A Teachable Moment!

I’ve been waiting to write this for some time. I just didn’t know how to address it until I received an e-mail from our son. I have been appalled at the drug situation.

Colorado and Washington have legalized marijuana, now the government wants to make us an example for other states to follow. They are encouraging banks to loan money and make it a viable business. What are they thinking? We are going to be a doped up society.

We keep hearing about young people dying. It’s stirring up other situations and trouble. People are losing their jobs because they can’t pass a drug test, they are driving under the influence, and stealing to keep up with their habit. There is nothing good coming from these recreational drugs. It leads to cocaine and heroin. Our young people have been sold a bag of goods. They are getting mixed signals. They think it’s okay because it’s legal.

My son-in-law says the people voted it in, and therefore the people in charge are dealing with what they’ve been dealt with.

I say I didn’t vote it in and I don’t like it. I think the powers-to-be who lead this community should make choices for our wellbeing. Instead of worrying about places to sell recreational drugs or collecting taxes and making revenue for our county, why are they not fighting to get these drugs out of this county? They are robbing our young people of their potential. If you say I don’t know what I’m talking about, I assure you I do.

I painted an oil painting thirty years ago of a father and son and his dog standing under a tree. It was titled “A Teachable Moment.” I painted it during the darkest time of our lives when our son starting using recreational drugs and pulled away from the family.  We lost our voice in our son’s life and that teachable moment when he should have been learning about life instead of deadening his emotions toward dealing with things.

We didn’t know it then, because Al and I were too naïve to think it would happen to one of our children. We just knew our fifteen-year-old son was angry and withdrew from us. He blamed us for everything and caused havoc at every turn. He went to the streets of Albuquerque at sixteen. It was almost a relief for him to be out of our house. But our clean-cut, beautiful blond hair boy with all of his potential went to the gutters of Albuquerque and we didn’t have any say. He was out from our authority.

Later, when we found out he was on cocaine, I begged him to stop. I told him every time he took drugs he was killing his brain cells. He said to me, “I love cocaine. I’m not stopping.” The drug dealers were in management in his company he worked for. They were supplying him. I told him I was blowing the whistle on them and going to the police. He begged me not to for fear of what they would do.

Al and I went to the CA meetings. Our son wouldn’t go, but we had to find out how to help him and deal with it. We learned a lot but it didn’t change our son. I prayed until I didn’t have a prayer left in me. It didn’t seem to do any good.

Fifteen years later, at thirty he said he woke up and looked in the mirror and said to himself, “I want more than what I have right now.” He said that God did it, he liked cocaine too much and he didn’t have the power to get out of that addiction, but he said God took the craving away from him.

He took the first step of moving away from Albuquerque and the lifestyle he was in. He made very good money, but he was in debt up to his eyeballs because it was all going up his nose. He transferred to the home office of the company he worked for. All to say, it was a hard road for him, but he pulled out of the dark hole he dug for himself.

He confessed later that every time he took cocaine he prayed to God that he wouldn’t die. He said that he could have died with an overdose so many times. He said he should’ve been dead. It was only God’s grace that we weren’t attending our son’s funeral. Not like Al’s brother who is still grieving over his son’s needless death because of an overdose. He left two teenage daughters with the pain.

I received an e-mail from our son. He said, “I have everything I want, but I just want to be loved. I always mess up relationships. I deadened my feelings all of those years by using drugs, now I’m beginning to feel again.  This was one of those teachable moments that I wished for back when he was sixteen. He pulled away from the people who loved him, and he missed those years of growing up.

Now at forty-five, he’s crying out for love. He called himself stupid. I told him it’s not stupid, but it is the human cry in every one’s heart to be loved. He’s just beginning to feel again. It was that teachable moment when a forty-five year old man came home like a little boy crying to his mother.

Final Brushstroke! If you think you’re functioning just fine under the influence of drugs, you aren’t. Our son could hold down a job and did fine at work, even moved up in his company. He fooled us for many years and fooled himself. He lost his youth. He says today his teenage and twenties are just a blur. Now he’s dealing with a broken heart.

