The Story Behind the Story — Why the Mask?

We have two family members who are hard to read. They’re in their own world, and wear invisible masks. They have the potential to succeed far beyond the family’s expectations.

I have a feeling they perceive their own capabilities and are scared of the responsibility. They are hard on themselves and hard on everyone around them. They’ve been entrusted with a difficult row to hoe. The family has learned how to maneuver around them, when to ask questions and when to be quiet and when to stay out of their way.

These two don’t want attention, they’re very uncomfortable when they get it, but underneath they crave it. They give the appearance of being confident, knowing what they want and where they’re going. Underneath they are uncomfortable in their own skin.

On a road trip, I was giving one of our daughters a life lesson. I asked if she knew why the Lone Ranger wore a mask?

She said, “No, Why?”

What if I told you the world wasn’t ready for the man behind the mask, or the man behind the story. There was nothing wrong with him, but the world was not prepared for him. I told her this was a long stretch, but maybe she could understand our family members if she knew the story. I told her I was reading about Bass Reeves.

Bass Reeves could have been the real-life inspiration behind one of America's most beloved fictional characters, the Lone Ranger. Like the character, a masked hero of the Wild West, Reeves disguised himself by dressing as a preacher, a tramp, and even a woman. As a legendary deputy U.S. marshal, he used his disguises to capture more than 3,000 criminals.

Art Burton, author of Black Gun, Silver Star: The Life and Legend of Frontier Marshal Bass Reeves, believes Reeves' personal attributes and techniques in catching these criminals were similar to the Lone Ranger.

Behind the mask was always Bass Reeves. Burton told CNN, "Reeves was bigger than the Lone Ranger. He was a combination of the Lone Ranger, Sherlock Holmes and Superman."

Why the mask? Reeves was a black man. Born a slave in Arkansas in 1838, he went to the Civil War front line in the 1860s. He worked as a servant for his master in the Confederate Army.

He was a large man with great detective skills, extraordinary strength, and was a supreme horseman. He hid his own identity and never received the recognition he deserved. Even today, it’s still up for grabs if he actually wrote the story of the Lone Ranger.

Bass Reeves, one of the country's first African American marshals, was born almost 100 years before the Lone Ranger made his radio debut. The Lone Ranger first appeared on a Detroit radio station in 1933. He was the masked man on a white stallion who brought bad guys to justice in a series running for over two decades. Novels, comic books and an eight-year TV show starring the most iconic Lone Ranger of all, actor Clayton Moore, were all apart of the masked man.

Reeves’ disguises were similar to that of the character. He used the knowledge of the American Indian trackers, and gave people a silver dollar to remember him by, just as the Lone Ranger left silver bullets.

When the Lone Ranger first appeared in comic books he wore a black mask that covered his entire face. The iconic black mask was more symbolic than the audience realized at the time.

Burton says, "I haven't been able to prove conclusively that Reeves was the inspiration for the Lone Ranger, but he was the closest person in real life who had these characteristics."

“Reeves was a big guy for his time," said Burton. "He was also an excellent horseman. The Indians taught him how to make himself appear smaller in the saddle, helping him with disguises. Such was the skilled rider's love of horses. He even bred them on his farm. Indeed, many of the first U.S. jockeys were African American slaves who had originally worked in their master's stables.”

“Reeves died in 1910, at the impressive age of 71, just as segregation laws were starting to take effect in his home state of Arkansas. He's one of America's most important heroes and it's sad his story isn't known more than it is," said Burton. "But unfortunately, the majority of black history has been buried. Even today, nobody knows where Reeves is buried. I like to tell people he's still in disguise."

As I told my daughter about Bass Reeves’, she said, “That’s really interesting. I know what you’re saying. In their minds, they want to stay hidden. They have to work out their own stories.”

Final Brushstroke! We have no idea the burden that lies underneath and what weight another person carries. They perceive how the world will perceive them. Not always accurate, but it’s their story. Oh, to be wise and give those of unique gifts the space to let them be who they are made to be. For family members, it’s more comfortable to make them a round peg in a round hole, but they don’t fit just because it makes us comfortable. For them, it might take a lifetime to be comfortable in their own skin. They just want us to love them and understand.

Sweet Al’s Sandbox on the Blanco just got Bigger

I was sitting in the dark with a cup of coffee enjoying 5 a.m. on the Blanco. I was rolling over in my mind a recent comment I heard.

My Sweet Al rolled out of bed, turned on the light and said, “Okay. Now what are you up to?”

“Only people over fifty read my articles.”

