Traveling with Sweet Al

Hand painted Luggage by Betty Slade

Some of you will be traveling over the holidays. Al and I are staying home and I am relieved. I thought I would send you off with some holiday fun.

You would think if you lived with someone for fifty years, you would have learned how to travel together. Al takes everything in his closet and I am learning how to take just enough. Ten items are enough for a two week stay; one or two pair of shoes which will go with everything, colors which I can interchange with several outfits; dressing up or dressing down. I take a separate suitcase with study books, writings and paint supplies, but it is different, I travel with projects. My mind never goes on vacation.

Al has a fetish for shoes. He takes at least three pairs of tennis shoes, dress shoes and just shoes for incidental reasons. I think it is a throw-back from the years he traveled and lived on the road.

Our daughter, Cricket, won an overnight stay and a breakfast buffet for two at a very exclusive hotel in Reno Nevada. It had a living room with a big screen television, a furnished kitchen with granite counter tops and a king size bed with 600 thread sheets. Cricket couldn’t use it; her schedule just wouldn’t allow it, so she gave it to us to use on the way home from California. She called ahead for our reservations.

When we left California, I told Al, “We will each pack a small carryon with one change of clothes and one piece of reading material.” I had my small Liz Claiborne and he had his. I thought he understood; we were staying over night at a very expensive hotel, and it was important we looked like we belonged even if we were going comp.

The valet attendant looked dubious as I carried my small carryon and Al jumped out of the truck with his huge suitcase. Al was carrying one pair of tennis shoes in one hand, and he had another pair tied together with shoe laces hanging around his neck. He had a sack of snacks which he bought from the Dollar Tree in the other hand and four hunting magazines rolled up and tucked in the waste of his pants. When he opened the door of the truck, a big orange rolled out and he put it in his shirt pocket.

I said to Al, “Absolutely not. We look like backwoods people. You don’t need all that stuff.” Al said, “I don’t care, I don’t mind carrying it, I might need something. You might get hungry in the room.”

In humiliation I stood at the registration desk and the woman took our comp certificate and looked at Al and all of his belongings. I looked straight ahead as if to say, “I don’t belong to him. I don’t know him.” Al was huddling around me making small talk, I was thinking, “Al, go away.”

We entered into this absolutely posh room with mirrors, a fruit basket, a fancy coffee maker and gourmet coffee. Al left the room and returned shortly with our family size ice cooler. I guess he thought we were going to cook a meal in the furnished kitchen.

“Al”, I said, “did anyone see you? Of course, everyone saw you. And I am sure they all know you are with me. Al, in Reno we can get a prime rib dinner for $5.95, what are you doing with that big cooler?”

Al innocently said, “I was thinking of you, honey. You might get hungry.”

“Deliver me, from this kind man who is always thinking of my comfort.”

Al pulled out his shoe shine kit with his multiple colors of shoe polishes, brown, black and maroon and began shining his shoes. (a salesman thing). Al pulled out three bottles of aspirin and offered me an aspirin.

“Al, I need more than an aspirin. I need a strong drink. You could drive me to drink and gamble.” I grabbed the orange out of his pocket and told him, “I am going to the swimming pool. I need some space.”

When I returned Al was beaming with pride. He decided to clean out his suitcase and he filled three trash cans over flowing with stuff.

“Great,” I thought, “even the housekeeper knows how we are.”

After I got over myself, the stay was wonderful.

By the time we were to leave, twenty-four hours later, Al had managed to bring four loads of belongings into the room. Now he began taking them to the valet parking one by one.

I sent Al ahead to deal with the valet attendant So Al was up and down the elevator with load after load and I opt to take the backstairs with my one little overnighter.

Our daughter excitedly called to see how the room was.

“You wouldn’t believe it.” I told her.

“Yes, I would, you are traveling with Daddy,” She said. “I'd be mortified to be seen with him carting his stuff. I've lived it myself when we were in Hawaii trying to pretend we

belonged at a 5-star hotel but not fooling anyone as we refused to let the bellhop help us with our luggage.”