We need to wake up and smell the coffee. Every time I hear something that the powers-to-be say in the SUN, it sounds ridiculous. Apparently they have never had a child on drugs? I’d like to tell them, don’t coddle and pet this thing, we’ve got to fight it. It’s taking the life of our children.

While Writing Under the Influence…

If you’ve beat the Virus, you’ve got some grit. You deserve a badge for Life. Only those who had it knows how sick you can be, and what it takes to get well.

It all started on the tenth day of recovering from the Virus. I arrived at the Clinic, with a bottle of cough medicine under my belt, and medicine prescribed from the Emergency Room Staff.

The man at the admission counter was too, too, pretty. His flowing palomino white mane and mustache-to-match caught my attention. I made a mental note. I need to write about him when I get well. The lady at the first desk recognized my name and said, “I know Sweet Al.” And, immediately we bonded. I found a friend.

I sat down to wait. My daughter said, “Mother, you’re sitting on the wrong side. The sick patient side is over there.” I thought it was funny they had a well patient side.  As I blew, sneezed, hawked and coughed, the well patients all gladly moved to the sick patient side.

I said to her, “I don’t know their routine. I think I better stay here. The well patients won’t appreciate me following them to the sick side.”

“Mother, put on this mask.” Angel, my daughter handed me a mask and a germ free tissue. “Wipe your hands.”

I did what she told me to do. My body was so hot my glasses were fogging up as I tried to breathe into the mask. I couldn’t see. Steam was coming off me like a cup of hot coffee. I could’ve cooked an egg in the palm of my hand.

All I could think, I’m going to die. I was waiting for the big white light to lead me down a tunnel. In that moment of total despair, Cindy appeared in the light. She explained what I needed to do. “We’re going to give you stronger medicine. Your liver is abnormal, your white cells are too high, and your blood pressure is way too high. This Virus has been brutal to your body.”

I understand now why a sick person will deed everything they have over to a nurse. When you are that sick, you are so grateful for anyone who will protect you from yourself or the world, because you feel so helpless.

Cindy tried to explain what I needed to do. Nothing she said registered. “Get more tests. Go there on Thursday and here on Friday, don’t take any more of that, take this.” I couldn’t connect the dots. Finally, she recognized I wasn’t there. She wrote everything down, she guided me in and out, and took my hand like a little child.

I wanted to assure everyone I was sick and I didn’t normally act this way. I said, “I usually have a quick mind. I’m aware that I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer at the moment. I can’t connect.”

Everything had gone into slow motion. I felt like Tim Conway in the dentist office. The nurses’ staff all nodded their heads and looked at me with pity. That was my sickest day, the scariest day, and the beginning of my get well day.

David, Al’s brother called every day to keep me in touch with the death rate, he said he didn’t think he was going to make it, either. He was tough, but this one almost done him in. This Virus had kept the Old Grey Wolf out of the chicken coop for four weeks. Those little chicks were fluttering around and were frustrated and they wanted him back in the chase. They were calling him again. I was thinking, Give the poor old man a rest. He’s been near death. Isn’t this a wakeup call?

Operating under codeine, everything became funnier and there was another and another story to write. My mind was checking back in.

I thought I was getting better and I wanted to get back to doing what I needed to do. This is when writing under the influence is not good. I sent off a couple of scorching letters, but I added, “I’m sick, too sick to deal with pleasantries.” I figured that was my disclaimer and I got to write what I wanted to say.

I had put my newly appointed office with our Southwest Writers Group on hold. One of my jobs was to schedule speakers for the year’s calendar. I was going on the third week of this wicked Virus, and I was beating it, especially with more cough syrup.

You got it, I wrote to this international speaker, who I don’t know, but who I found very warm and open. The more I wrote, the funnier I got. (Of course that was in my own sick mind.) I had written pages to her and waxed eloquent in humor. I had never been so clever.

