What Are We Missing? Nothing!

My friend said, “Pagosa is ten years behind times.”

“That’s good. There are so many crazy things going on in this world. I’m glad we are sheltered from things we hear on the news. We’re not missing anything living in Pagosa. ”

She said, “In a way, I feel our kids are protected.”

“I’m glad we raised our kids and grandkids here.”

Then she said, “Our son is going to Brazil this year for his senior year as an exchanged student.  I don’t know if I need to be concerned.”

“I don’t think you need to worry. When I was in Brazil ten years ago it was like I was stepping back into time, it felt like kinder years and it was refreshing to be a part of a simpler life. The men opened doors for the women, and the women dressed like they stepped out of the fifties with hats and gloves.  The Brazilians are a beautiful, gentle, hard working people, they are so polite, and they have servants’ hearts.

“When I was there, the people in Brazil wanted to come to the United States. Their goal was to learn to speak English, come to the United States and get good paying jobs. They wanted what we have in this country. I just remember thinking The Brazilian people are such a sweet and naïve people. They would be eaten up in our country.”

Back to our small town, at the wrestling banquet in the park the other night, I enjoyed sitting and listening to the High Rollers. The lead singer called on his dad to sing. Mr. Janowsky, who is turning eighty years old, came to the front of the platform and sang. He yodeled and still has a beautiful voice and talked about his wife, Mary Jo, who passed away this year. It was such a beautiful family moment. We all enjoyed reminiscing with him because we all loved her and we knew the joy she brought when she walked into the venue.

I watched this beautiful Pagosa family interact with each other and I thought, We have so much more here in Pagosa. We have what counts. We are not missing anything.

The annual wrestling banquet is all about helping the wrestlers in the Pagosa High School to raise travel money for the kids to go to Regionals and State. Coach Dan Janowsky heads up the wrestling program in the school and continues to invest in our kids. It’s so much more than that. The boys learn to set up, serve, throw a good time for others, then tear down and put away till next year. They are taught how to work hard for the joy of others, even though they don’t know it.

When I returned home from the wrestling banquet, on my screen saver was a picture of Coach Janowsky and Creede, our grandson. Our grandson was wearing his graduation gown and he had his arm tightly wrapped around his coach. They were both smiling.  You could see the warmth and respect of their friendship. I just sat and stared at it. The whole evening was about a Pagosa family, and a coach who has a heart to help young boys grow into their potential. I noticed a lot of new faces getting ready for their life lessons.

In Pagosa, families stay behind. Teachers are teaching grandchildren of friends they went to school with. Pagosa is interlaced with parents, families, teachers, and coaches who they have long history with.

The picture brought me back to that graduation day. Our grandson had the privilege of awarding his coach a special honor and his Coach in turn presented our grandson with an award for his accomplishments in the athletic field.

I just remembered thinking how our grandson has graduated and gone on, but these faithful teachers are staying behind for the next group of young people. This coach, in particular, has been such an enormous influence in our grandson’s life. Our grandson is carrying with him confidence, a champion’s heart, and a belief in himself, which this teacher has invested in him.

I said to my Sweet Al, “Thank the Lord, Coach Janowsky is here for the kids. It’s interesting how these teachers give of themselves for their students. The students go on and the teachers stay behind. But these young kids take a part of their teachers with them.

Final Brushstroke! It all happened on a summer evening in the park in Pagosa. Are we missing anything living in a small town, which could be ten years behind the rest of the world? Not at all! 

In Flux As We Sit

Everything is changing as we sit in the same place. We haven’t moved, but everything around us is moving. Our conversations are changing since the grandchildren have left home. At our family dinner this week, we actually talked about something else rather than the kids. We talked about us. We discovered some new things about ourselves.

I was really getting in to our conversation when I looked up and everyone had moved away from the table and had their coats on. I was still talking. Then someone said, “We’re going to miss the fireworks. We have to go now.”

I said, “I was enjoying our conversation, I forgot about the fireworks, we were actually talking from our heart and we all heard each other.”

My daughter said, “Mother, It was because you were talking about yourself.”

“Well, it was enjoyable to me, anyway.”

That morning for the 4^th of July parade, we sat in the same place as we do every year. It’s our tradition to do what we always do.  I said to my daughter, Allison. “There weren’t as many floats this year. I remember when I was a kid how the parade was a big deal. They started in March working on their floats to win First Place. In my small town, there might be thirty entries of floats alone. They built a frame on a trailer, wrapped it with chicken wire, then stuffed tissues in the chicken wire, making carnations and decorating floats with them. What happened to those beautiful floats?”

She was quick to answer, “If you notice the Senior Citizens aren’t sitting around quilting, needle pointing, canning, making carnations, or whittling. They are on the four- wheelers in the parade and actively doing things and living life. They’re in the 4X4 club, hiking and meeting for a latte. The 70’s are the new 50’s.”

“Back then older people were sitting on the front porch in the evening talking to their neighbors. They thought they were living life. Well, for sure, the kids today are running faster and aren’t going to sit around and make carnations. We’ve lost something, but maybe we haven’t. I don’t want to stuff tissues in chicken wire, either.”

