The Old Blue

My Sweet Al made up his mind and there is no changing it. Is it a man thing, or am I missing something here? When Al got his new truck, he parked his old blue one in the yard, and it’s been sitting in the same spot for ten years now.

A young man building on our garage, spotted the old truck and wanted to buy it. He took it for a spin. It was just what he needed. He said he would build the porches we wanted in exchange for the truck.

To me, trading the truck was a perfect solution. We’d clean up our yard, get a front porch and a back porch for one old truck.

How many trucks does My Sweet Al need? Apparently he needs four. He has the one he drives. There is the dogs’ truck, known as his work truck, the one the dogs nap in, and ride to the mailbox with Al. There’s the old white truck, which doesn’t run. It showed up in 1977 and hasn’t left the property. Al contends it has a good motor and he can’t turn loose of it. Then, there is the blue truck. 

The Old Blue all of a sudden became an answer to our dreams. For years, we dreamt of the day we’d have a back porch to sit on.  We imagined ourselves in the evening listening to the river and looking at the stars. Al would dream of catching trout from the river behind our house and I’d write my stories about life on the Blanco River.

I Googled Kelly’s Blue Book to learn how much it was worth. To my surprise, it was worth more than I thought. I told the young man I was sure Al would sell it, because Al had a good truck, and he didn’t need this one.

Talk about a diamond in our own backyard. I told Al it sounded like a fair price for both parties. The young man wanted it, had time to do the work, and would trade his labor for the price of the truck.

My Sweet Al’s vision blurred and he became shortsighted at the mention of losing his truck. He said, “I won’t get any money out of it and I won’t have my truck. He doesn’t have a down payment.”

I said, “He doesn’t need a down payment, we are trading the truck for work of the same value. We won’t give him the truck until he finishes the job.”

“But, my truck will be gone and I won’t have any money.”

“Right now, the truck is here and you still don’t have any money. What’s the difference? I have a solution, he can do the work, he gets the truck and we’ll put some money in your account. I’ll get the porches, we’ll clean up the yard, and I’ll be happy. It’s a win, win.

Al didn’t budge. I told my friend the story and asked whose side he would chose. Mine or Al’s?

He said, “No brainer, he’d sell the truck.”

So, it isn’t a man thing, it must be an Al Slade thing. I had another plan. I wasn’t finished with this dilemma, yet. I’d talk to our daughter, Allison. She can get her dad to do anything. But, before talking to her, I sweetly asked Al one more time.

And one more time he said, “It’s my truck and I might need it. The answer is no and no is final.”

It’s not final in my mind, yet. Maybe I’ll get creative. I’ll park the Old Blue in the backyard between the house and river. I’ll make My Sweet Al lift me up into the truck bed like he used to do when we were young, foolish, and in love. The problem is, Al’s got a bad back and I’ve gained a few pounds. I don’t know if we could get up in that truck again.

I do remember those days when we’d sit on folding chairs, drink ice tea from mason jars, and dream of the days we would grow old together.

That day has come. We might have to do it again, this time in the Old Blue.  We’d turn on the radio in the truck and listen to Leann Rimes sing, Blue, Oh, so lonesome for you. Why can’t you be blue over me?

Final Brushstroke! I’m thinking, two porches in the hand are better than one blue truck in the bush. Or it could be, one less blue diamond in the backyard equals two porches and a happy wife.

After writing this article I learned from my friend’s wife, that he would sell Al’s old blue truck but wouldn’t turn loose of his own.

Pagosa’s Paul Bunyan

My Sweet Al and I arrived at a recent Memorial Celebration for a dear friend. We took our seats with others and watched home movies play out before our eyes on a big screen.

Memories flooded our minds. We watched footage of a family playing and working in the snow. The home movies showed a legacy of a Pagosa family and their lumber business.

We watched pictures of old lumber trucks holding to the side of snowy mountain roads in treacherous winter conditions. The sawmill employed many people and the Day family was an important part of that history. It was the lumber industry that kept our town alive back in those days.

The high school auditorium was filled with old friends honoring Paul Day. They talked about the big man in overalls, who carried an ax and cut down trees. They spoke of him picking up an engine and called him Pagosa’s Paul Bunyan.

It made me wonder where the myth of Paul Bunyan came from. I found that many towns have claimed Paul Bunyan as theirs. In Portland, Oregon, there’s a 31-foot tall concrete and metal sculpture of the mythical logger.

Another city claims his birth and it goes this way. “Now I hear tell that Paul Bunyan was born in Bangor, Maine. It took five giant storks to deliver Paul to his parents. His first bed was a lumber wagon pulled by a team of horses. His father had to drive the wagon up to the top of Maine and back whenever he wanted to rock the baby to sleep.”