“I know, he doesn’t care about the tip, it’s about your Dad thinking he is able to carry his own things. Maybe it is a man’s thing.”

All in all, Al is a good sport for taking all this ribbing. He doesn’t care what people think of him, and apparently I care too much. Believe me, the next time, I’m packing for Al.

But for now, we are home for the holidays in the comfort of our home. We will be sitting by the fireplace thinking of you. Have a Merry Christmas and if you are traveling, think of us, Al and Betty Slade.

The Final Brushstroke! It’s all in Al’s suitcase and there isn’t room to add another thing else.

Here's to the Girls of Pagosa

Under every pair of steel-toed work boots there is a pair of brightly colored toe nails. The Girls of Pagosa still remain ladies in the midst of a man’s world.

My daughter and I enjoyed a beautiful Saturday afternoon together. We sat in the patio of the restaurant; I looked over at her; she had rolled up her pant legs.

“Oh,” she said, “I thought I would catch a little tan on my legs while I have a chance.”

I laughed and said, “Who’s going to see them?

We stopped by the gas station on the way home, we pulled out three gas cans, and proceeded to fill them. A hunter from Oklahoma was hunting in Pagosa and was at the gas pump filling his gas cans too. He overfilled one of them and he sprayed gasoline all over us. He said, “I’m sorry and kept on talking in his twang.”

We laughed and made a joke out of it. “I hope no one throws a match our way.”

I whispered to my daughter, “Now there’s a Redneck.”

A friend drove up to the gas pump in a hurry. She pulled out an empty five gallon gas can from her truck and said, “The guys are mad at me, they are waiting for this gas for their chain saws. My son is selling candy bars at the Bazaar and I had to stop to take care of him, the guys are waiting to cut wood.”

My daughter said, “There’s another Pagosa Girl with gas cologne.”

I said, “It might have been better if one of the men went after their own gas.”

My daughter quickly said, “Mother, it is better she goes for the gas, or they would have her behind a chainsaw.”

The conversation continued with the man from Oklahoma. He was curious why we were buying gas. My daughter told him, “We are buying gas for the tractor, the guys are filling potholes on our road, and the gas is for the four wheelers, the snowmobiles and the chainsaws.”

“What’s a snowmobile?” He asked.

“A jet ski on snow!” My daughter replied.

“Oh!” He said.

I thought about the gas spray and how much it takes for a woman of Pagosa to be a lady. In the seventies, Al was gone making a living, our son and three girls hauled wood for the wood burning stove for our only heat. In the country the electricity was always going off, I cooked many meals on the woodstove. When the well froze up, we hauled water from the river behind our house. During the week the girls wore blue jeans, but come Sunday, I insisted they wear dresses. I told them, “You are ladies, you can’t forget that.”

My daughter was planning Pasta Night. She served spaghetti from crock pots from the truck’s tailgate as the football boys came off the field from practice. She was the one to rally; the high school commons was not available that week for the football team. She wasn’t going to let the boys down. We have all learned, it’s not work, that’s what we do. Stay flexible is her cry!

Driving the kids from place to place for sports practice, digging out from the mud, cutting our guy’s hair, it’s all part of living in Pagosa.

Winter is coming and we will all wear three layers of clothing and put on an extra ten pounds. The women know how to man-handle large diesel trucks and we get giddy when we hear the chug-a-chug sound as our husbands warm the diesel for the morning. We have put chains on the car and changed a few tires. We have jumpstarted dead batteries and hot wired the ignition.

The neighbor lady down the way overhauled a Volkswagen Motor and my neighbor up the hill, found where the workers had cut the electrical line, leaving her house without electricity and she fixed it.

Come mud season, every woman in town will have caked-on mud on the back of her pant legs. Every time I get in the car, Al says, “Hold up your coat and your pants. Don’t let them touch the running board.”

Al always seems to need an extra hand. “Help me here. I need to move this - Hold the jack, the car might fall on me – Hold the ladder while I get on top of the barn, then hand me up that piece of sheet metal.”

