Friends and Family Knew They Were Loved

I listened intently to the tribute the family gave to their mother and grandmother. With tears in their eyes, each child and grandchild stood and said, “I knew I was loved.”

I said to the group at her Celebration Service, “This is rare to see grandchildren cry over their grandmother. In this day there is a breach between grandparents and grandchildren. For some of us, Facebook is our only communication with our grandchildren.

But for Elaine Hyde, there were weekly phone conversations with her family right up to her last breath. She was always available to each one of them.

Two weeks before she passed, the grandchildren were still calling her and telling her about their grades and studies. Her mind was sharp and she was interested in each one of them. They all knew that their grandmother prayed for them by name.

What an amazing woman. When I received the phone call telling me that my good friend, Elaine Hyde, had passed on, my first thought was, Oh no, she was the hub of the family, what will the family do?

I asked the caller, “Does everyone know about Elaine passing?”

“No. The newspaper went to press a day early, it was Thanksgiving week. The news was 35 minutes late from making the deadline. The paper was already being printed when they called.”

“The Celebration Service is on Saturday. Everyone is out of town. A big storm is supposed to hit Colorado. Few people know.”

How will the family get here? In my mind, no one was ready.

“They can’t get flights at this late date. Most of them are driving.” The caregiver asked, “Who do you know that knows Elaine?”

My mind plugged into 1977. Elaine and I taught the teenagers at the First Baptist Church. We started the 5^th Quarter. “Does the Aldridge girls know? What about the Davidson boys, the Watkins, the Days, the Lattins, and the Laues? I needed to let my children know. I named everyone I could think of, then I started calling.

At the service I said to one of her children, “It’s kind of like Mother Teresa, she passed in the shadow of Princess Di. I always thought it was the way she wanted it be. It was never about fanfare, it was about her mission in life. Elaine’s mission was to build a strong family unit and spread the gospel. She didn’t care about fanfare, either.

The family said, “Mother was ready.”

I said to them, “I’ve never known your mother not to be ready to meet Jesus. His name was always on her lips and her prayers for her family were constant. From Snowball Road, she touched an enormous world. She was a missionary to her family first, then everyone else.

Each one said, “We always came to the ranch to feel safe. Pagosa was a place we could bring our kids and even our dogs. We were always welcome.”

The legacy she left for her family will continue to go forth. The Hyde Family was a strong family in our community. The Hydes’ grew up with Pagosa and Pagosa grew up with them. They left a strong and deep path for many hearts to follow. Judge Hyde was a man of integrity and justice, Elaine, a woman who cared about everyone.

I looked at the photos on the screen. She smiled with her heart. Her family talked about all the love they felt and how she was always there.

My first thought when I heard about Elaine was what will the family do? Who will be the hub? She kept the family together. Her children and grandchildren are products of Bert and Elaine Hyde. Their children are going to do just fine.

She loved much. Friends and family all knew that Elaine loved them.

Final Brushstroke! Elaine, You didn’t meet the deadline, but you met the big deadline, you were ready. You left behind a path for all of us. We’ve learned so much from your life and how you lived and loved.  Thank you for your faithfulness. It’s an honor to call you friend.

What Happens to Football Heroes?

On a silver wing, a prayer and a football game, the trip was on my mind. I couldn’t think too long, the kids were supposed to pick us up at seven a.m. It was my birthday weekend, and I was going to milk it for everything it was worth.

My magazine series called Saga in the Sandbox was also on my mind. It’s about what happens to men over sixty-five after they retire. When we hit McDonalds in Alamosa at nine a.m. we were right on schedule. Now I know what happens to retired men, they go to McDonalds for senior coffee.

Allison, our daughter said, “Look around, we are the only women in the place, it’s running over with little old men.  Can you imagine them in high school 50 years ago hanging out in the halls. They were probably the football heroes on the team and Pagosa’s rival! Look at that one with the sweet round face. He was probably Centauri’s linemen.”

“And look at that one with the ten gallon black cowboy hat, he was probably the toughest kid in the valley. He looks so sweet showing off his grandkids photos on his I-phone.”

“Do you have your camera with you? I now have faces for my Saga in the Sandbox. Would you take some pictures for me?”

“Okay, but I don’t want them to see me.”

“Not to worry, they’re busy probably bragging how they made that touchdown during their last game back in the old days. They’re having their second cup of coffee and eating courtesy apple pies. They would never notice how we’re trying to place them in their 1950 yearbook.”

Back in the car I said, “I posted a note to Creede. He didn’t answer.”

My daughter said, “You haven’t heard? The coach has cut off the team in all forms of communication and social media for the whole week. They went dark.”

Joe E Cervi, my new favorite sports writer put it this way. “Periscope down. Delete all tweets. Delay the Instagram. Crackle and pop the Snapchat. Social media, the collective voice of a generation, went dark this week —At least among the players and coaches of the Colorado State University-Pueblo football team.”

One day the guys will be talking about that.