Minnesota also has their tall tales of Paul Bunyan taming the Whistling River, re-told by S. E. Schlosser.

“The Whistling River - so named because twice a day, it reared up to a height of two hundred feet and let loose a whistle that could be heard for over six hundred miles - was the most ornery river in the U.S. of A. It took a fiendish delight in plaguing the life out of the loggers who worked it. It would tie their logs into knots, flip men into the water then toss them back out onto the banks, and break apart whole rafts of logs as soon as the loggers put them together.

“This fact by itself might not have been enough by itself to get Paul Bunyan involved. But one day Paul was sitting on a hill by the river combing his beard with a large pine tree when without warning the river reared up and spat four hundred and nineteen gallons of muddy water onto his beard. This startled Paul somewhat, but he figured if he ignored the river, it would go away and leave him alone. But that ornery river jest reared up again and spat five thousand and nineteen gallons of muddy water onto his beard, adding a batch of mud turtles,

several large fish and a muskrat into the mix. Paul Bunyan was so mad he jumped up and let out a yell that caused a landslide all the way out in Pike's Peak. Or so I’m told.”

At the Memorial, the family asked their guests to write down a memory of the big man whose name was Paul. I would have loved to have read some of those memories. I am sure that some of them are as big as any of those tales of Paul Bunyan.

There was such a pride that welled up inside of me as I saw faces I recognized from those old days in Pagosa. We all have history together and a lot of stories to tell.

Pagosa is rich in history. It’s people like the Paul Days’ who set their stake down in the cold winters of Pagosa and made our little town so endearing to all of us.

When Al and I rode home after the Memorial, I said to him, “I’ve been to Church. That was a true witness of how a man conducted his life before his neighbors and friends. There wasn’t a slew of church music or church things, just a short testimony of Paul’s life. I felt the presence of God surround us in the people who came and the family who have lived their faith in front of us.”

Final Brushstroke! The afternoon brought back sweet thoughts of those days when cold wintery scenes warmed our heart with family fun and hard work. Back then they didn’t have a I-Phone or I-Pad for a quick picture or video. Those days were all about people making home movies on a eight millimeter camera, and capturing a legacy of a big man in overalls, who carried an ax and cut down trees, and took care of his family and friends.

  

Stuff That Keeps Us Young

It was another road trip with a bunch of kids in the car for the Blue and White Spring Football Game in Pueblo. We had planned the trip in January. Our grandson was a redshirt last year. He worked out all year, but didn’t play. The spring game would determine if he would be selected to play on the team for the September, 2015 roster.

It was a really big deal. Our youngest daughter took off from work so she wouldn’t miss the big event. The whole family was together except for our oldest daughter.

Our son had planned his vacation during this time and was in town. We needed to transport a car to Pueblo. The plan was to take two cars and drop off one. We’d all come home together in a rented van. We should have looked into a bus.

Then it happened, we were taken back to when our kids were kids. Al drove, I rode in the front seat. Our forty-seven-year-old son became a kid again. He was teasing his sister and pulling her hair. She was yelling, “Stop it.”

They were in the backseat listening and watching an Asian Karaoke show. They were giggling and fighting.  Apparently Asian Karaoke is different than what we know Karaoke to be. When they sing, they also do other things, like hit themselves, jump a jump rope or act like a horse.

The noise was driving My Sweet Al and I up the wall. Al was trying to listen to some Goldie Oldies on the radio and my phone was buzzing. Allison and our son-in-law were in a different car. She was texting and planning the next roadside stop.

I don’t text. She thought it was time for me to learn how. This was not the time with all the noise coming from the backseat. She insisted it was the perfect time for me to learn. I wrote her back. It took me five minutes to text her four sentences. Why do I have to learn how to text? My fingers are too big for the keyboard. Your brother and sister are driving me up the wall. Why can’t I call you?

No, that wouldn’t do. At the next stop, she said, “Mother, in texting you’re not supposed to write a whole book. People don’t have time to read long messages. Abbreviate them: URAQT, TTYL, 2G2B4G or K.  Make them short. Take this sheet with these abbreviations. You need to learn them and get to the point.”

We arrived in Pueblo and met our grandson at one of our favorite restaurants. Our son insisted I look at his phone video during dinner. He wanted to share his big party he had for all his employees at Christmas time. He was proud of them and their big production.

There were seven people sitting at the table. Our grandson wanted to talk and our son wanted the family to watch his video. The waitress came to the table and waited for us to order.  I said, “Not now, Stephen, can’t we see it later?” He continued to watch it. “The circus had come to town.”

