Signs of Getting Old

I was talking to an artist friend about her artwork when I looked down at the front of my shirt and said, “Look I just slobbered on myself. I can’t believe it.”

She said, “Betty, don’t worry about it, we’re all getting older. That’s what we have to look forward to.”

“Surely, we have more to look forward to than this.” I looked down at the spot on my shirt. “I feel fifty, I think I am fifty, and I want to believe I can still do anything I did at fifty. In fact, I think I’m better mentally than when I was fifty.”

My children remind me that I’m getting older. My son e-mails me and tells me that he wants Al and I to come and stay a month in the Philippines, but he has no idea what he’s going to do with us.

All of a sudden I am seeing the reversal of adults and children. We have become our children’s children. Do you remember when you said to your children, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you?” Or, “If you don’t behave I’ll leave you at home?”

Our children have had frank discussions in front of us about where My Sweet Al and I will end up. I don’t know if they decided by drawing straws or using a process of elimination, but they have decided where we would go in our old age. Out of a noble deed, they agreed to accept the responsibility for us.

It’s fortunate we have enough children that we would fit somewhere in the scheme of things. My Sweet Al is the favorite one between us. No question about it. Our youngest daughter said, “Of course, Daddy will come and live with me. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Our daughter, Allison, said to me, “Mother, you will stay with us. But, don’t be difficult or it’s Shady Pines.” I knew what she meant, so I better behave.

I said, “No one asked me where I wanted to end up. I think I would be more comfortable with our daughter Cricket. You’re gone all the time and I’ll be home alone with your dog from six in the morning until ten at night. I’ll be playing with a ball to entertain myself just like Diezel does now.”

Did we ever ask our children what they wanted or where they would be more comfortable? I don’t think so. We just told them, they didn’t have a vote.

Did we have favorite kids when they were growing up? I guess we did. We loved them all but one was easier to raise than the others. Apparently, the children are looking at us in the same way. Their question is which one would be the easiest to deal with? I didn’t know we had to be dealt with.

Signs of getting old are creeping up around us. Our children used to buy cards with sweet sentiments and flowers. Now they are buying cards or sending e-mails with old people on the front with the disclaimer, “We thought of you. This reminds us of you.”

One I received was about the old woman looking in the mirror saying, “I’m old, ugly, and fat. I need a compliment, tell me a compliment.” The husband says to her, “You’re eyesight is close to damn near perfect.”

My Sweet Al and I are taking road trips with our children these days. We are in the car for six or seven hours at a time, driving to one college football game after another. Apparently we have been behaving ourselves. We haven’t been left at home yet.

There is always Senior Awards Day, 10% off your purchases. Now that’s something to look forward to, not all is lost.

Final Brushstroke! If we should have the joy of living a long life we will become the children of our children. We better behave ourselves, because our children are now calling the shots.

Full Circle

I recently wrote an article about picking cotton. We’re all in the same field, but different rows. Your row doesn’t look like my row. The cotton looks the same, but your row is different.

I’ve always been taken back when someone is jealous of my row or wants my place. I don’t know why any one would want it. It takes who I am, quirks and warts and everything to labor consistently for what I do. There is no way that I’m able to work your row. It takes who you are to work it.

One of the things that My Sweet Al and I have done in our row, which seemed ridiculous and unimportant at the time, was having Christian Artist and Writers’ Retreats. In 1986 there was nothing in the organized church that gave the artist any verification or a platform for their work.

They did let us decorate a lot of bulletin boards and plan mother and daughter banquets and teas, even fashion shows. They needed someone with a creative bent who would do them.

Al and I started with six artists from Albuquerque. We sat around for the weekend here in Pagosa, did nothing but enjoy each other. We all said, we have to do this again. We were in our early thirties and forties when we started coming together. Year after year we added a few more people to the group and had a bigger and more structured program for speakers, art and writing classes.

I’ve heard from people in our past who have come to our Artist and Writers’ Retreats each year. They all requested to meet again in Pagosa with the old gang. They miss each other and want to have a reunion.

Something in me kept those retreats going every year. I always wondered why I was doing them, they took a lot of work and I usually came up short on the financial end. I wanted everyone to come, so I’d figure out how I could get them here, with or without money. I thought I was just a lousy business manager. Probably was, but what I lacked in good money sense I made up in friendships.

Seven years ago, my son-in-law came to one of the retreats and said, “You have all old people in your group.” I was shocked. I looked around. He was right. All the people who we met together year after year had gotten older. I had never seen them anyway but who they were when we started meeting. Yes, today, they are in their sixties, seventies and eighties and still look young to me.

