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.

Table Manners - Up the Greek Without a Paddle

I was invited to a banquet the other night. I said yes, I’ll be there. My Sweet Al is with his brother hunting doves in New Mexico and I will bring my daughter for my date.

My writer friend, who had invited us to sit at his table, introduced everyone. He said to a woman, new to the area, “Betty writes a column for the SUN. If you’re over fifty you probably read her column.”

“Yes, I read her column.” The woman looked at me, smiled, and then her eyes narrowed and she scowled at him. “Do you think I’m over fifty? Do I look over fifty?”

“Well, I, ah, ah, ah.”  My friend danced around the table with one foot in his mouth, the lady was choking on her salad. I was licking my wounds and chopping on his words, “If you’re over fifty!” I didn’t know only 50-plus people read my column. I remember the editor saying she tried to provide something for everyone. I guess I’m entertaining the old people now. That’s news to me. I thought I had things to write about that was relevant to the mass media. Apparently, my words are only relevant on old ears that are hard of hearing.

Another lady, sitting at the table, attempted to smooth down everyone’s chicken licken’ feathers. She spoke up, “So Betty, what’s going on in your life?” She wanted small talk. If you know me at all, I like a good deep meaningful discussion. Apparently I don’t do small talk unless it’s all about me. My family tells me so. I guess the trick at banquets is to keep the small talk going.

I thought I had something interesting to say so I shared what was on my mind. “It’s football and Greek. I’ve learned a new word in Greek. It’s sphere and it’s different than space.”  Apparently their space and my sphere didn’t fit together.

Like usual, everything went silent. There were no takers. Nobody cared about my tidbit of knowledge and how much I know in Greek. I think I went too deep. They were digging out.

I threw them off. Then someone caught their balance, played with their food, and talked about their children. Small talk started up again. Everyone was happy. (I tried to explain sphere and space in Greek to my kids at the Black-eyed Pea Restaurant over dinner, but I will save that for another article) The rest of the evening I stayed in my Sphira and they in theirs. I must say I love being in my Sphira.

I called my friend the next day. I’ve written before about my introvert friend, Sheila. She and I have a weird kind of friendship. It’s perfect for me. She’s interested in me, and my Greek, and I quote her. It’s not perfect for her, because she’d rather stay unknown. I don’t know why, she’s so funny. Of course, I’m going to quote her. She should know that by now.

She asked how everything was going? I told her I learned three things at the banquet the night before.

“That’s all? Just three things?”

“Well, I only heard what was important to me. I live in my sphere and others live in their space. I did learn, only people over fifty read my column and nobody cares about my Greek words.  And, they only want to talk small talk when they’re socializing.

She gave a quick quip. “So, you’re up the Greek without a paddle.”

I laughed. I told her I loved it and I needed to use it for the title of my Blog. It’s perfect for my Greek Devotions for my Writers’ Blog. Can I use it? Do you mind if I quote you?”

“You’re going to quote me anyway and you never get it right.”

“Well, I do skim your words a little off the top. But, I’ve changed your name. That should make you happy.”

“Do you know how many people read your Greek blog every week? I read it.”

“That makes three people. No one’s interested in Greek today, and I don’t know why? I try to educate them, but they don’t want to be educated.”

“What else is going on?”

Football and traveling with our kids on the road. I didn’t know it, but apparently being old, we need to learn some dinner etiquette. We ate at a restaurant while we were traveling. My Sweet Al told the hostess that the Strawberry Lemonade made him sick the last time he was there. She glared at him and walked away from the table.

As she walked away I said, “Well, it’s true.”

Our daughter said, “She’s not the one to tell.”

Then our waitress came back to the table and I said, “I ate in the car, I’ll only have a little something, I’m not very hungry. I’ll just have the sweet potato with cinnamon, brown sugar and butter.”

And my Sweet Al popped up, “It’s true, she ate all the kids’ food in the car. She was in her sphere.”

Our daughter said, “They don’t want to hear stuff like that, they’re not here to socialize, they’d just doing their job. Give them your order, no chit-chat, it confuses things, then the order gets put in wrong. They really don’t care what you ate in the car. It’s like when I worked at the Hub when I was in high school. The Senior Citizens would get off the tour bus and the young people dreaded to wait on some of them.”

“They wouldn’t just order, they’d have to tell us that they couldn’t eat sesame seeds on their buns because they’d get stuck in their teeth. Onions bloated them, and ice-cream gave them the runs. All they had to say was No onions please. Do you know how bad that sounds to young people who never want to grow up? Older people need to know that. That’s rude.”

“Well, you have to give me credit. I’m not texting at the table like a lot of people do today. Now, that’s rude to me.  When I go out to lunch, I don’t look at my phone. I try to engage in deep conversation, give the people around me my full attention and enjoy them. Isn’t that the way a lunch date or dinner with friends should be?”

When did it happen? We tried to teach our children proper etiquette at the table, now they’re trying to teach us how to act in a restaurant. They communicate with each other with their phones at the same table. I don’t get it. At least we are still communicating and looking at each other when we talk. I’m still wondering, when did we get old?

Final Brushstroke! It’s a new day. For all my friends over fifty, who are reading this column, the tables have turned on us. Young people are eating weird things, they’re not talking, and they’re busy texting their friends at the same table. They can’t put their phones down for a minute and just talk to them. And they think we are the rude ones. I didn’t tell my daughter how the banquet went. Oh me, I’ll keep that one to myself.