For me, the trip was about our grandson. It was his time. I wanted to know all the details about the game. Such as, if he made the roster for next year, what comes next? Our grandson was trying to tell us.

If you understand the dynamics of our family, our grandson and son have the very same personalities. They are timely introverts—quiet. When they want to be part of the fun and talk, we listen. They both command a certain presence and the rest of the family will hop to it and give them attention.

Then, of course, there is the old kid. Al’s brother, David, eighty-one, calls. It’s all about him.  He wanted to know about our grandson, but more than that, he wanted to tell us about staying out all night. He didn’t get into six a.m. It was all worth it though, he met these two girls at the wine tasting party the night before. Yes we know. Yada, yada ….

He said one of them was a bookkeeper and was a knock-down-drag-out-gorgeous girl. He didn’t ever remember a bookkeeper looking so good. This is his lifestyle. I think he’s too old for this nonsense, but he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t plan to grow up any time soon.

It was a weekend of adult children acting like teenagers. The old kid thinks he’s a teenager. He called and wanted to talk about his new quest. Our son watched Asian video shows all weekend and teased his little sister. My Sweet Al tried to listen to Perry Como and Allison had me texting all weekend.

Our grandson’s team won, he made the roster. He will dress out for this coming year’s games. We’ll be driving over the Pass and taking more road trips together as a family. He’ll have the CSU Pueblo football uniform on. We’ll have our new “Team Wylie” Sports blankets wrapped around us. And yes, we’ll break our necks to get there to cheer his team on.

Final Brushstroke! I guess at heart, we are all kids. We are living our childhood through our kids, we act putout, but we wouldn’t change a thing. If it doesn’t kill us, I think this stuff is supposed to keep us young.

Memories of Home through a child’s eyes

 

Our little town of Pagosa Springs carries a picture postcard ideal about itself. Everyone sees it through their own eyes and perception.

From my eyes, Pagosa is that little mountain town, tucked away at the base of Wolf Creek, where wild turkeys come into the yard, deer cross the highway and elk come down from the high country.

It’s not an Aspen, Steamboat, Vail or even a Durango. Pagosa doesn’t have the presence of rich and famous people. Maybe it does, but we don’t know about them. It’s not a college town, an industrial center, and it doesn’t have a big city attitude.

It’s not pretentious with great importance and doesn’t claim false ambition. People of every career come here. We’re all different but we all live amicably and have respect each other.

Most of us drive dirty trucks, bent fenders from hitting a deer or two, and carry a water tank in our truck bed. The work-truck doubles for the family car.

Most every one owns at least one dog, which rides in the bed of the truck or in the front seat, and goes to work with its master every day.  Many Pagosa stores welcome their dogs into their businesses. The cashiers know the owner’s name and the dog’s’ name. They even give the dog treats.

Good kids, with moral compasses, are being raised here. Parents put their lives on hold to attend and support their kids’ sports. The parents live all school year at the high school and junior high invested and involved in their children. Pagosa has raised up some State champions in sports among our children.

Pagosa is not just about mountains, pines and aspens trees, it’s about good people, families, family values and hometown. Everyone who lives here is related to someone, and everyone knows everyone.

Every time we watch the news from Denver or Albuquerque, My Sweet Al and I say, “We’re so thankful we live here in Pagosa. The world is going crazy out there.  It’s mind boggling to what people are doing today, we feel safe here.” So, from our eyes, that’s how we see Pagosa.

From a child’s eyes, who has moved away and is homesick, he sees the same town but pictures it differently.

Our son has lived in the Philippines for the past ten years. He comes home once  or twice a year.  I read a posting from his Facebook to his friends describing  Pagosa.

He was traveling between the Philippines and Pagosa at the time. When I read it, I said, “If that’s the way home looks like, I want to live there.”

He writes:

Albuquerque, I was impressed with you, but tomorrow I get to go home.

There is something to be said for touching the soil of home base, climbing my favorite waterfall or just walking the river.

There will be muddy dogs on the porch and deer in the field. Breakfast will be cooked on that caked-on blackened griddle with a flavor to savor.

If I'm lucky, my mom will bake the only thing she doesn't burn and I will lick cream cheese frosting from my lips as my dad asks, "So how have you been son, I want to hear everything".

I will drive to town in a car that rattles, and cruise the only stop light 3 or 4 times. I'll admire the window of Goodman's and want to buy it all, and then remember I've never worn a Stetson, and would look silly in Paddington.

I will settle on a 32 oz grape slush from Sonic, then drive to Pagosa Lake and park on the back bend. I'll remember fishing trips to catch trout, and only catching bass and perch.

