Everyone knows Larry

Everyone says to me, “I love to read about Al.” Who would have thought Al would become my muse, my inspiration for these articles? Al has been behaving himself lately, but the week isn’t over yet.

How did my sweet Al become my muse? I didn’t know I was being inspired, I thought it was an irritation. Is this inspiration? It hides its self very well. Usually out of irritation and something that drives me up the wall, I laugh at Al because he is who he is. Then it becomes funny, and I look at my self, and know there is a lesson or principle for me to learn. Then there seems to be something to write about.

Looking up the word “muse”, I found that there were muses for the different kinds of sciences and arts. People call on muses to get into their zone, so to speak; such as Clio, the muse of history; Thalia, the muse of comedy; Melpomno, the muse of tragedy, Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. They were Greek myths, Greek gods and goddesses but my muse is real. He is not a figment of my imagination, he lives in my zone. I am looking at him right now and I think, “Who is this guy? I am plumb crazy about him; he is one in a million.”

So everyone has their own muse. I recently wrote an article on “Traveling with Sweet Al.” It brought up some great comments which spurred on this article.

Julie writes from Minnesota, “I love this story, Betty - it reminds me of me and Larry - how I want to cringe when he wants everyone in the check-out line to hear what clever thing he thinks he is saying, or how he knows the names of everyone behind every counter he frequents or how he is greeted by them all when we both walk in to an establishment - and I'm thinking, "everyone knows Larry!"”

When I think of Larry, I think of a party. If you haven’t met Larry, I am sure you will one day. When Larry and Julie come to Pagosa, Larry goes to the ball games with Al. Last time apparently he had all the people in the bleachers cracking up. They all went home laughing and talking about Larry. He is charming and his ways are enduring, he never meets a stranger, he brings the party and we all love Larry. Yes, everyone not only knows Larry but loves Larry.

Larry and Julie spend time with us every year. He is the guy who will come, visit and paint our house and wash our windows which are twenty feet in the air. Julie is right beside him, she supports and cares. If you need a cheerleader, Julie is the one you want around. So when this young couple comes, we are glad to see them.

Does the fact that everyone knows Larry bother us? No, we all want to be like him. We wouldn’t change him for the world. So when Julie writes, it is interesting that those things that are so endearing to outsiders will drive the person they live with, crazy.

Another comment from a wife writes, “My husband was always whistling, I hated it. He came in the door whistling, I would tell him to stop it. He doesn’t whistle anymore. He has lost his song. We are no longer married.” It sounds like she lost her song as well.

Everyone has their song, and they need to sing it. When we muzzle another person’s music because it is not our tune, we take away something from them, and we miss something beautiful in return. The man, who whistled because he was happy, doesn’t whistle anymore. That is sad to me. I know the man. He used to have a song in his heart.

For sweet Al, I wouldn’t change him for anything. He always tells me, “When you write, stay sweet.” Maybe it is me that needs to be changed. I don’t know about this muse thing, but Al has given me my own song to sing. He remains my inspiration. There is no deal-breaker here.

Final Brushstroke! Enjoy the one who sings a different song; he might just be your muse.

Ain't Nothin' but a Hound Dog!

My neighbor, an avid dog lover, asked if I would write about owning and enjoying a dog. My response was, “Me? You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not a dog person.” Everyone around me loves and owns dogs and I am knee deep in them too, I don’t understand it.

I’d venture to say there are a lot of dog lovers in Pagosa. This subject could split the readers down the middle. I tread lightly. Al is the one that says, “Love me, Love my dog.”

I am very selective when it comes to dogs. I don’t like them to lick, slobber, bark or jump up on me and I don’t want them on my furniture. Isn’t that what dogs do? How can they help themselves? Once in a while, when I pass by I might say something nice to one of them. But probably not! Dog lovers would gasp and say I am flawed. I probably am, but it’s not in me to talk baby talk or carry on a conversation with a dog.

I live with sweet Al who has had a dog since the day we got married. When he goes out of town, he reminds me to feed his dog. “Of course, I’ll feed your dog, I do not want to see any of them hurt or go hungry. I am not that bad!”

