, they rather liked that I talked soft.”

“That’s nice.”

At our family’s Sunday night dinner, I was re-hashing the trip. My daughter said, “Sounds like you stepped in it and spent the whole trip scraping your foot in the grass to get it off.  You should’ve just changed shoes.”

My Sweet Al said, “You should have said--”

I held up my hand and said, “No, Al, I think I said enough.

My daughter warns people, don’t ask her opinion after 9pm. She knows when she is tired and the gate latch is loose, she will tell you what she is really thinking. Her friends know to leave at 9 o’clock.

Final Brushstroke: So here’s my warning: Don’t mess with me when I’m tired and overworked. A writer doesn’t always love her own words, but she’s going to say them anyway, and then probably write about it.

A Redheaded-90-Year-Old Grandmother!

I should’ve seen her coming. I should’ve known I was about to blow sky high. When you put a Cel phone into the hands of a 90-year-old grandmother, it is like putting a Porsche into the hands of a sixteen year old. It gives them the license to squeal their wheels, conquer their world, and the power to say, “I’ve arrived.”

Well, I also arrived early at my watercolor class. I have a method of setting up, getting ready to dazzle the guests at the Wyndham Resorts with my 45 years of art experience and knowledge. The students arrived early and found a place where they would create a beautiful watercolor. It was their moment to discover the world of art in Betty Slade’s watercolor class. Yes, it would be a moment of greatness for everyone. It didn’t exactly happen that way.

I noticed a little redheaded lady playing with her phone. I know how it feels to conquer technology in your later years. It’s like standing on a mountaintop and shouting, “Look what I’ve got. I even know how to use it.”

Ten minutes before the class began, grandma received a phone call. I thought it would be quick. After all, these students paid to learn how to paint. The call went on and on. The students were looking at me, at her, and then back at me.

I introduced myself over the muffled voice coming from the phone, and then I had the students introduce themselves and tell a little about their art experience and where they were from. Grandma was still talking on the phone.

 I looked at the clock. It was 8:55. We still had a few minutes before we started. I sent the list around for them to sign in. I did all the preliminaries. Grandma was still talking.

When the clock struck 9 am, I said to her, “Please take your call outside.” She held up her hand and shook her head. I said it again only with more authority, “You need to take your call outside.” She shook her head again and put her hand over her eyes.

Remember, the rest of the class was looking to me to do something. Their eyes were going back and forth from me to her. They were waiting patiently.

I needed to do something to save the day. I looked at her niece who came with her. She looked the other way.

Finally, grandma put down her phone and I said very stoutly, “Everyone, please turn off your phone. It is not right for the other students when your phone rings. It disturbs the class. It’s courtesy.”

She said with entitlement, “That was a very important phone call, I needed to take it.”

“I don’t care, it’s disturbing to the class.”

Then she said, “I was talking to the people at the Arlington Cemetery. They are going to handle my dead husband’s ashes.”

I looked at her sternly. She wasn’t going to pull that card on me. I said, “It’s rude to talk in front of people and keep everyone waiting.”

The class gulped and softened with a quiet, “Oh, how sad.” They had switched allegiance to her side.

But, I didn’t waiver, I said to her, “Please turn off your phone.”

Finally, we all pulled ourselves together and continued creating beautiful watercolors. That evening Al and I met with our children for pizza. One of our daughters said, “Mother, tell them about the 90-year-old woman at your painting class.”

I was still a little upset about it all, but I put on my storytelling hat, gave a slight laugh, and began telling about my experience that morning.

My other daughter said, “Mother, what’s wrong with you. You didn’t have to use that tone. You could have softened it. You’ve been angry lately, I’ve not known you to be this way.”

“It wasn’t my fault. It was her fault. She was using her dead husband’s ashes to be rude.”

My son-in-law jumped into the conversation and took my side. He told of his woe about a phone call earlier that day during a meeting. He understood.

I quipped back, “It’s just rude.”

“But you should have been nice.”

“I was, I was just stern.”

“You could have said it with a different tone. Did you apologize?”

“No. She should have apologized.”

“Mother, you need to be kind.”

We left the restaurant and the pizza was lodged in my throat. I was determined never to tell my family anything else again, except maybe to my son-in-law. But, then again, I’ll have to choose my stories. He gets a little uptight about these articles. Oh me, what’s a person to do?

Final Brushstroke! I should have taken the higher ground and been kinder. Sometimes it feels so good to wallow in the mud, even if it’s just for a few minutes, but it doesn’t produce a good night sleep. I’ll try to be kinder next time.