“So.”

“I didn’t want to believe it, but when my friend told me that, he planted a seed in my mind. Maybe, that’s my niche’, writing articles to an old people’s magazine about old people.  Do you think it’s come to that?”

“It’s too early to think.”

He didn’t need to think, my mind had been thinking for three hours. “Well, if that’s the case, what if I move your little sandbox on the Blanco to a bigger audience. I could develop a story and series around our fifty, sixty and seventy year old friends. A. A. Milne wrote Winnie the Pooh and he turned his one acre yard into a hundred acre forest. His little boy’s toys became his characters.”

“Let me get a cup of coffee, I don’t know if I want to hear this.”

“My writer friend says I’ve got to change my characters. If they’re fat, make them skinny, if they’re tall, make them short, if their red headed, make them blond. Otherwise I might get sued.”

Al choked on his coffee. “Betty, listen to her, you could get us sued.”

“Don’t call me Betty anymore, I am now Sophia Marie. In the Greek it means continuous wisdom.  Call me Sophy.”

“I said goodnight to Betty and got up this morning with Sophia Marie and a Greek lesson. Who is this woman I married?”

“Sophy! That’s my character’s name for my new series. Sophy is now a wild dyed redhead, whose hair turns purple in the sun. She’s a washed-up artist turned writer. She wants all her artist and writer friends around her and Sweet Al tolerates them. She’s had a few bouts with the church ladies and wants to live out her last days writing stories and learning Greek. When she meets Jesus she’ll speak Greek to him.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I’ll keep your name Sweet Al since I’ve already made you famous on Google. In my mind I was casting my characters this morning when you turned on the light.

I think better in the dark when I’m alone.” I poured myself another cup of coffee, and looked at Al’s half-full cup. He was resting his head on the back of the chair, with his eyes closed and his mouth open. “I’ve already talked to an artist friend, but she gave me all these stipulations. She warned me, if I write anything mean about her she will sic her husband on me.”

“You don’t need someone’s husband mad at you.”

“I know. I killed that character in a hurry. The most colorful person in my life is my friend, Jubilee. She’s got to be in the story. I can’t disguise her. She’s perfect just the way she is. She’s bigger than life, has a generous smile and gigantic personality. She’s the new fifty who’s sixty, single, and fun. She definitely has to be one of the characters.”

Al raised his head and looked at me, “You wear me out. Things you think are funny aren’t that funny to a lot of people. You have to be careful, you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“But people are funny. I’ll go easy on your friends. The two main characters will be you and Zoom. He reminds me of Winnie-the-Pooh, and you two are the best of friends in the whole wide world. You live next door to each other, retired, one wants to play all the time, and the other only knows how to work.   You play with your tractors and mowers in your twenty-five acre sandbox.  He sings to you in the evenings from his back porch. But, not on Fridays, he plays at the local pizza restaurant.

I talked to him the other day. He said he trusts me and I could write anything about him. I’ll pepper in some of our other friends, like our go-to-Joe friend. I’ll end the articles with one of your thoughts. The story will be about…

I heard snoring. I looked over. My Sweet Al  had fallen asleep in his chair holding his empty cup. I guess that’s his thought about it all.  I’ll have to work on my short stories.

The day started with thinking about colorful characters, funny stories and a query letter I need to write to the different senior citizens magazines. It evolved into the afternoon and a phone call. Al’s eighty-one year old brother called. His gruff voice came over the phone, “Where’s Al?”

“He’s up in his garage.”

“When’s he coming to the house?”

“When I ring the bell for lunch.”

“Poor Al.”

“It’s kinda like you, when you walk into a club, a bell goes off in these silly girls’ heads, they come running for a free lunch. If it’s the dinner hour, they get a free dinner and a glass of wine.  I hadn’t thought about it, but you’d be perfect for one of my characters. I’ll have to change your name because of all your girlfriends. I’ll call you Conrad.  Conrad sounds expensive. I’ll nickname you Con. Con will be whatever we want it to be. How’s that?

“Whatever? I need to talk to Al.”

“I haven’t rung the bell yet. For now you can call me Sophy.”

“I dated a Sophy once. She was twenty-three…”

“Hold that thought. Tell me later. If you want to talk to your brother I’ve got to ring the bell.”

Final Brushstroke! Some people love telling their stories, some don’t. My daughter sent a quote to me, “A bad chapter doesn’t mean the whole book is bad.” We all have a few bad chapters and we’ve all learned to laugh at ourselves. But, by the end of our days we’ve written our story, and some of our lives make unbelievable funny award-winning stories. I might have found my niche’.