Busted! Ahh Boom, Boom, Boom, Ahh Bang, Bang, Bang!

It’s that season again. It’s Football Time. The boys of fall are back at it. We’re back on the road with family, football, friends and junk food. Can’t get much better than that.

We left on Friday to watch the Pagosa Springs High School Football Team play their first game of the season. They are looking really good. I commend them, they held their own at Centauri. The cheerleaders are awesome this year. They have learned new cheers, new moves, and new pyramids. They yelled their hearts out and tried to get the fans on board.  Much kudos to the teams of Pagosa High.

After the game we headed for another football game at CSU Pueblo, The fans are all in Red, and full of energy. I can feel the rumble of the Thunder.... The music blared, “You knocked me out right off my feet. Ahh Boom, Boom, Boom, Ahh Bang, Bang, Bang!” I’m not sure what all that boom, boom means, but the tune is pretty catchy and I’m still playing that song over and over and over in my head.

We sat with the families of the players. It was if the season never ended. We were back!  I recognized a familiar mother’s voice behind me. “Baby, sac me a quarterback. Baby, don’t let them hurt you.”  A deep Booming Voice, "We want a touchdown, Yes we do!" I waved to Marsha across the parents’ heads. I had met her last year mid dance. She’s a 2nd grade teacher in a School up north. She also never misses a game.

My daughter said, “I would have loved to have her as a teacher when I was in Elementary, Look at her Energy and Rhythm." The natural redhead with the big smile dances the victory dance after each touchdown. She was weighed down with carnival beads, but flying high in CSU Spirit.   Every player on the field and every fan in the stadium is her best friend.

Well, Marsha had nothing on me. I was decked out with my Blue and Red beads, too. I had traded my Pirates black and gold shirt from the night before to my CSU red with a thunder wolf plastered on the front, a mega phone and a wolf tattoo on my cheek. You’ll do anything for your grandchildren.

Before the game, we had some time to spare. The family needed more football memorabilia. Like a hole in their head they needed more, but they thought they did. I guess you can’t get enough of the team’s colors. "It’s the Red Out!" We went to the CSU Spirit Store. I had plenty of spirit so I decided to wait in the car. I needed to study my Greek, so it was a good excuse to get some quiet time.

I was finally alone. Believe me, when I say we travel as a family, we eat together, ride together and stay together. We wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re afraid we might miss something if we stray from the pack.

My family warned me what I can’t put in the newspaper. They joke, “What happens in Pueblo, stays in Pueblo.”  I’ve already forgotten what they warned me about, so I’m free to use my artistic license. Oh, well, my family has held my feet to the fire before.

  

I know ouchy, ouchy, ouchy. 

Now my head is on fire. The pistons in my brain were smoking. After waiting in a hot car and studying Greek for two hours, I needed some protein. I was really getting hungry. I looked around the car. Our youngest daughter had a Moon-Over-Miami sandwich from breakfast.

It was a half eaten, egg, ham and cheese sandwich. I nibbled a few bites. It was really good. I took a few more bites. I tried the hash browns. They were greasy, didn’t want them. I scooted the hash browns around to look like there was more food than before. I spread out the bread to make it look like no one ate it.

I was thirsty. I looked for some water. Surely, some one left their water bottle in the car. I found a blue one in the console. I took a big gulp and another one. I sat the bottle back in the same spot and turned the handle just right. Of course, now I wanted a little something sweet. I found a can of cashews in a travel bag. I took a fistful, then another fistful and pushed the can deep down into the bag. The nuts made me thirsty. I drank some more water from a pink water bottle this time.

It became funny, then funnier to me. I felt like a kid in the cookie jar. I couldn’t help myself. Al came out to the car and asked me what I was giggling about.

I told him I’d been eating the kids’ food, but I didn’t think they’d notice. I had moved everything around so it looked like nothing had been touched.

He said, “They’ll notice, because you have a greasy ring around your mouth. I can’t believe you’d do that. You’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Busted. Ahh Boom, Boom, Boom, Ahh Bang, Bang, Bang.” I sheepishly pouted. “I was so hungry and they were taking so long. I needed protein to supply my head because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

The family jumped back into the car with bags of more red and blue. They were happy with their purchases. It was 2 pm and now they were hungry.

“Where do you want to eat? Let’s go to Black Eyed Pea.”

I was full. So I said, “Oh, I’m not very hungry. Why are we going to Black Eyed Pea before the game? That’s my favorite place to eat in Pueblo, I didn't think we'd have time. If you insist, maybe I could eat a little.”

“The problem is, your mother ate all your food.” My Sweet Al ratted me out.

I played dumb. That's the best way.

“Mother? How could you do that you knew we'd want to get lunch!”

After the Black Eyed Pea meal, they all carried their leftover-boxes to the car. On the top of one Styrofoam box was written in a bold black marker, “Betty, Don’t eat this. Try to keep yourself in control.” Signed, A big happy face.

Final Brushstroke! After the weekend was over, we drove home and watched the CSU Game on television. It was better the second time around. Ahh, Boom, Boom, Boom. I can’t get that song out of my head. It’s football season and the fun has just begun. I’m back on my diet until next weekend. All this fun shows up on the lips and hips.