Last November there were six little puppies born to our friend’s registered Labrador, three black and three chocolates. Our children spoke for one of the brown ones who has big yellow eyes and is lively and active. They call her Deizel.

Our daughter who now lives near us has always wanted a Labrador so it was the perfect opportunity for her to have one. So Al surprised her with a little black Labrador from the same litter. She is called Daizy.

They understood that the puppies might not be completely Labrador due to Super Dog who was able to jump over tall fences. They would take their chances.

The two sisters, Deizel and Daizy are growing up side by side. My daughter says about Daizy, “I pray every night that Daizy is a pure-bred Labrador.” The more the two pups grow, the more different they are becoming. Deizel, the little chocolate pup, has a Labrador head, pudgy nose, soft hair, a Lab’s tail and a little on the chunky side.

On the other hand, Daizy, who has beautiful brown eyes which melts your heart, wants to sleep all day. She is precious and has stolen hearts. Al rocks her and holds her and her feet never touch the ground. She is treated like a baby, loved and enjoyed. She goes with Al or our daughter everywhere. She waits for a treat and is constantly under feet. She goes to Daddy Day Care and when our daughter comes home, Daizy excitedly runs to see her.

Lately I am seeing a difference; Daizy’s body is lean and long, her hair is course and wiry, her nose is pointed and she could fly with her very, very long ears. Maybe her ears are growing first, maybe that’s her problem.

The other day I discovered big droopy jowls on Daizy and I laughingly made mention to our daughter, “Daizy is looking more like a hound dog. You can quit praying, your prayers aren’t going to do her any good. She is a hound dog.”

Our daughter was very offended and upset. She told me, “Don’t call her a hound dog. She is beautiful. I love her just as she is. Don’t say that in front of Daisy.”

Al warned me, “No mother wants to hear that her baby is ugly and looks like a monkey, you better peddle easy on this one. Love is blind.”

Our daughter fired back at Al, “She doesn’t look like a monkey, and stop calling her “Long Ears”, I measured her ears with Deizel’s and they are only two inches longer.”

I responded, “In dog ears, that’s long. Al, I thought you said peddle easy on this one. Probably the first lesson in love is learning to love those with flaws.”

Daisy has captured hearts. It really doesn’t matter how long her ears are or if her eyes droop, she is our daughter’s constant companion and brings her so much enjoyment.

When Al had a nervous breakdown twenty years ago, his dog literally helped him get well. “Lady” was at his side night and day. I actually painted a portrait of Lady. That was a sweet dog.

Now that I think about it more… The fact dogs blindly love us no matter what we look like; if we are rich or poor, successful or not, sick or well. Maybe their love is blind and that’s what we need to learn from dogs. They are loyal beyond the call of duty. I understand why my neighbor asked me to write about loving a dog.

When I tell the dogs, “get away, get away, get away, get down, get down,” they continue to lick me in the face and jump up on me. They insist on loving me, flawed and all. Isn’t that something?

Final Brushstroke! A dog brings balance to our lives. A dog doesn’t ask to share its life with us; we ask them to come into our lives. They are happy with a little pat on the head and a couple of feedings a day. We can all learn from a dog.

History in a Drawer

When you throw the reins upon the neck of imagination, a slight phrase will open closed drawers. This is exactly what happened when a friend posted on Facebook; she was cleaning drawers and ran across a poem written to her by her mother. Another friend responded, “It is fun to find history in a drawer.”


When I told Al that this phrase kept speaking to me, he said, “I have a whole trunk of trophies and I wonder if I should get rid of them. We’ve hauled them around for years. They are not worth anything.”

I responded, “But those trophies showed eighteen years of your life and what you did. You are not able to do that today and you wouldn’t want to. Those years took the life out of you, but we have a lot of stories to tell.”

I remember every trophy Al won. I was a proud wife standing beside him. He was an over-achieving husband who worked hard trying to prove his worth to me and his company. We both gave up a lot, he traveled week after week and I kept the home together. Was it the ideal situation? No, but we thought it was at the time and those trophies were golden images showing we lived that life. Best Salesman of the Quarter, Salesman of the year, Most Improved, President’s Birthday Week, Broken Records, they all provided confidence of who we thought we were.