Last year Al had three vehicles stuck in the snow at one time, mine included. “Come steer the truck, I’m going after the tractor.” He said.

Finally, I said, “Al, you don’t have any place to go, just stay out of the vehicles.”

I just looked down at my hands on the keyboard. Salmon color paint is on my left knuckle and forest green on my fingers. I have been painting house doors.

When I go to Albuquerque, I look at the sidewalks and think, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a sidewalk from the house to the car.” We walk through a shopping mall and looked at all the beautiful clothes in the window and think, “I’d never wear that in Pagosa.” The women who move here who insist on being pampered move away as quickly as they come. A for-sale sign goes up in their yard and they move back to the city life.

Life in Pagosa is hard for everyone, but we all say, “It’s no effort.” The Girls of Pagosa would rather have rock on their road than a stone on their finger. Their conversation is about their septic system and the rattles in their car. Our flip flops have gone up in the closet and our plow boots have come down; but we still keep our toenails polished.

The Final Brushstroke! It takes a lot more work and a good sense of humor, but the Girls from Pagosa still remain as ladies in this man’s world.

Completeness

Completeness (Watercolor 16X20)

If I mention the name, Stephen Quiller, you will probably recognize it. He is an artist from Creede, Colorado, who has made it big locally and is in the international art market He has produced a line of art supplies; from palettes to paints and from DVD’s to week workshops. He is also a part of Northlight Books.


I recently received his catalogue. His painting was on the front cover. On the inside cover, there was a black and white photo taken of him in 1970. He was holding a painting with a similar mountain which was on the front cover. He commented, “I remember this painting and a series of similar works that I completed in the ‘70s while I lived in the mountains…Now I realize that it took these early paintings to help develop this new “View from the Air” series. Thus, the painting on the cover was over 35 years in the making!”

Quiller also commented he painted the mountains from the bottom looking up, now he has had the opportunity to view it from a puddle jumper flight from Denver to Alamosa, Colorado and he has seen it from the top.

We are all in the making. I wonder sometimes if I will ever be completed, yet I know I am and will be. I have the end in view. It has taken many mistakes, trials, and ups and downs to see the view from above. I am getting a clearer view.

Recently in a small group, we talked about how important our history is. If we lie about our history, or we can’t accept what happened to us in the past, we will not accept our present and we will not have an end in mind.

That’s a bold statement. It is interesting to me, that our past is so vital to us, to know it is all in our making for today. No matter, the good or bad of it, without accepting our past, we will not be established in who we are today or in our future.

If our history; whether it is our country, based on godly principles; our faith, based on the crucifixion and resurrection, or our individual lives with past drama and misunderstandings, we need our past. If our history is changed we will not know who we are and where we are going.

From above we can see clearly where we have come from and where we are going. It takes faith to embrace what we do not like, and trust it is what we need to become who we are.

Just like a painting, every time I paint, I draw from all the years I have practiced and failed. I have learned from my mistakes. And yes, in the completion of a painting, I sign my name, date it and believe it is the best I can do. I too look back like Stephen Quiller, and know the paintings I paint today have been in the making for 40 years.

Final Brushstroke! We have all been in the making, ourselves and our work and we are all being made complete daily.

This painting is one of my very favorites. It is the incompleteness that makes it complete. The roof line is not parallel, the pond is just there, there is a lot of white. One time someone said to me, "it takes a lot of courage to call it finished when it is isn't." In my book, this painting is the best one I have ever done. Did I say, I love it?

Standing on the Edge

Standing on the Edge

A friend told me he purchased a spotless detailed, beautiful red 1957 Chevy with chrome wheels from a widow. My friend’s comment to her was “Your late husband must have spent hundred of hours on this car.”

Her response was, “Yes, he did. I wished I had the time spent.”

When I heard this, it nailed me to the wall. I knew I had been guilty of the same thing; spending more time with the things I love to do rather than spending time with the ones I love.

I believe we all live in our own forest; thick green mangled foliage of creativity. It is also called self-centeredness. We haven’t entered into other’s lives or their story because we are so attached to ours.