When several friends approached me about having a reunion in Pagosa I told them my bag was full. I didn’t think I could do another thing. But last year I emptied my hands of several duties. I didn’t want to, but they were either taken out of my hands or I gave them up freely. It was all about change. In order to move forward I had to make some changes.

Well, believe it or not, having an artist and writer’s reunion fits into our row. If it’s going to happen Al and I’ve got to do it. We are the ones who lives here, have the local resources available, the mailing list, and all the contacts we’ve made over the last thirty years.

As artists and writers we question many times why our work hasn’t gone full circle. We painted canvases and written books, which are still on our shelves and in the closet. We were there at the right time and place, but our work wasn’t recognized or appreciated. It didn’t seem to count for anything.

Maybe we’ve been looking at the wrong thing. Because of the art, and now writing, I’ve met wonderful people who have cared about me and what I’ve done. They’ve become my very good friends. They have built my faith so I wouldn’t quit, encouraged me to keep going, and taught me how to be better. They are the dearest people in the world to me.

Maybe the full circle had more to do with the people along the way and not the craft. For me to pull off a reunion for my artist and writer friends will bring us full circle. We will hear about how we’ve all played into each other’s lives and words they spoke to each other years ago. Some of their words have kept us on the right path and made our lives a little easier to live.

It’s not about how much I painted, or how much I sold. It’s not about how I got published or finished writing a book. It’s about the people, and how we’ve treated each other along the way.

Final Brushstroke! When I go in the grocery story someone tells me they read my articles, and I’m always shocked. For a writer their words are saying thank you, keep doing what you’re doing and stay encouraged.

You have all helped me stay on my row. I hope I’ve done some of that for you. We desperately need each other.

We left Pagosa in a blizzard!

Our daughter called, “We are so glad you’re coming to California this year for the Holidays, but are you sure you don’t want to fly?”

“Thanks, but no, thanks. Your dad says he wants to drive. He’s not saying it aloud, but I’m reading his mind. He’s probably thinking of garage-sale-finds, having a way to get them home, and the Cabela’s in Truckee, California.

“It’s a hard drive and I’m worried about you. We’ve made that trip every year at Christmas. It’s two days of hard driving.”

“We’ll be fine.”

The day we left for California, we left in a blizzard. Johnny Cash’s song “Jackson” was going through my head.

We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.

We've been talkin' 'bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out.

This seems like a perfect fit to our adventure. Jerry Harris, my friend, help with the cadence. You’ll get the jest.

“We left Pagosa in a blizzard, colder than a widow’s bed.

We’ve been talkin’ ‘bout Calli’, I can’t get it outta my head.”

We’re going to Cali’, Al’s not messing around.

My sweet-talkin’ man’s not foolin’ around.

We got as far as Cortez when that old car broke down.

Jeremy met us on the road towed us back to town.

My tough talkin’ man said, “You turn-a-loose-a my coat,

Beg if you want, but Cali’s calling that’s all she wrote.

We blew into the city following garage sale signs.

This Colorado codger gonna make them sales mine.

Them sellers led him ‘round like a scalded hound.

Taught him more than he wanted to know about this Cali town.

We joked and played with the kids ‘til our time ran out,

We laughed and cried as we turned that car about

We packed that trunk with Al’s garage-sale junk,

Something in our hearts wanted to stay, but we left Cali’ hittin’ bottom all the way.

We left Cali in a blizzard, whiter than a wedding dress.

In a blindin’ storm, we hit Truckee and Donner Pass-what a mess.

Hundreds of chained truck backed up for miles

Cabela’s no where in sight in the car there were no smiles.

My tough talkin’ man said, “Turn this car ‘round,

I’m not leaving till Caleba’s has been found.

It’s only fifteen miles back the way we just came.

Woman, a man has to do what a man has to do or he doesn’t deserve the name.

I yelled. You’re takin’ me back up on Donner Pass?

You better watch it, Mr. Al, I’ll take no more of your sass.

Stop the car, and let me out. I’ll just walk from here.”

Enough of your Cabela’s and huntin’ talk, I don’t care that we just passed it ,dear.

We turned that Toyota ‘round, headed back the way we came.

Hit Cabela’s on the third try. I went for coffee at the Big Horn Grill tired of this game.

Go ahead, take your coffee into the store,

Don’t forget to sample the fudge and go shop some more.’

The lights went out in Cabela’s, it was blacker than a Stetson hat.

“Don’t worry Miss, we’ve got a little generator in the back that is faster than a bat.

It won’t take long to kick in. It happens all the time.

So let your husband shop, that’s all that’s on his mind.

I needed more than coffee, that I knew for sure.

I felt my way in the dark and drank another strong black cup of cure.