The next morning, I realized I was under the influence of Codeine and I had shown her the treasury. It was a case of King Hezekiah. He was given another chance to live and became very generous. Not wise, but generous to his enemy.

I knew I had to apologize for myself and to tell her that my actions shouldn’t be a reflection on this group. I blamed it on the codeine. I had to undo what I had done. When I began to write, I wrote even more humorous and couldn’t stop typing. For this speaker who I don’t know, who flies all over the country speaking in conferences, I wrote volumes and volumes.

She wrote back: “And, just between you and me, when I take certain meds, my husband takes away the car keys and locks down my computer.”

I think she was telling me something, but I thought she was being funny. So, I wrote funny back, “Wise husband. I’m going to have to duct tape my fingers together so I won’t type. My Sweet Al says, ‘There are only two tools you need in your toolbox, duct tape and vise grips.’ If I don’t quit writing it will be vise grips for me.”

Final Brushstroke! When I’m back in my right mind, I’m going to have to survey the damage. It’s dangerous to write under the influence of cough medicine. You’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer and you think you’re funnier than you really are. 

Sweet Al - Please Pull the Plug!

The conversation came up between my daughter and I. We had heard a report that the parents of a young girl wouldn’t pull the plug. Their daughter was brain dead and she was being kept alive on a machine. The hospital didn’t have room to keep her, so they moved her to a special room where she remained hooked up. Her parents couldn’t let her go.

I said to Allison, “They should just let her go and be with Jesus. She’s trapped. Don’t do that to me.”

“I know.”

“No, I’m serious. Let me tell you now. You know how your daddy is? He gets really sentimental. You’re going to have to be the one.  Your dad would have me on a machine for years caught between heaven and earth, visiting me every day, bringing me flowers and crying over me. He’ll listen to you, he always does. If he can’t pull the plug, just go over and pull it for him.”

That conversation happened probably fifteen days before I got sick. After seven days with that wicked virus I found myself lying in the ER for 5 hours. If I could’ve, I would’ve pulled my own plug.

I realized we’re not as tough as we sound. Al had a cold 3 days before. He went to bed and slept. He was no problem. He didn’t need any care. I went on about my business.

Now I’m sick. He became the caregiver he was destined for. He became my loyal companion. He busily sang and whistled as he folded clothes and fluffed up my pillow. He said, “I could have been a good care giver.”

“Yes you are, Honey.”

He squared the pillow and put it in the pillowcase perfectly. He made the bed and turned down the sheet for me to get back into the bed. He changed the bedding four or five times that week and had the washer going all the time. I woke up in deep cold sweats with germs flying all over, but he didn’t leave my side.

He folded his nice soft white handkerchiefs and stacked them on my nightstand. He’d draw my bath every morning, light a couple of candles, and helped me into a bubble bath. He’d spray the room with disinfectant. He’d give me medicine, which my daughter dropped off for me.

 A couple of years before when I got a new bedspread with shams, I showed him to grow the flowers upward. Now I was sitting in the chair watching him make the bed, turning the sham one way, and then another way, trying to figure out how the flowers were supposed to be. My heart leaped for joy just looking at the beautiful heart of this man who has been my life partner.

Over the years, the kids made their dad promise not to wash their clothes when they came home. He’d put their sweaters in the dryer, and wash darks and lights together. He ruined their clothes but with all good intentions of being a good dad and wanting to help.

So when I told him, “I’m too sick to care, just wash them anyway you want, darks with lights.” I just made my Sweet Al a happy man.

Communication became a strain. I couldn’t talk over a whisper. If I said anything, he’d say, “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“No tell me.”

“It hurts too much to talk.”

“It’s okay, I’ll listen.”

Our daughter came over and I’d lip something to her, then she’d tell her dad. I said to him, “You’re going to have to learn to read my lips.”

“What did you say? Tell me again.”

“I can’t. It hurts too much.”