In my print drawer are myriads of art ideas, some good, some great, some could be better with a little work. For two years in the 90’s I worked for an internet company, called USAPainter.com. I phoned painters all over the country; residential and commercial, interviewing and writing about them. That’s when I met Julie and Larry from Minnesota.

Larry is a painter and I interviewed and wrote about Julie, “The Painter’s Wife”. The interview was so funny and we developed such a winsome relationship we decided to work on a project together. We developed a whole cartoon strip with the boss, a secretary and the workers. They were great cartoons and the idea could have been big and still could be, but it was dropped because life, children and family took over and our direction changed. Maybe it is time to pull those out of the drawer.

“The Happy Painter” is a cartoon series and another idea. On the Web we had six seconds to grab the viewer’s attention and cartoons could do that. They had very little text and a picture that told it all and were humorous. I began drawing cartoons about painters. Al had a short stint as a painter in his early days. He fell off the house, spilt a gallon of paint on a lady’s rosebush, and that ended his days as a painter. But, oh, the stories I could tell about Al through the cartoons. I hadn’t thought about those for years until I thought about “history in a drawer.”

Those cartoons were so funny and endearing to me as I poked fun of my sweet Al. I could just see Al spilling a bucket of blue paint on the lady’s roses and painting all the roses in the yard blue to cover up his mistake. And how many times has Al painted me into a corner? Or himself? I can not count the times. And using his Volkswagen as a paint truck carrying a 30 foot ladder on top or when he needed a paint strainer. He cut off one leg of my pantyhose and left the other one in the drawer. Yes, “It is fun to find history in a drawer.”

Is it time to pull out the cartoons and dust them off? Maybe they were what they needed to be at the time. They’ve had their shelf life. In those cartoon years some beautiful relationships developed. Many of those experiences have lent to the Artist’s Lane articles today. “Everyone Knows Larry” is one of them. We are still laughing.

Some times when I see all I have done over the years, I scratch my head and think, “What was that about? Just another item on my resume’.” Those years of history add to who and what we are today and also the friendships we brought along the way. They show years of self sacrifice, work, diligence, purpose and enjoyment. Yes, a lot of enjoyment. They did have purpose, maybe not the way we thought. We were just writing our story as we lived it.

Final Brushstroke: Nothing is wasted, it’s our history, it’s who we are and it leads us to our purpose.

The Elephant in the Room

Recently someone asked me if all those things I write about really happen to me or if I make them up. I told him, “I live every word; I am not that clever.” I wonder how it is that you live with an elephant in the room for fifty years and then one day you discover it for the first time?

I started writing these articles two years ago as a voice for artists, but I am finding it’s not the artist in me people want to read about but the elephant in the room I am living with, namely sweet Al.

Al had been given some Christmas money and I didn’t know it and he wasn’t going to tell me. I came home from town and a big six-foot box was sitting in my living room.

I am seeing a certain pattern with Al. When he wants to do something, he hurries up and does it before I can persuade him otherwise. This was no exception. If I would have known he had some extra money, I would have tried to talk him into something we would both enjoy, like granite kitchen cabinet tops.

“Al, what is in this box? Where did it come from?”

Al passed it off as a matter-of-fact. “Oh, I got some money for Christmas from my brother. I bought a 42 inch big screen TV.”

“And where are you putting it?”

“In our bedroom.” Another nonchalant response, He knew this wasn’t going to sit well with me so he played coy.

“In our bedroom?” I came unglued and bristled. “Our 19 inch TV is just fine and it fits into our beautiful armoire and it stays hidden. I don’t want a big TV in our bedroom. I thought our next big job would be granite on the kitchen cabinets. We’ve lived with plywood kitchen cabinet tops for five years.”

“I knew you were going to say that, I stained the cabinet tops for you and they look fine. In fact people always say they like the plywood and we should keep it that way. It’s my Christmas money.”