I am sure many people around me have felt the same way as the widow felt. I am guilty and I am not sure how to change. I am not sure if I want to come out of my deep luscious forest I’ve created for myself. I like it how it is.

I can’t see the trees for the forest or is it, I can’t see the forest for the trees? I’ve laughed when I said it and thought I needed to step away from my all –encompassing life. I get so attached, and in so doing I have become detached from others I love.

Apparently the widow saw more clearly than her husband did, but it was too late.

In order to be attached to the moment, to be aware of the lives of those who we genuinely care about, we must enter into their story; their problems and joy and even be willing to be a part of their solution. We are determined to read life as we see it instead of feeling the spirit of the moment. It’s a great way to escape from reality, but it also presents another problem, self-absorption.

Self-absorption is the wall I have built around me. I realized I have done this to people. This is an edge. It takes time to get involved into another’s life. I rather be writing and painting than be the answer for someone else’s problem. As I write this, I wonder if I want to change.

We can remain in the forest, live among the trees and not see them, or we can step outside the forest, into the edge of a bigger opening, where we can see clearly before it is too late.

Everyone has their edge, they come up to it and change their mind. We have a choice to stay dwarfed by the trees or move out into the clearing.

Life will put us in the moment and on the edge of something we haven’t done before. As we choose to step inside the moment we experience something new. We push through the fear and find the thrill.

As we enter into someone else’s story, and become a part of the way life has written their book, we get a better view of them and ultimately ourselves.

The widow sold the car her late husband left behind. It was not that important to her. She would have rather had a few more minutes with him. Someone else is driving his car and enjoying the time he spent.

Final Brushstroke! The edge will take us to the end of ourselves and the beginning of someone else and it will always bring a new horizon.

A Hook in the Tree

Aspen trees grow in families. Just try to dig one up; their roots go from one to another. Where the first tree was planted and where the other ends, it is anyone’s guess. Aspen trees are hard to come out of the ground, their roots interlock deep below the surface.

I recently showed a painting of aspen trees with gold leaves on my Facebook. I painted it in a series and called it The Message Trees. I didn’t think much about it; I was just categorizing my paintings on my Blog when a friend e-mailed me.

She sent a copy of an old photograph of herself standing by a tree holding onto a large hook that had been embedded into it. She writes, “This is proof that my family has been here.”

My friend, receiving my Facebook update shared her story with me. “Every fourth of July since 1950, myself, my husband and four children have gone to the church camp in Chama, New Mexico, then we added one by one our grandchildren. We camped out, cooked outside, making homemade tortillas and beans. We screwed a large hook in one of the trees and hung our mirror on it, and now years later, memories. Every year we looked for the old tree with the peg and made our camp site there. In amazement, one of the family members will always say, “The hook is still here!”

I fired back a thought to my friend. “That peg you are holding onto is holding your children and grandchildren close to your heart. They will remember those days. It’s their history; it’s just a hook in a tree, but it gives them a deep belonging. It is a hook they can hang their hats on and call home.

The Message Trees I painted are familiar to many of the old timers, who remember stories of the days when the cattleman drove their cattle along a pathway from New Mexico into Colorado. They left messages in the trees for others coming that way. The dates goes back to the 1800’s.

Lovers carved hearts into the trees with their initials. An arrow showed a direction for someone to follow, and others have written their signatures, saying, “I was here.”

Did they know when they made their mark on the side of a tree, it would be the conversation today? I don’t think so. They were doing what they do; herding cattle from New Mexico to Colorado. I just remembered seeing an article written about these trees, it struck me and I knew I needed to paint them.

The trees are still standing and growing today and the cuts in their bark witness stories of years ago when passer-bys left their history for others to see. I am sure if anyone has passed by recently, they will be tempted to carve their initials too.

My friend and the Lucero Family only knew to do what they needed to do to preserve their family. They weren’t thinking of leaving a hook in a tree as a legacy which has remained over sixty years, they were just being family, loving and caring for each other.