I watched My Sweet Al look down the barrel of ever’ gun he touched,

He was lost in Cabela’s, a buck in his sights, dark or bright it didn’t matter much.

We hit Salt Lake City at minus nine.

Our daughter said, ‘Look, I see another Cabela’s behind.

I said, ‘Look down and drive right by. I’ve had enough of that wilderness  experience I whispered with a sigh.

We landed in Pagosa in a blizzard. The temp was minus two,

Snow fallin’, ice inside my lips were shades of blue.

My big-talkin’ Man leaned over whispered in my ear,

“No more driving to Cali dear, next time we’ll FLY.”

Final Brushstroke!

Our kids from California and Pagosa called every hour while we were on the road. We’re home safe. My Sweet Al is sitting in his rocker, lost somewhere in his trip to Cabela’s. I’m by his side, lost somewhere in my mind, “It’s hard to teach an old huntin’ dog new tricks. Change doesn’t make sense when you’ve got huntin’ on your mind.

Surely, You're Not One of Those?

Blow me away with a feather. I was talking to a friend about a book she was reading about introverts. She said that she was talking to someone about being an introvert and her friend argued with her as if she had the plague.

“You’re not one of those.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“But, I am.”

I told her I’ve done the same thing to my family. In fact it just dawned on me that most all of our family members are introverts and I’ve tried to make them extraverts.

Believe it or not, there are only four of us in the whole family that are extraverts. We run the show, we make the plans, and we bring the fun. They need us. I wondered why the rest of the family didn’t shape up and be like us. Then I conceded that it was good that they didn’t have to be the shakers and movers in the family. The dynamics wouldn’t work for us as extraverts. We want to lead and plan and have the other family members follow.

I told my youngest daughter what I discovered that I realized she was an introvert. She said, Mother, after all these years you are just now figuring it out?

I remembered when she went to kindergartner she took her show-and-tale toy to school and hid under the table. She wouldn’t show it. When the teacher told me what my daughter did, I couldn’t believe it.

Maybe that’s why our son invited us to the Philippines but said he would let us have his home and he’d move into a hotel while we were there. I always thought he didn’t want any one in his space, was a loner, and not a team player. Now I’m wondering for the first time if I’m seeing him for who he really is. He’s a leader and has 3400 employees. How can he lead if he’s not an extravert? Apparently, very well.

We have several strong leaders in our family. Of course they are extraverts, they’re leaders. But, now that I’m thinking, they all behave like introverts. They don’t speak unless they have something to say. They ponder on things, they need quiet spaces and they are quite intelligent. They don’t blab just to be blabbing. That’s a novelty.

All this time, I’ve been putting them out in the limelight with my stories and my rah, rah, rahs, and they want to hide. They don’t want the attention I bring to them.

Of course everyone wants attention. They deserved the spotlight, they work hard for it. I’m going to have to rethink all of this.

They all want to hang me out to dry. I’m just doing my ‘calling’ writing about them in the newspaper. They have all moaned and groaned and I continue to do what I think I’m supposed to do. I thought I was building them up and encouraging them. I’m their cheerleader. They don’t want a cheerleader. How can that be?

This introvert thing has made me think back to all the years My Sweet Al and I had those Christian Artist and Writers’ Retreats. Al would work himself crazy, getting everything ready for the guests. Then on the day they were to arrive, Al would disappear. I’d tell him, I need you here incase something happens like circuits blow or bathrooms overflow.

Our daughter would call and invite her dad to go to Durango on the day of the retreat. I’d look around and question everyone if they had seen Al. The guests said, “Oh your daughter and son-in-law came by and took him away.”

I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t they know I needed him and I couldn’t keep 30 or 40 guests happy and have it running smoothly without him? But, they were sparing their dad. It took me years to understand that people drained the life out of Al while they were energizing me.

I thought my family didn’t understand and weren’t supportive of my great efforts of making an exciting adventure for my guests. After all, this was my ‘calling’ to give artists and writers a platform for their creativity. I could have probably made it a lot easier on myself and my family if I would have seen the dynamics a little clearer.

For twenty-one years, would I have done the weekend and week retreats if I knew this? Probably. I would have just arranged it a little differently.

Another friend, after reading my last article on introverts/extraverts said she was an introvert. I argued with her. Of course she was an extravert, she lead worship, taught, spoke and lead retreats. Talk about a revelation.

Final Brushstroke! Thank God my family loves me and has been forgiving all of these years. No wonder they roll their eyes and act totally appalled. They aren’t acting. They are exasperated with me at times. Am I going to quit writing about them? No. I’m just going to be a little kinder. After all, I’m an extrovert.