He had a point, it was his money, but I also had a point. I have a beautiful armoire with hand painted cabbage roses which I painted to match our bedspread and it hides the TV.

“My next question was. “Will it fit in the cabinet?”

“I think so, its 44 inches and the cabinet is 45. I have an inch to spare. I am going have our son-in-law and the boys help me install it, it looks too complicated.”

Al called the guys and I stewed. The guys arrived and I went to my computer. I needed to do something, I couldn’t watch this undertaking. I could hear them in the other room, discussing and laughing about one thing and another. I thought I better check on them. No telling what they were doing.

The TV wouldn’t fit and they were about to take off one of the doors from the armoire. My son-in- law said with screwdriver in hand, “We are taking off the door to make it fit and you will have to leave it off so you can use your remote without any problem.”

“Have one door on my armoire? Absolutely not! I am not going to have one door off and the other one on. Just take my cabinet and put it in my studio. Just hang the screen on the wall. Can’t you put the TV in your hunting room?”

“Honey, you know I watch TV in our bedroom. Don’t you want to be with me? I want to be with you. I love you.”

Now he brings up love! “What does love have to do with it? I’m going upstairs to write.”

The TV was blaring and popcorn was popping in the microwave. I could smell it. Now what were they doing? The TV was hooked up, my two big grandsons built to play football, were sprawled all over my bed watching football and eating popcorn. They had moved in for the next big game.

“My bedroom is not a sports bar,” I spouted, still disturbed by the chain of events.

The fun shut down for an instant, the party stopped; and one of my grandsons looked up innocently and said, “Grandma, don’t you like it?”

My son-in-law laughed, “When you bristle like that and get out of shape, I know another article is coming on.”

The TV is in the cabinet and both doors are on. It’s a miracle. Al and I sit 5 feet away from this 42 inch TV. As the kids drive by, they comment, “Grandma and Granddad are watching Dancing with the Stars, they can see the program from the top of the Lower Blanco.

Come Nascar season in February, Al will be able to see the stitching on Jeff Gordon’s suit and the sweat on his brow. And as the cars go round and round on the track, I am going to be upstairs writing about them. No, I am not that clever to make these things up.

Al surely knows how to dodge bullets. I read this article to Al and he said, “It’s a beautiful TV. Don’t you want our grandsons to come over to watch football games?”

Of course I do. Another good point! Yes, the elephant is in the room and I am living with it. The elephant and the brown chair, it is surely getting crowded.

Final Brushstroke! I am speechless. Another scrimmage and I guess we both won. I’ve got a happy husband who loves me and the grandkids will want to come over to visit.

How Far is Your Reach?

How far is your reach? Far enough apparently!
My son lives in the Philippines. In my son’s estimation of his mother, my reach is too far. I have entered into his world through Facebook. I have been making comments on his Wall and I began replying to his friends and employees in the Philippines. It was my way of being a part of his world. I thought I was bonding.

I received these e-mails from my son. “My leadership team has discovered you via your comments on my Facebook. We now start meetings with someone checking to see what you have commented on about me. Their ice breaker; my greatest moment of humility. When I’m fussing at them about something and say something stupid from the heat of the moment, one of them will comment by lowering their voice then saying, "my dearest son...", and end with, "love, your mother". I guess not even the miles can save me from your reach. This morning, I got upset about something and one of my managers said, I’m going to call Ms Betty and ask her to pray for you. There was an awkward moment (for me) of silence, then, everyone busted out laughing. All in fun, I laughed too. But so you know, all of my employees see your comments as I couldn’t bring myself to delete your profile or restrict you from seeing certain content. Not that I hide anything or have anything to hide, please just don’t ever bring up something really stupid.”

“Something stupid?” I responded, “I would never do that! Ha.” My son wrote to all of his friends and said he would like to live in a jello house. I wrote back and told him he was raised in a jello house with no structure and raised by an artist. His older sister was the only one with any structure. Apparently I gave out too much information on Facebook and I am not informed on current things. I didn’t know the movie or the bi-line.