Today, when anyone talks to the family they still talk about Chama, the jokes come out about each other and all the memories. I can hear Benny ask, “Is that hook still in that tree?”

This family has gone many ways and lived in many places across the Southwest. I have known and loved this family for over twenty-one years. I have seen the harsh winds come insisting on pulling their family down and their roots up. This family is rooted, connected, and have interlocked themselves with each other. They are family. When the mention of Chama comes up, it is one of the ways of saying, “We belong and have roots in the Lucero Family.”

As families we have all left hooks in trees. They are those places in our hearts where we have met with each other, joked, laughed, cried and just been family. It is a blessing for me to stand along side The Lucero Family's Tree. I am blessed. Hopefully this article is carving a remembrance of their roots and a strong conviction for the next generation to live their legacy for others to see.

The tree with the hook still stands today. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. If you are walking along the Chama River, you might witness it and wonder, “What is that tree doing with that hook? Someone has been here.”

Final Brushstroke! Just as we look back on those message trees that stood silently along the cattlemen’s pathway, we are still sending messages in an obscured way. We are linked and connected together just like a family of aspen trees.

In the Eye of the Beholder

It’s time to get out the winter clothes. I was transferring summer clothes into the upstairs’ closet and bringing the winter ones down. My eye fell on the ugliest article in my closet, an old, extra large, long, overstuffed polyester, tan coat with paint stains. I wondered, Should I keep it for another year? The answer is Yes! I’m not ready to let it go.

I laughed when I saw it and thought; now that’s an article to write about, nobody wanted that coat but me. A few years ago I found this beauty as a bargain. It was new and perfect for what I needed. I seized it before anyone could lay hands on it. I knew it would be the perfect coat to wear to the football games. It was one of those one-size-fits-all and I am sure it made me look fifty pounds heavier than I am.

In my excitement I showed it to my family and I was willing to lend it to any of my daughters. To my surprise, none of them wanted it.

“It looks like it belongs to a bag lady.”

Another one spouted her opinion about my coat. “This is the most incredibly ugly thing I ever saw,”

Another one popped off, rolling her eyes, raising her eyebrows for the others to see, “Mother, you keep it, I have a coat. I would rather freeze.”

I defended the coat, “It was a bargain and it’s going to be warm this winter.”

Apparently no one saw the beauty I saw. It wasn’t about how it looked, it was what it meant to me; it exuded comfort, warmth and it would be the perfect coat for what I needed.

I threw it on the coat rack and every time I walked out the door, through three feet of snow, to my studio, I’d wear it. On chilly days in the cold when I painted, it was perfect. Oh, I dragged my sleeves in the paints and dripped paint and coffee on the front, but that’s what was so good about it. I didn’t have to be careful, I could be myself. It was what I needed.

I took it with me to the games, just to use as a blanket. The family snickered when I packed it in. But as the air got frosty and the metal stadium seats got colder, every one wanted to wrap up in my ugly coat. They begged me for it, but I resisted. It’s mine. It’s not up for grabs any more.

This immediately brought an idea; beauty is in the eye of the beholder. We usually see the beauty and usefulness of something when we need it. Otherwise, we just as soon discard it, which brings me to my heart felt prayer for my friends whose marriages are in trouble and up for grabs.

Recently I heard of four couples separating and I felt a heavy thump. Someone said they had counted over 59 divorces in Pagosa over the past year. Pagosa couples are in trouble. Al and I have had our struggles at times and I understand.

Pagosa seems to bring discontentment out in people. I don’t know if it is the cold, the mud, the lack of money or jobs, isolation and sheer boredom, or maybe just thinking the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. All these things work against these precious marriages and family units. What about the children? Somehow along the way; the beauty in the eye of the beholder diminishes.

All the years, Al and I have had to forgive, accept each other and love in spite of each other, and I am amazed, my sweet Al still sees me beautiful. The wrinkles in my face, my bending posture, my flannel gown and that old bag-lady coat doesn’t seem so important.