July is in flux. It has come and is almost gone. So are those little annoying bugs that come to the Lower Blanco in June and won’t leave until July. The Wrestling Banquet in the park with the High Rollers is happening, yet there’s been a change of guard. New kids and their parents are stepping up to make the sports year a success. Things are in flux whether we want change or not.

Changes are happening as I type. I never thought about teaching art students from their homes as I sit in my home. I e-mailed one of my On-line art students and told him that his next watercolor exercise was to “Paint in Flux.”

He wrote back, “What is that?  And how am I going to do it?”

I e-mailed him, “In flux is the movement that is flowing in and out. I want you to sit in the same place and paint the same thing three or four times. It will probably take three or four hours. You will see different things in each painting, which you didn’t before. Don’t move. Let it happen around you. If you’re outside, the light will change and the breeze will move the leaves. Try it. If you sit inside, you will be changing in that moment toward that subject and seeing different things in it as you paint.”

I was telling my Sweet Al about what I asked my art student to do. I used the poem that T.S. Eliot wrote to explain my thinking. The moment of the rose and the moment of the pine tree are of equal duration. I said to my Sweet Al the present and future is in the same moment. Whatever is happening right now will be your future. I seized the moment over coffee as we sat in the same chairs as we always do every morning.

I continued to expound on the poem, even though I knew I had lost Al in MY moment. “You can sit still and look at a rose bud change into its full potential. The rose is in its moment. It’s going to take a hundred years to see the full duration of a pine tree. The two, the rose and the tree are in an exact point in time, but the rose’s moment is visual and is changing to the eye, but not the pine tree.”

My Sweet Al’s eyes rolled as he drank his coffee. Does Al care about my great discovery? No. Not at all. But he does care if I got his NASCAR race taped for Sunday. For Al, watching cars going around in a circle for hours is like watching a rose bloom. For me it’s like living in the duration of it and watching a pine tree grow.

Final Brushstroke! We are all in flux and living our moment. Our present will influence our future. A good conversation is always My Moment even if everyone puts on their coats and leaves me sitting. Watching NASCAR is my Sweet Al’s Moment.

A Few Nuts in the Mix

I was mixing up a carrot cake for a meeting I was going to the next day, when my Sweet Al ran in the house.

“Call the fire department, I’ve got a grass fire.”

“Al, what have you done?” I questioned him as I dialed 911.

The neighbor called. “You have a fire going up the hill, call 911.”

“I have.”

“We’ll be right there.” The neighbors showed up with shovels and a tractor.

I threw the carrot cake in the oven and went to see what mischief Al had got himself into.

The fire department came with trucks and firefighters. The fire marshal came to the scene, also the police and the ambulance came. The fire marshal asked Al if he had read the pamphlet when he purchased his burn permit.

Al sheepishly said, “No, I didn’t know there was one.”

Our neighbors were already digging a trench around the fire. Dan has a state-of-the-art irrigation system. He went to the pump, filled up his big plastic container, drove his truck over and used his tractor’s front loader to spread the water. Two of our neighbors are firefighters. They worked diligently to put out the fire.

I said to my daughter. “Our neighbors worked so hard and moved so quickly, they didn’t let any grass grow under their feet, burnt or otherwise.”

“I feel an article coming on.” My daughter responded.

“All I know is we sold our round house this week and your dad could have burned it down in the same week.”

We’ve got good neighbors. They came to our rescue once again. If they see Al struggling with something in the yard, they come over and help him. Al won’t ask for help, but they insist. They watch over us as if we were their own parents.

Meanwhile my cake was baking and the fire was still burning.

The fire department stayed until every inch of the fire and smoke was gone.  I was amazed at the care the Fire Department and the others gave us.

When Al came into the house, I said, “What more mischief can you get into?”

He said, “I think I’ll stay in the house for the rest of the day.”

“Good call.”

On my way to the meeting the next morning, I picked up a friend and told her about the fire. Then it hit me. I said to her, “I don’t think I put nuts in the mix. A carrot cake isn’t worth eating without nuts. People brag about my carrot cake because I always put in double nuts.” I went on and on.

When we arrived they saw the cake pan and were excited. “Oh Betty brought her Carrot Cake.”

“No, no, no. I have to apologize about the cake. Al was burning trash and started a grass fire. We had the fire department and the neighbors all working to put it out. I forgot to put in the nuts, but I brought the cake anyway.”

I think what I learned, is until we have a need, we don’t know how precious and beautiful the people are around us. The fire department and our neighbors were there to help us.

Final Brushstroke! Yes, there were a few nuts in the mix after all the big to-do I made, and I’m looking at this sweet nut sitting across from me. I don’t think I’ll ever crack him. It’s going to take the Lord to crack this one.

In my recent article, Who is taking responsibility, my nephew, Dave, wrote these words. “Perfectly fine to share Max’s story. But some of your facts were not correct. Total expenditures were about $75,000 for drug rehab and reform schools; Max was not with his ex-girlfriend when he died. He was with three drug buddies, none of whom took him to the hospital. He was taken to the hospital in an ambulance by the paramedics. Other than that, good story. Very compelling and hopefully, it will move some of your readers toward action.” Blessings, Dave Slade

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.