Another e-mail reads “I’m a bit flattered that my friends think I have such a “lovely” mom. Have had my eyes opened to just how dysfunctional other people’s families are by their reactions. I’m ok that you pray for me publicly, and comment about my friends/employees. It has become fodder for the office, but a great way of people knowing where my insanity and generosity comes from. See you soon.”

His employee Fred is always looking for love. I responded to him that maybe he was looking for love in all the wrong places. I sent Fred instructions to make a list of what he was looking for in a mate, and then he would know himself.

I was on my way of making friends with my son’s employees in the Philippines, all 2,000 of them until I received another e-mail, “Mother, appreciated, but I need to be their leader, and you my mother.”

He came home for the holidays. We laughed over all this Facebook stuff. He went shopping to pick up some little gifts from the local gift store, and met a lady who reads my column and thought I wrote about things that happen to everyone, but no one had the courage to say it. She told him, “Encourage your mother to keep writing.” He answered her with, “I don’t think so.”

Yes, my son ran from my reach for years and has finally come home. Stupid things? Yes, I continue to do them, but the love of a praying mother far reaches beyond oceans and continents and her reach has no limit.

Final Brushstroke! There’s not much you can say, your mother will always be your mother.

When Grown Children Come Home

Many children came home for the holidays, ours included. We enjoyed them and sent them back to their homes. What happens when grown children come home permanently? The rules change.

Once we the parents made the rules, now our children make the rules. When our children moved back to Pagosa permanently, they were concerned we might be like we had always been. Why would we change? Of course we would act like we have always acted. We are the parents. So our children moved home, sat us down and issued Al and I new walking orders.

Al and I have been empty nesters for twenty years. I use to look around and say, “Where are my children?” They lived from one coast to another and out of the country.

The first set came home five years ago, they wanted to leave the city and raise their children in a small town. They wanted to give them the opportunity of playing sports and a better life, maybe not so much a bigger life, but a better one. Also they wanted their children to have a sense of family and know their grandparents.

The first instruction was don’t discipline our children. “If you discipline them, it will confuse them. We will discipline them ourselves and Daddy, don’t yell at our children.”

Al and I said, “Okay”. We rolled our eyes at each other and thought, “We hope we can do that. When we see things we don’t like, we need to keep our mouths shut.” That’s the second rule.

Now our youngest daughter has come home. She was very successful in her business but missed family and had talked about coming home for years. Her instructions to us were, “I ‘m not moving home because I can’t make it on my own, and I am not living with you, I am living by you. I don’t want people to think I can’t make it on my own.” Okay, the third rule is, say it the right way.

Now our daughter has acquired a brand new puppy. “Daddy, don’t feed my puppy from the table. Keep her inside, she gets cold. I need for you to take care of Daisy while I work.” We now have a Puppy Day Care. “Would you mind turning up my heat before I get home?” Of course, we say. Fourth rule: Be on call for your children.

Our other children ask us, “Pick up the kids at the school; one of them left their homework, do you mind taking it to school,” and Al and I say, “We would love to. We don’t mind.”

These articles for the newspaper have now become the hotspot in the family, of course all in jest. They know I am going to tell all and have nothing to hide. My son-in-law tells everyone to watch what they say; it might end up in the newspaper. The things that once were family jokes are now public domain. Don’t make family business public business, that’s the next rule.

Of course I can’t heed to that rule, I am on a roll. I am thrilled to be writing and I am grateful someone is reading what I write. The family pretends to be offended but down deep they like it. My son warned me today after reading Traveling with Sweet Al, “It is one thing to be funny but another thing of giving the persona of being rednecks without teeth. Some times you cross the line.”

“Who changes when children come home?” No longer do we put them on a curfew; they put us on a curfew. No longer are we embarrassed by what our children do; now they are embarrassed by what we do. They don’t want to worry about us, so they tell us when and what to do.

I know we drive our children up the wall, and we’ve been called on the carpet more than once. I thought we were very self-sufficient before our children came back home. They thought they came home to help us. I didn’t know we needed help, but apparently we do.