He still sees me as I was in my youth. He thinks I should wear my hair in a ducktail like I did when I was seventeen; three inch heels to accentuate my ankles; short skirts and tanned legs with bright toe nail polish. I just roll my eyes and think, “Oh Al, you have the most beautiful heart, you only see me beautiful.”

There is something predictable about Al and me. We do not see age creeping up; we see love, warmth, comfort and perfect companionship. And no, I’m not wearing three inch heels in three feet of snow or mini skirts with my white legs. I still throw on that ugly coat, but when evening comes and we are together, it makes it alright.

How do couples get into trouble? Do they need to look back to those days when their eyes looked on that one that was young, beautiful and full of life? That one who made them laugh; and brought the best out of them. Have they just lost sight of their first love?

And, maybe I am meddling, I hope not, but my heart is heavy for you my friends. Is it possible we need to take a look at ourselves and at our children? Don’t put your marriage up for grabs, you do not know who might end up with your treasure and raise your children. Think again. It will truly be a cold winter.

Final Brushstroke! There is nothing wrong with your mate that a loving heart can’t fix. Maybe ugly has crept into YOUR heart and you can’t see the treasure in front of you.

Is Anyone Listening? Impacting lives

Water in the Wilderness 15 X 30 Oil

Is anyone listening?

In 1960, Al and I were young, full of ambition and ready to set our life’s career in motion. We attended a sales meeting for his company in Vail, Colorado. Insurance salesmen were immaculately dressed to impress, wearing $300 suits, long sleeve white shirts with gold cuff links and a perfect knotted tie. And of course, their shoes were shined.

As Al always contended, “No one will buy from you if you have run over shoes with a hole in them. You have to look successful.”

Salesmen came from all over the region and were blowing and going; shouting rah, rah, rah and quoting slogans of Positive Mental Attitude. They stood in a circle known as the Round Robin and yelled with enthusiasm, “I feel healthy, I feel happy, I feel terrific.” Al and I bought it all. We chased the carrot.

An older, white-haired gentleman was invited to speak. Nearly twice the age of any one in the room, he modestly wore a white starched shirt with an opened neck, minus a tie and jacket. He stood out as one who didn’t belong with the up and coming crowd. He had already arrived. He had the confidence of success. He didn’t have to impress. He already knew who he was.

He came to the front and spoke. The rowdy bunch of salesmen quieted themselves for a few moments and then yelled, “Yes we do!” But they really didn’t.

I leaned forward to hear more, he had something worthwhile to say. But in the midst of so much hype, no one seemed to hear him. Speaker after speaker continued building and plumping up the salesmen. They all had the answer as to how to make their millions.

The gentleman’s words were established deeply in me. He wore success on the inside. I knew I wanted what he had and I also wanted something worthwhile to say one day. I wanted words with grit which would go beyond the hype just as his words did for me.

Would people ever lean forward, cup their ear, just to hear me say something of value?

Quite the contrary, I have laughingly made the comment many times over the years, “I know how to empty a room. When I start to talk, everyone scatters. I don’t know what it is.”

The trip I went on recently was no exception. I felt I shared some deep things, thoughts of great worth; but I noticed no one prompted any interest to carry the conversation any further. What is with this? What’s the problem?

I remembered the older gentleman who stood before a rowdy bunch of insurance salesmen. He didn’t have to strut his stuff; he knew he had a lot more on the inside, but he probably wondered if anyone was listening or if anyone even cared as he packed up his briefcase in disbelief. He might have discounted an eighteen year old wife of a hotshot salesman in the audience.

Well, Al and I grabbed the carrot; the gentleman’s words lay dormant for many years in both of us. We continued to do what we were programmed to do. Al drove a new black Porsche. He left our family every Monday morning and came home every Friday night for over eighteen years. We had money in the bank, a big house and a noisy life of success, and it almost destroyed our family. In all that noise I have never let go of the words, “Do YOU know YOURSELF?”

Final Brushstroke! Is anyone listening? A person can impact lives without knowing it. I am thankful for the man who had the courage to speak truth.