I called Allison about the fourth day and said in a low voice. “It hurts too much to talk, just listen.  Your dad is giving me all this stuff. He doesn’t have his glasses on and he can’t find them. Should I be concerned? I don’t feel great.”

“Oh you’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

I said to Al, “I’m not taking another pill until I see the bottle and read the instructions.”

I slept for days. I was in a deep sleep when I heard a gong. I thought it was resurrection morning. I couldn’t remember if Jesus said he’d come back with a big bell or on a white horse, but all of a sudden it didn’t matter. I knew the bell was tolling for me.

I looked up to see Al standing at the end of our bed with a six-pound cowbell from outside. He was smiling. He was afraid he wouldn’t hear me if I needed something. He had it figured out.

“Honey, I can’t hear you when you talk. I’m going to put this on the bed next to you on this towel, and when I’m out of the room if you need anything, just ring it.”

I looked at it. “Al, it’s so heavy I can’t pick it up.” This guy thinks with his heart, it might not make sense, but I’ve always known where his heart is. It’s always full of love for me.

Then Al’s brother called every day from Albuquerque, reporting another person died because of this virus, flu bug and cold. I had been seven days on home remedies, and I wasn’t getting better, but worse.

Then Al got sentimental, “I love you too much to let anything happen to you. My brother said to take you to the doctor. You can’t fool around with this stuff.” And you know, if his brother says it, my Sweet Al is going to do it.

“I don’t have a doctor.”

“We’ll just get in the car and I’ll drive from one doctors’ offices to another until we find someone who will see you and give you a prescription.”

“In a few quiet words, I said, “No, you’re not going to drive me all over town looking like this.”

“But my brother keeps calling and telling me the death rate is rising. It’s now up to six.”

“The only place I’m going is to the emergency room.” And that’s how I ended up in the ER.

Next week’s article, it’s been almost twenty-one days, and I’m getting better. This cough is brutal. I got hold of the cough medicine and drank it all in one day. You can’t imagine how funny I can be while writing under the influence.

Final Brushstroke! I don’t think I’m as tough as I think I am. One thing for certain, life goes on and everyone is too busy to stop. If you’re really blessed you’ll have a Sweet Al who’ll take great joy in taking care of you. He’s been put to the test and he hasn’t wavered at all. No, there’s no way my Sweet Al could pull the plug.

How about those Ladies!

It was not quite a year ago, I stood beside a young tall girl who was hanging onto her mother in a rambunctious crowd. The two were watching the cameras flashing as the Pagosa boys were holding up their State First Place trophy. The boys passed the coveted golden object around to the other champion players.

The girls basketball team had been forgotten in the school parking lot for a moment, no mention was made of the girl’s accomplishment.  The young girl was doing everything she could do holding back the tears. Her heart was breaking.

I wanted to console her. I said to her, “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

She said, “Yes it is.”

The Pagosa Boys Basketball team had just returned with First Place at State. Key people were called from Wolf Creek Pass to get everyone ready to give the boys an entrance of their lifetime. “They’re coming. They have just gone over the Pass.”

Facebook, texting, phone calls and e-mail spread throughout the town. On Sunday afternoon, the good fans of Pagosa were there to welcome the boys home from State. Bright yellow signs, decorated cars and trucks with balloons, and flags were waiting for the Big Yellow Bus. The Press was there with a notebook and camera. Even Ron was there in his clown suit. It was the greatest moment for the Pagosa Boys Basketball Players since 1960.

The school bus windows went down, the boys leaned out the windows, and they knew they were heroes. It was like a scene from an old movie.  After the bus passed, the cars followed the players to the Pagosa High School parking lot. They were just boys, but they came home as men.

At the parking lot I asked, “Where’s the girls?”

“Oh they planned it for them to come in early so they wouldn’t feel badly.”

“They shouldn’t feel badly at all, they lost only one game at State. They went all the way, too. They ran up and down the courts as many times as the boys. They just didn’t get the trophy.”