This holiday, all our children came home, we laughed until we cried, mostly at my expense. They all feel sorry for their Dad. I have been issued another rule, Stay away from Facebook. “We would hate to block you,” they say.

I thought I was bonding with children and grandchildren and their friends, apparently not.

I can’t keep that rule; I’m having too much fun. It’s like when our teenagers were at home, they obeyed the rules when it was convenient, they had selective hearing and we now hear what we want to.

One thing for sure, we do not want to live without our children in the same town. They are our best friends. We need our children, they keep us young. I guess we need to learn the rules. I have forgotten them already.

Final Brushstroke! It’s funny about family. They take on who you are and they don’t want to be like you, but they still want to come home and eat your food. It’s all good.

A Redneck - We are One!

A Redneck - We are One!

Recently I wrote about the hunter from Oklahoma who drenched my daughter and me with gas at the gas pump, he didn’t notice and I called him a Redneck.

Since then I’ve given a lot of thought as to what constitutes a Redneck. When Al and I began living life, we were ambitious, rubbing shoulders with white collar society; we too were rising to the top and we thought we were somebody.

Then Al retired early, and we moved to Pagosa Springs. We took a cut in earnings, but we were happy to leave the concrete jungle of city life with all the traffic and expectations. We slowed down and became innovative. We became blue collar workers. I painted and Al moved furniture or whatever laborers do. We were happy serving others. It had its rewards and we became important in a different way.

Redneck just crept up on us. We went from white collar to blue collar, to no collar to Redneck. How does one become a Redneck? It’s when a person becomes his own resource; when he can’t afford to hire things done, he does it himself with the ability or lack of ability he possesses. I think it is also calling sub-standard, normal. But, what is normal?

When something needs fix’in and there is no money to fix it, you wrap duct tape around it until you can afford a new one. If the tailpipe falls off, you put wire around it to hold it up. If someone breaks your radio antenna on your car, you use a coat hanger. When others move, they give you all their old stuff; it might come in handy one day.

It just takes a little imagination and resourcefulness to live without money. I could write a book, “How to live without money” It would be a bestseller, but without money, it would be hard to market. So living without money can take you so far, but not far enough to make money; just far enough to live below your means.

Our friends from Arizona came to visit us and we were talking about living in the city. Al and I both agreed, “We couldn’t do it.” Our friends said laughingly, “Well, you would have to shut the door on the blue truck.” We all laughed, but I thought to myself, “Do we look that bad? We must be verging on redneck status.”

The old blue truck has become a dog house for Al’s dog. She has a kennel but she prefers to be where Al is. Whenever Al drives around the property, the dog jumps in and rides with him. It has become Shy Ann’s life; her mode of entertainment, travel and kennel. Al leaves the passenger’s side open so the dog can jump in any time. The dog sleeps in the truck during the day and it has become her dog house.

Shy waits in Al’s truck for him to drive around the property. She has moved to the driver’s side. Al laughs and says, “Isn’t she cute?”

I am beginning to see how Redneck has crept in. I hadn’t thought about it until our friends mentioned the old blue truck with the open door. Friends have come by and said, “The door is open on the blue truck.” Al says, “Oh, that’s Shy Ann’s mobile home. I leave it open for her.”

Can I change Al? The answer is “No!” I use to say everyone who lives in Pagosa has a dog by the name of Cheyenne or Dakota riding in the back of the truck. I am noticing lately, the dog or dogs have moved inside the truck into the front seat with their master.

Have we seen ourselves lately?

It is so easy for “below standard” to become the norm. Al’s brother says, “I respect you, but I couldn’t live that way.” So what does “that way” mean? Does it mean, when anyone drives down the Lower Blanco, they see Al’s old blue truck with the open door and his dog sitting in it as proud as she can be?.

Al has an unwritten code about his dog, “Love me, love my dog.” His code has put him in the dog house several times. He’s never spent the night in the old blue truck, but he has come close. He would have his loyal dog, I guess it wouldn’t be too bad.

Final Brushstroke! Yes, Redneck has crept in. Al’s happy and so is his dog. For me, I better be careful who I call Redneck.