Our daughter said, “We can’t afford to show them what we got. Today, the Mavericks are their big rivals. Coach Wristen called it Operation Lock the Gate. The guys from the opposing team were talking a lot of smack, they were, as of today, undefeated, things could get out of control.”

We were all kept in the dark. Like a pressure cooker, they kept the lid locked tight right up until game time. We were about to see what happens when they channel testosterone for a whole week.

One of the opposing players mouthed off and disrespected the Thunder Wolves in warm ups. He stood in the middle of the field on the CSU Thunder Wolves’ Symbol and taunted the team. The pressure pot was at capacity, and fightin’ words were said and CSUPueblo wasn’t going to take it.

One of the CSU football players grabbed him and a fight broke out. Security came running from everywhere. Coach Wristen knew what he was doing.

My daughter said, “Do you remember when Pagosa High School played Gunnison? It was our homecoming game. The Spirit Club parked that black car in the school parking lot. The team wrote “Gunnison” on it in red. For a dollar, kids took a swing at the car. I think they were just trying to make money for the prom committee.”

“They did more than that. And I do remember, Creede was taking his aggression out on that old car and put a hurt on it.”

“When Gunnison saw what Pagosa kids were doing with their name on it, it fired those cowboys up and they beat the socks off of us. That’s what Coach Wristen was trying to prevent.”

“Good call. It worked. We gave no fuel for CMU and CSU channeled it all on the field and we won big.”

On our way home our daughter had promised to treat us to ice cream for my birthday.  Our son-in-law intentionally drove right past the ice cream shop in Monte Vista to see if we had forgotten the ice cream.

Not for a second. It was like we were at a tennis match. All our necks craned right, our eyes bugged out, and our heels dug into the carpet. Someone broke a nail on the window. “What are you doing? You past the ice cream shop.”

My son-in-law said, “I know. I wanted to see what you’d all do.”

I said, “You almost got yourself killed. You can’t tease us like that.”

Final Brushstroke! I milked that birthday and had a Peanut Buster Parfait. The Wolves are on the loose with one more win before playoffs. And one day, those football heroes will end up at McDonalds on a Saturday morning remembering how they took out the Mavericks and showing pictures of their grandkids.

Ripping off the Mask

I said to my Sweet Al, “I just finished writing an article for this week’s deadline. I’m sharing some of the comments I received about the mask and Bass Reeves who allegedly wrote The Lone Ranger.”

“Is it funny?”

“No.”

“Then, they’re not going to like it.”

His comment struck a chord with me. I hadn’t thought about it before, but writing with humor is like wearing a mask. It’s a way of saying it, laughing at it, and moving on. Everyone relates. They have the same problem. They feel comfortable someone else is saying it. And they’re not.

I’m of the nature, if there’s a problem, get to the core of it, deal with it and move on. I asked Al “Do people really want to hear the truth.”

“No. People don’t want to hear the truth. They don’t want their true identity exposed. I don’t blame them.”

For Bass Reeves, a black man and a writer in the 1800’s, he didn’t fit the profile.

I sent the article to our son and told him I wrote this article about him and Bass Reeves. Our son wrote back and I read it to Al.

Sweet Al pondered on it, then asked, “What does he mean?”

“I’m not sure. I think he’s learned to live with a mask and it’s not ours to remove. It’s his process.”

Our son’s comment was, “Sometimes those things that seem ill-tempered or unnecessary in others are the steps a person has to take. It’s how they must carry themselves through those steps, in order to manage what they are going through. It could be a form of preparedness. Let the moody be moody and the hard to read left unknown. It may be their security blanket or a tool to find their own way.

There are some who are in a never-ending last leg of a chariot race tied for 1st. There are those who have not know a specific struggle, walked in a certain shadow or failed failure. This is where we are supposed to sit back, smile and appreciate how we were knitted together.  Your article was profoundly interesting. Dare I say, it was so spot on in validating my fears and insecurities. This mask is now painted on.”

When I read those last few words, “This mask is now painted on.” I was speechless. I wanted to help this child rip off the mask. That’s my nature, but I think what he was saying to me was,  “Let the moody be moody and the hard to read left unknown.”

A comment from another reader states, “Wow Betty! The article about the mask is probably one of your most powerful articles yet. The underlying story is one we all can relate to. How many of us have hurting family members who hide behind masks? It is not so they can do great things in anonymity. They are afraid of failure or rejection. Some hurts are so deep the masks may never come off. Friends and family must accept them as they are, masks and all. Someday through the grace and mercy of God the masks will come off. If not, we will love unconditionally.” 

 J.D wrote, “People have more than one mask. They wear professional or work masks, social masks and family masks. Sometimes the family masks are the scariest because they are the ugliest.  At some point we have all hidden behind masks. The older we get the more confident we become in who we are in Christ. I use to say will the real person please step forward.“

Our stories are not finished yet. One day we will understand why we think we all must wear a mask. We all go through the same discovery process. Some hide it better than others.  This mask we wear can’t be peeled off like paint, and it’s too painful to rip off.