As I reflect back to last year, I can only imagine the tears and the joy that went on in the Lucero family. Their son won First Place, their daughter didn’t. They both practiced and played their hearts out. That was the boys’ year, most of them were seniors, and they only had that year to prove they could do it and get a scholarship for college. A lot was riding on it for the boys.

The girls had another year to be more seasoned. They are on a roll, rolling down the highway in that big yellow school bus, going from here to there. To date, they have won all their games.

I believe today, if I had a chance to talk to the same young girl standing in the crowd with her mother, I would probably say to her, “Last year made you hungry, didn’t it? Your whole team became one from that experience, no one knows how it felt but the team.”

Final Brushstroke! I always love watching Hoosier. I remember the coach saying, “We have to break them down, in order to build them into a team to play as one.” I believe last year was the girl’s breaking-down season. They will never forget how it felt to come in second. It was harsh, but look at the girls this year! I’m putting my money on them.

Cut off at the Pass

One thing for sure, when you write a weekly column, you’re an open book to the world you live in. I would think if you are hiding a secret, cheating on your mate, or treating your neighbor badly, it’ll come out some way. It can’t be helped. It’s a small town and a small world we live in.

One of the reasons I feel like I can write what I do, I try to check my motives, my heart, and I figure its just life. I pray the Holy Spirit will read these articles to you. God keeps me on a short tether. Before the sun goes down, if I’ve done anything I’m ashamed of, or if there is someone I need to forgive or apologize for what I said or wrote, I can’t rest until I make it right. It’s that built-in Life of Christ in me. Believe me, the Lord wakes me in the night hour. I know when He’s talking. I know to listen.

There have been a few things I have written, which I wished I hadn’t. But, I trust the readers have overlooked them. They probably aren’t as important or close to home as they were to me. Everyone reads from his or her own heart. Making Al look badly is probably my greatest fear. He’s the love of my life.

Something has been bothering me for the last couple of weeks. I wrote a Movie Review on Cowboys*Indians, which was a movie by Ian McCrudden and his Pagosa-based production company, Epiphany Pictures.

I took a different voice. I looked at the way it was executed; the editing, sound, lighting and story structure. I kept my feelings out of it. I was very generous toward the film. I still feel like it was done well for the budget he had to work.

I understood it was R rated, but I went. I was really excited about having Mr. McCrudden’s company here and the great opportunity he offered to Pagosa. I overlooked the rating. I touched lightly on the content of the story. I didn’t like the darkness of the human soul, the nudity and the language. It was dark, raunchy and sleazy. I don’t want Pagosa to be represented in that way.

I kept ME out of the message. I didn’t say what I really wanted to say.  I concentrated on the WORK only. The Lord cut me off at the pass on this review and He has been gnawing on me ever since. I might have misled my friends of Pagosa. I need to apologize. I couldn’t say it was acceptable to me because it wasn’t.

Mr. McCrudden, you do not know me. You could be a great asset to our town. You stepped out of a predictable box and took a chance on a different way of producing a movie. You were determined and had the fortitude to push it to completion. You were gracious to the people of Pagosa. We need people like you in our little town.

 We are surrounded by all of this beautiful country, beautiful rivers, and beautiful people. I heard you were coming here to make another picture about an avalanche. I hope you do. I would like to make a couple of suggestions. This is a family town. There is something about the cleanness of the air, the principles parents are instilling in young people and the decency of our town people.

Maybe a good family movie doesn’t have enough teeth in it for you, but you could make some great movies here, like River runs through it, or The Horse Whisper. We have the location.

I hope you read this article. I want to cut you off at the pass now before you start another movie project. I’m only one voice but I know if you come in with good godly principles and make movies here, all of Pagosa will embrace you. We will gladly support you. I’ll sing your praise.

Final Brushstroke: I dug myself out of this avalanche, and I might be looking at another one coming. I’m looking forward to seeing movies made here if they aren’t R rated. I don’t know about R rated. Does it sell more tickets?