Who’s going to take responsibility?

When my nephew and I get together, we usually laugh and laugh about all the nonsense of our family. But this weekend, we didn’t laugh. When I came into the room, Davey stood, walked up to me, draped his arms around me, held on to me, and we cried together.

That Saturday morning, the day before Father’s day, we met for the funeral of Davey’s son. Max had overdosed on heroin. He was only twenty-five years of age. Only two years before, Davey had spoken at his brother’s funeral, Sean, who had overdosed on the same drugs.

Davey spoke at his son’s funeral. Max had won five state championship titles in gymnastics and played football. He had a heart of a competitor and was a true athlete. He had a brilliant mind. He had accomplished a lot in his young life, but his life was over too soon.

Davey asked the questions so many people asked. “Why? Why would he turn to drugs? Why couldn’t he kick this serious drug addiction? Why couldn’t we help him? What more could we have done for him?”

Over the last five years, Max had overdosed several times but didn’t die. My nephew had spent over $200,000 for drug rehab centers to get his son well. Max would get clean, then he’d fall back into the addiction. Davey did everything he could to save his son from drugs. He couldn’t save him.

The last thing he said to his son was, “I love you, Bubby.” The evening before his death, Davey asked his son to meet him the next morning for a men’s breakfast. If Max would go, then he would take him to the Fights the next night. Davey knew how much his son loved going to the Fights.”

Max said, “I don’t know what kind of shape I’ll be in tomorrow morning, but I’ll be there.”

His father said, “It doesn’t matter, just come.” In the middle of the night he overdosed on heroin, he was rushed to the hospital. They couldn’t save him.

My nephew said, “My last words to my son were I love you, Bubby. I’m so thankful those were the words I said. I didn’t yell or accuse him. Only by God’s grace, those were my last words to him.”

I asked Al’s brother about his son’s death. He said, “You’re life changes forever. It’s never the same when you lose a child. You never get over it. It’s so final. I think of him all the time.” His son was only forty-eight years of age and left two teenage daughters behind.

I read an account, which Rick Renner, a pastor wrote of a funeral he conducted for a young man. “The sorrow and remorse in that room was so thick, it could almost be cut with a knife. Nothing is more sadder…. I watched as the mother approached the casket to tell her son good-bye one last time. She was so overwhelmed with grief that she crawled into the casket! She clutched and held tightly to her son’s dead body, pleading, Talk to me! Talk to me! Don’t leave me like this!  Funeral-home workers had to pull the mother out of the coffin and escort her to the limousine that awaited to take her and the rest of the family to the cemetery for the burial.”

Al’s brother told me about one of his girlfriends, who I had written about in this column before. She’s the one with the twin two-year-old girls. She is on meth. Her parents are trying to help her and are taking care of her children.  Why isn’t she taking responsibility for her own life and her daughter’s lives? These little girls will grow up and only know about a mother who is strung out on drugs. Their lives will probably know heartache and maybe even abuse before they’re grown.

When these young people are fighting for their lives because of an overdose, their so-called friends scatter. No one is around. Both deaths in our family, we asked, “Who sold him the drugs? Why wasn’t someone around to help him? Who and where is the young girl he was partying with that night? Someone dropped him off at the hospital and left, why didn’t they leave their name?” These are heart-breaking questions for a parent. They don’t want to believe their child died alone or with some sleaze-ball who sold them the drugs and left their child dying without trying to get help.

My question is, “Who’s going to take responsibility for this drug situation? Teenagers are not old enough to vote for the drugs coming into Colorado. But they are the ones using them.  So who voted these drugs in? Who are the adults here?

I’m talking about recreational drugs. They are addictive and will lead to other kinds of drugs, believe it or not. The sellers aren’t taking responsibility. Why should they? They’re making more money than they know what to do with. Why would they give up a lucrative business?

A drug dispensary in Denver is making stacks and stacks of money. The news reported that when the owner of the dispensary took the money to the bank, it smelled like marijuana and the bank refused to take his money. Now, he has the task of getting the smell out of the money. That’s what he’s worried about, but he’s got the smell of money and that’s a small worry. Is he going to take responsibility of what he’s doing?

Final Brushstroke! Does the responsibility fall on the lawmakers, the voters, the sellers, the parents, the children, or the users? I can’t believe it’s a futile fight. Do we just talk about it and watch the ones we love go to an early grave? Someone needs to take responsibility for what’s going on. Those who term it recreational drugs are fooling themselves. This was no party.

Learning to Live with Grace

Everyone needs grace. I find I hold people to my standard. Oh Me! I’ve always believed what a person puts into life, they will also get out of life. I’ve held many a person’s feet to the fire without grace. I hope I’m changing. Judging is an ugly thing.