Dripping with Friends

My Sweet Al has always referred to my artist friends as “Flaky.” To me they were unconventional, with a slightl twist of strange behavior.  Al has changed his mind over the years about my friends. He’s become more tolerant and they’re become more tolerable. They’ve settled down and we’ve grown up.

I never understood why he didn’t like my friends. They brought life to the party. They were the party. Grant it, they enjoyed their colorful reputation as engaging eccentric artists. I found in my Greek studies, eccentric means ex – ‘of out,’  kentron ‘center.’ Out of center. That makes sense to me.

And yes, they were over the top. They sucked up the room with new ideas, their own importance, and how they thought the world needed them and their creativity. That’s what made them charming to me. I could trip with them.

I have an artist friend who has turned to writing. She’s all over the place. She’s a loose canon. She jumps from one idea to another and pulls at the reins. Her excitement can’t be reined in. Writing is a new discovery for her. Whatever she does, she tackles it like a brewing storm and rides it like the tail of a hurricane.

She sends me a story she’s written, and before I have time to critique it, she sends another story of the same story. Within an hour, I will have received another version of the same story. I want to tell her whoa, slow down. But, I know what’s happening. She gets excited and she can’t help herself. She wants the world to enjoy her words because she enjoys writing them.

I love her gusto for life.  I have a feeling her husband must be cut from the same cloth as My Sweet Al. It takes a unique kind of guy to turn loose the reins and throw them over the back of his wife and let her have our own head.

I have another friend who called last week. She lives on the western slopes of Colorado and wants to relocate in a small town on the other side of Wolf Creek Pass. I cleared my schedule for a week so I could travel with her around the southern part of the state. Her goal was to find the perfect place she could live and have an art community around her. Sounds good to me.

My friend, Jubilee, is flamboyant, adventurous and fun. Her gigantic white hair, big brown eyes, long black lashes, bright pink leggings and funky shoes could be a little out of place in Pagosa. She wears sparkly gems in her hair, around her neck and around her waist. She drives up in a new black Lexus with a tiny little dog named Huck who is never out from under her arm.

She has a big generous smile. I run to meet her with my packed bag and with my own excitement. We leave for our trip and My Sweet Al says, “Go have fun,” and then he flinches.

She and I went to a little town, which was like Telluride forty years ago. The town has brought in the arts, a great coffee shop, and galleries. It has darling little old remodeled houses. It’s an artist’s dream.

Her friend Dennis is her contact there. He drove us around the area, and took us to his favorite restaurants, and hangouts. He introduced us to his real estate person. We walked from gallery to gallery. He followed and meandered behind. He was either enjoying watching us as we discovered his little town, or he didn’t want to be seen with us.

Dennis has a strong, quiet demeanor. My friend has a very energetic excitable personality, and I was enjoying both of them. Maybe my friend was too much for this little quiet tow, which wants to grow up to be a town for artists.

We walked from shop to shop, gushing with dripping words of oh and awes, wow and out-of-sight as we looked at the vendors’ wares. Art is easy to get excited about. My friend is a willing buyer for anything that catches her eye.

I said to Dennis, “Are you doing okay?”

He said, “I’m tripping with you.”

I thought he said, “I’m dripping with you.” So I said, “Dripping or tripping?”

“Both.”

Now, I understand why My Sweet Al can’t get caught up with my friends, he doesn’t know how to drip with them.

Next week I’m writing about Al’s one and only best friend. I call him Zum. They are perfect for each other. They drip with each other and gush over each other’s Kubota tractors. He waters his grass and the spray come over the fence to Al’s grass. 

Al says thank you for watering my grass and Zum says that’s what friends do. It’s a cute, sweet friendship.

Zum’s philosophy is much like Pooh. He walks across the field to visit his best friend, and plays the guitar and sings to the birds and butterflies on the way.

This is why Al drips with Zum, his best friend. “It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?”  ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Final Brushstroke: It’s amazing how friendships begin and how they develop over the years.  Al has grown more at ease with my friends, in fact, truth be told, he probably likes them. You’ll never see him gush or drip over anyone, except maybe his best friend, Zuma.

It’s how you’re lookin’ at things

“Pssst, come here.” A man pulled me aside at our writers’ critique group. He leaned into me and whispered, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but before I met you I was reading your column. By your headshot, I thought you were an old wrinkled up woman. Then I came to this group and saw you. I was pleasantly surprised. You’re young and vibrant. You need to get rid of that picture in the Preview.”