I will have flashbacks of "Stand By Me" moments and think about Ronnie and Kelly, Rex and Jeremy, and wonder what the heck ever happened to David. "That one".

There will be a smell of oak in the air from the fireplace and a cloud of dust from a passing truck. I will sleep under a coyote skin blanket and drift to sleep under a sky of a million stars.

Being an adult child can be so odd. The familiar has changed, gone away or simply just doesn't fit. But I will always be a country boy at heart and know when I'm home.

Final Brushstroke! Pagosa provides those special memories for our children. It might not be perfect, but it’s perfect for us. I’m sure you will all agree with me, Pagosa holds our heart captive no matter how many times we leave. She is always there waiting for us to come home. 

Danny has left the Building

My Sweet Al asks for so little, so why is it hard to oblige him? He’ll ask for a needle and thread while we’re entertaining guests. Or, he’ll want to see the warranty on the washing machine while we’re driving to town. Or, he’ll want me to whip up some oatmeal cookie dough for a snack while I’m in my think-tank. I know, it all sounds crazy, but in Al’s mind, if I loved him, I would want to do it.

It’s not often, but his requests are simple but out-of-sync with my normal routine. When Al wants something, he wants it now and will move heaven and earth to get it. Somehow I have to move with heaven and earth to get it done.

He wanted a CD of Danny singing There’s something about that name. Al asked our daughter, Allison, to make him a copy of the music. She asked our grandson to do it when he was home on break. He didn’t get around to it. Al’s request was bounced around from one family member to another until our daughter took the bull by the horns on Easter night, and said, I just need to do it for Daddy, he asked me so sweetly again.

Allison sat down at the computer and spent the whole evening looking for it. She found a CD with 1500 songs for $79.95 with the Homecoming Gang. I said, “Buy it. Your Dad is not going to stop talking about it until he gets it.”

There was a slight problem. The song wasn’t there. She went to YouTube. She found it. But, Gloria, his sister-in-law, was talking while Danny was singing. Would Al consider another song? No. Not on his life. There’s something about that song that speaks so deeply to him. He wanted that song with only Danny singing.

Allison said. “I heard that song played by this guy on the guitar on the beach. It was beautiful. I can’t remember his name. Maybe if I look for it, I can find it. “

Maybe you can’t remember the man’s name with the guitar, but your Dad wants There’s Something About That Name sung by Danny. Your Dad won’t settle for anything else.

After searching and searching, I told Al, Danny has left the building. He’s out of here. He went to heaven in 2001, maybe when you get to heaven you could ask Danny to sing it to you. I thought I was being funny.

Apparently not. Al pouted. He thought I was making fun of him. Allison consoled him. She had a bright idea.  She’d transfer that song to Facebook, and then I could get a stick, and make him a CD of it.

Al said, “I don’t want Gloria talking while Danny is singing.”

I was telling my friend how funny it had become about that song. The more the evening wore on, the more we laughed and the more Al pouted with added sighs.

I don’t know why my friend asked if I had ever painted a duck painting for Al? She reminded me that was something he had always wanted and I kept putting him off. 

I said no, I didn’t. I wasn’t painting ducks anymore.

She said, “Poor Al. All he wanted was a duck painting.”

I asked her if her husband asked for her to paint a duck painting, would she do it?

She immediately said, “No, not on his life.”

I said I rest my case. When Al insisted on buying that duck painting at Cabella’s, I didn’t think I had to paint him a duck anymore. He has one now.

The duck painting was another one of those out-of-sync moments. I wasn’t in the frame of mind, and inspiration for painting ducks left me twenty years ago. Kinda like Danny. He was in the moment in 1977 when he sang it. We’ve all moved on except for My Sweet Al.

As the evening wore on, the request became funnier and funnier. We opt to sing it to him. We all had a good laugh because we can’t sing. He felt hurt because he was serious about that song. We knew we’d never get it and that was the best we could do.

The more Allison searched for Danny’s song, the more she found other songs by who-knows-who-singing-who-knows-what. She was sending them to our son-in-law’s Facebook. He was fit to be tied that his Facebook friends would think he was posting all that stuff.  It got even funnier.  

I said to the two Als, you both are getting too touchy over these things. Lighten up.

My Sweet Al said, “All I wanted was a CD with Danny singing, Jesus, that’s the sweetest name I know.”

Final Brushstroke! I hate to tell Al, but Danny has left the building and we can’t find him. And I’m tired of looking for him. When our son gets here next week, I’m transferring the search to him.

Our other daughter said, “I feel an article coming on.”

I said, “That’s in-sync with my life at the moment, I can do that.”