At the end of May, I was sitting in the crowd of thousands waiting for the 2014 graduates from a prestige Christian University in California to appear. The first person I recognized, whose name started with an A from the Art Department, was the first person to receive her diploma. Seven hundred and forty-eight graduates followed her.

I leaned over to my daughter and said, “I don’t believe it. Annie is leading the graduates. The last shall be first.”

My daughter laughed and said, “Oh that’s good.”

I had flown to Long Beach on May first to attend my granddaughter’s three-person senior art show. The show was a big chunk of their grade. The art students had known about it at the beginning of their senior year and had worked on it all year. Maybe all knew about it, but all didn’t do it. I guess that is where grace comes in.

Our granddaughter had diligently worked on her assemblage show. She had nine finished pieces. She had labeled each piece, and framed her concept statement. Her parents had come two days earlier to help her putty holes and paint from the previous week’s show. Her father built shelves to hold her pieces. All was well.

Each artist was to have a part of the refreshments. Annie was to bring fruit, Beau was to bring cheese and crackers, and our granddaughter, Tiffany was to bring desserts. Two days before the show, Beau and Tiffany were hanging their pieces, adjusting the track lighting, and sweeping the floor. Tiffany, my daughter and myself shopped for the refreshments the day before. We had lemon squares, brownies and chocolate covered strawberries, and they were all arranged beautifully on trays for the refreshment table.

When I arrived May first, the day before the art show, my daughter said, “Annie is still painting on her show.”

“What? She’s had all year, what is she thinking?”

Each senior art student was given their own 8X8 studio for the year. Annie was in her art studio and was painting on Sunday evening, listening to music and being inspired.  The show was Monday night at 6pm.

I noticed Annie’s work and I almost offered to paint her wrap-around canvases. I said to my daughter, “I hope if she doesn’t frame her work, she will finish the sides, which have messy drips and paint on them. I could do it so easy, since I’ve been mixing paints for years. I could get a perfect match. Should I offer?”

“I’m sure she’ll know to do that.”

“I hope so, it looks like the devil.”

At 5:30 Monday night, we were all at the gallery except Annie. They said Annie was still painting on her paintings. Her mother and sister wanted to know where the wall paint and drop clothe was since she didn’t have all of her pieces finished to hang. They were removing nails from the wall.  In their nice clothes, Annie’s mother and sister were painting the area where the art pieces were to go.

At 5:45, we all said, “Where’s Annie?”

“Oh, she’s still painting.”

Our granddaughter, in her nice flowing gown and high heels pulled the twenty-foot ladder to Annie’s side. She climbed the ladder and adjusted the lighting over Annie’s pieces for her.

At 5:50, Annie’s mother and sister brought in the fruit and put it in the refrigerator. I said, “Do they know to arrange it and put it on a plate? We need to help out.” Beau was on target, his girlfriend was there arrangement his part of the refreshments. Everything was ready except for Annie’s part.

Annie came in at 6pm, at the same time the art show began. With a piece of paper and scotch tape, she taped her concept on the wall. She had no titles on her pieces. I went up to Annie and ask her to explain her show to me. She really didn’t want to talk about it. She had a dynamic concept, she could really paint, but she didn’t execute any of it.

And of course, I noticed the raw unfinished wrap-around canvases. I said, “I should have helped her out, I could have finished them for her.”

My daughter said, “No, it’s her grade. I don’t feel sorry for her, she’s had all year to get ready for her senior show.”

My granddaughter who is the sweet sensitive one, said, “I feel sorry for Annie. She should be enjoying her art show. She’s embarrassed how she looks, she doesn’t want any pictures taken of her.”

My daughter said, “Maybe, the show is overwhelming to her. Her mother and sister are enjoying the show and they aren’t taking care of the refreshments.”

I offered my sentiments. “For crying out loud, she’s a senior and is getting her degree in Fine Arts. She doesn’t know better than to have a show like this?”

The university bought one of our granddaughter’s pictures for their art department. This was the first time that one of their students did an assemblage show. Our granddaughter looked beautiful and she was basking in her first real art show. I was basking in her and her diligence to follow through. She got an A+ from both of her art professors on her show.

During the course of the month of May, one of the family members would say, “Can you believe it, Annie was still painting at 6:50?”

“I can’t believe it.” I had to add my two cents. “Someone paid for Annie’s $200,000 schooling. Does she know the opportunity she had? It’s one of the best art programs in any university in the country. Her art show was a total mess. She now holds a degree in Fine Art from a prestige university.”

“And, who am I to say anything? I don’t have an art degree from any university. But, I do know to replenish the refreshment table at an art show.”