Heaven help me. Is that how the world is looking at me? I said to him, “You must be kidding? I was 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter in that picture. It was professionally done. It’s the best I can look.”

“I’ve got a good camera, I’ll bring it and take a good photo of you.”

“Please do. That would be nice. I guess it’s how you’re lookin’ at things. And how people are lookin’ at you.”

He brought his camera. We’ll see, I’ve sent a new picture to the newspaper. Oh, the perils of thinking you are a writer and you must write. I don’t know if the column chose me, or I chose the column. It just happened, and I walked through the door. They asked for a headshot, gave me a column, and I began to write.

When I told the family I was walking in my calling, they rolled their eyes. They laughed and say, “We don’t know if it was God or Karl who called you.”

I’m not listening to certain people in this family. They think it’s funny that I think God called me to write about My Sweet Al. But, I’m sticking to my story. And, I’m not budging.

My introvert friend, Sheila said to me after she appeared in my last column, “Scrap Sheila. Sheila is dead.”

“What? I was building a character. I was making Sheila the darling of Pagosa. Sheila can’t be dead. My Sweet Al has actually been behaving lately. I was working you into a character and my continuing saga. Now, I need new characters to write about.”

“It doesn’t matter. She is dead. I was at the grocery store and someone recognized me. It’s over.”

“It can’t be over. I changed your name. You’re so funny. You owe it to Pagosa to put a smile on their faces. There’re a thousand people who live by Hatcher Lake. No body knows you and no body cares.”

She didn’t buy it. I’ll have to find someone else to write about. I guess that means I have to write Sheila out of the column. I don’t know if I need to kill Sheila or put her into a coma until a later date when I can revive her.

It’s like Derek Shepherd. It was a jaw-dropping moment when they announced Dr. Dreamy was dead. My daughter, her friends and the world went into a deep comatose. They vowed never to watch that show again.

I guess I’ll have to talk football. It never dies. It comes around this time every year. I’m taking road trips with the family. They warned me what I can or can not write about. Why is everyone so touchy?

Car conversation is always interesting. Five family members travel together every weekend to the games for CSUPueblo. My daughter, Allison is the only one who’s okay with being named in the newspaper. She’s always up to whatever the party requires.

She said, “Have you noticed how everyone is so busy? You ask how they are doing. And, they tell you everything they’ve done and are going to do. Busy is the new black. That’s their excuse. The way I get things done, I look at the job and I tackle it. One job at a time.”

Our son-in-law popped off, “Yes, and I do fumble recovery for her.”

All of a sudden we were building our family into a team. Remember, it’s always about football. Our son-in-law drives us everywhere. He said, “I guess I’m the bus driver, and Sweet Al would have to be the water boy. No disrespect, but he does takes care of all of you.”

I immediately got into the conversation. I said, “It’s the truth. My Sweet Al always makes sure we have blankets, he carries the suitcases, and runs errands. Our youngest daughter definitely would be the trainer. She carries aspirins, Band-Aids, chap stick and power bars. Allison is definitely on the front line.”

Everyone had a position on the team. I was feeling left out. I said, “I get to be the quarterback.”

“No. You can’t be the quarterback.”

“Why not? I think I’m the most important person in this car. I am the quarterback.”

“You and Tebow. You both think you’ve been called.”

“Hey, watch it. You’re talking about my boy. It’s not how the world sees him, but how God sees him. He’s been a role model for these young boys. It’s about his character. You can’t put a price on that. ”

Our son-in-law spoke up, “He could’ve played if he hadn’t been so set on being a quarterback. Even the announcers have said, he’s all beefed up, and look at those legs, he looks like a running back.”

“It really doesn’t matter how people are looking at him. Life is bigger than football. Did I just say that? He’s has a higher calling. Who knows what the Lord has in mind for him. He’s had the faith to stick to his guns. Others would have waffled at fame, money and playing football. They wouldn’t have had the courage to stand on what they believed.”

My daughter said, “Well, he did get to soar with the Eagles for a minute.”

I know. It’s a good thing I didn’t buy an Eagles’ tee-shirt. The story isn’t over yet. He’s flying higher than you know in God’s kingdom. He might look like he threw away an opportunity, but wait and see.

Final Brushstroke! For me, I believe I’ve been called to write. I’m telling my story and my characters are falling away like flies. My family is warning me how I can or can’t write about them. Sweet Al is behaving at the moment. Well, I might need to change my picture, I guess I’m looking old and wrinkled, but I’m not changing my story. I’m sticking to it.