Final Brushstroke!  I must keep my Sweet Al happy, put a smile on his face and write with the mask of humor. Maybe I’m a Ghost Writer hiding behind humor. It sure helps keep everything in perspective here on the Blanco, makes life easier and allows me to write articles about My Sweet Al.

Send In The Clowns

A funny thing happened on the way to this column. Our family’s weekly trip to Pueblo happened. It was Pueblo CSU against the Colorado School of Mines football game and Pink-Out week.

We traveled as a pack of five, dressed in pink and packed like sardines in a small silver Subaru. Pink Pom-Poms, Pink tied-dye shirts, pink hoodies, pink glasses, pink ball caps, pink scarves and pink carnival beads.

As we came out of the house my daughter yelled, “Go back and get your pink cowboy hat, if there was ever a day to wear it, today is the day!” The only place for my pink cowboy hat with the sparkles was on my head. I could either wear it or sit on it. The circus had come to town and we were the circus clowns in the small car.

The car was steaming with a festive mood, fat foods and football talk. We’ve scaled down to one overnighter each, one goody bag for the family, stadium blankets and seats. Our son-in-law drove, our daughter sat next to him in the front seat, our other daughter sat in the middle of the backseat. Sweet Al on the left side and me on the right. We know our place in the car.

Sweet Al thumbed through his hunting magazines, our daughter in the front seat looked at her planner, our youngest daughter played games on her Kindle and I took a couple of my Greek books to study for the five-hour drive each way.

We arrived at the game with great anticipation. The stands were filled with fans in pink. The helicopter flew overhead, and landed on the football field, A little lady in pink, a cancer survivor, stepped onto the field carrying the game ball. She presented it to the referee and was handed a large bundle of long stem red roses. She waved to the crowd and the crowd waved back.

CSU Pueblo is still on a winning streak. The family has gotten to know the players, their numbers and their positions on the field. Pink and more pink. It was Disneyland, the happiest place on the planet.

The team was facing one of their toughest opponents, Colorado School of Mines. The man behind us yelled, “Take it to the House.” We yelled back, “To the House.” Then the boom, boom, boom song came on again, We took the game to the house and won 49 to 21.

We’ve started a little tradition. After the game the family takes our grandson and three or four of his football friends out for dinner. They miss their families and they join our family. It’s a way to get to know them, and do something special for our Grandson. We bask in the game, enjoy the big 6’6” 300 pound guys around us, and talk more football.

My Sweet Al doesn’t speak up very often. It was an urgent moment for him. He said, “We need to pray.” He bowed his head and began to pray. He prayed and prayed. In the middle of the prayer he was ramping up for the Pink-Out Breast Cancer Awareness Program. He prayed for a cure for Cancer survivors.

The football players were ramping up with hunger pangs and I was thinking what is Al doing? He’s going on and on about Breast Cancer and about all the women he knew who has suffered. Then he started to pray for all the women in his family that none of us would suffer from cancer.

A winded preacher would be pleased if he could have prayed that prayer, but our food was getting cold. I looked up to see all the football players’ eyes looking at My Sweet Al in disbelief like he’d gone mad.  He must have seen too much pink or he had boobies on his mind.

Back in the car on the way home, we hadn’t stopped talking football since we stepped into the car the morning before. I switched the conversation to talk about one of my articles. I said innocently, “These articles come around so quickly, I’m always thinking about the next article.  You’d think it’s all about me, but—”

My daughter Allison said, “Are you kidding? Mother, it’s always about you.” Four heads bobbed in agreement!

“No, it’s not. It’s not always about me. It’s been about football for two days.” Then I said, “When I’m dead and gone, at my funeral —”

She said, “We’ll say enough about her….”

Snorts of laughter roared through the car. I couldn’t believe my ears. I came back with a little poor-me. “At my funeral you’ll probably use it as an opportunity to raise money for the Booster Club. You’ll sell concessions while my friends are saying nice things about me. Then you’ll be back standing in line pretending to be bereaved over your loved one’s death.”

Then my son-in- law stated in his dry sense of humor, “Your artwork will go for million after you’re dead, that’s the way it always works, like Van Gogh. How about donating it to the Booster’s Club.”

I puffed up and the little silver sardine can, packed with pink sardines became even smaller. The clowns went into funny mode, unable to stop laughing and building the scenario of my funeral. There’s always a shred of truth behind all those comments. Humor takes away the sharp piercing as the knife goes in.

I was telling my friend about the weekend and the conversation. I said to her, “I don’t think it’s always about me. Do you?”

There was total silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, she said, “I wished I could be a fly in the car.”

“If you were a fly in the car, you’d be pasted to the windshield or have to ride on my pink hat on my head. It’s the only place you’d fit.”

Final Brushstroke!  The family circus had gone to town and the clowns were in a rare mood. We all love what we love. My daughter said she did love that pink cowboy hat on me. When the family is together it’s always about football and apparently it’s always about me or enough about her.