Annie received her art degree on graduation night. Great scholars followed in line to receive their diplomas. We all shook our heads, “I can’t believe Annie is leading the brilliant minds of 2014.”

It’s all about grace, which I didn’t give Annie the grace she needed. I didn’t even want to give her grace. Oh me. I’ve got the problem. I’m the undone one here.

Final Brushstroke: The Lord said the last will be first. Those who worked only an hour shall be paid the same wage as those who worked all day. That thought used to make me mad, until I understood what He was saying. Grace is free, no one can work for it, if you get it the last hour of your life or the first, you get the same. He said, I paid the high price with my very own blood.

Annie will be standing with her diploma and I’ll be telling the Lord, she didn’t do what she was suppose to do with her art show. She didn’t refill the refreshment table.

He will say, “I gave you grace. All I ask is that you love and show grace. Did you do it?”

“Well, No, I was too busy worrying about the unfinished edges on Annie’s artwork.”

The Folly of it All

David, Al’s brother called. He needed a family recipe. He wanted to tell me that he would be hosting the next Wine Tasting Party. He prides himself in being an expert on fine wine and fine gourmet food. He is an excellent cook and everyone wants to be invited to his house for dinner.

He had been invited to a Wine Tasting Party with the elite of Albuquerque. They all showed up with their favorite wines. David took his favorite $100 bottle of wine. Somebody showed up with a $4.00 bottle of wine and another guest only brought a sack of chips.

He told me there were so many people who attended that they made a cut of who would be invited to the next party, which would be at his house. He said he met a couple guests at the grocery store. Apparently, they didn’t make the cut and weren’t invited to the next wine tasting party. They wondered why?

I said, “I guess they were the ones who brought the bag of chips. They might have gone to too many tailgate parties, taking a sack of Doritos and a cooler of beer. Maybe they're out of your league.”

He laughed.

The folly of it all! When Al and I lived in Albuquerque, we were aware we didn’t belong in that circle.  We didn’t even pretend to be a part. We didn’t have that kind of money.

Al’s brother and his second wife belonged to a Gourmet Dinner Club in Albuquerque. They put their foot in the door during the 1960’s and became a part of the Who’s Who of Albuquerque. They were invited to the Governor’s Palace, Premiers and Fundraisers.

David’s second wife dressed on a shoestring, but she looked like a million dollars. They dressed the part and acted the part. The lifestyle suited them. They loved being with the upper crust. They were climbing the proverbial ladder.

His number third and fourth wives were in their early twenties. They became instant invited guests when they came into the picture. They really didn’t fit in. David made sure they shopped at the best stores and went to the best salons in Albuquerque. They didn’t belong, but learned how to look the part. It was who they were with, not who they were. They were with David Slade and they used his money to help them look good.

The few times Al and I were with David’s friends, I heard the men bragging about how much they had to pay off ex-wife number two and three. They were dating number four at the time and wondered if they might be paying more alimony again. They talked about their current purchase of a small plane, or buying stock in a shopping center. It was all about money and moving money.

The wives talked about their latest boob job or their trip for Botox. They also might have discovered a jeweler who custom-designed a ring or a piece of jewelry. Oh, to be that jeweler.

I remember once when David’s number two wife bought a custom ring, every woman in the group flocked to have a piece of jewelry made for them. The jeweler moved from a little hole-in-the wall shop in the back alley, and instantly opened a shop in the big shopping center.

There is old money and new money. The people with the old money are common as old shoes. They were raised with money, they understood money, and they didn’t have to prove themselves.

On the other hand, Albuquerque is full of people with new money. They have to prove themselves. It’s where they shop and what they wear. It’s all about appearance.  They struggle to belong. They buy bigger houses they can’t afford just to look like they can afford them.

I remember a story where the man opens the shoe store. He couldn’t afford the inventory. So, he lined up empty shoeboxes on the shelves. He was fine until someone wanted to see the shoes inside the empty box. He looked successful, but he was empty inside. He attempted to impress rather than what he actually possessed. 

Vanity of vanity, emptiness of emptiness. I can’t imagine living in the emptiness of other people. Some try and are never satisfied, but they still try.

Many people who have rubbed shoulders with the elite have moved to Pagosa. They were tired of being caught up in the arrogance of the shallowness of others. They understand the pretentiousness of it all. Men have thrown off the three-piece suit, got rid of the ties, forgot about their razors, and have grown a ponytail. They were once out there, too.

Final Brushstroke! I guess Mogen David or wine-in-the-box isn’t acceptable to bring to an elite Wine Tasting Party. David’s group did them a favor when they didn’t make the cut.  Aren’t you glad you don’t have to worry about it? That’s why we live in Pagosa.