Some things you just can't change!

Our family was having Sunday dinner, laughing and talking about life and I brought up the price of butter. I said, “Instead of your Uncle buying your Dad, Rogaine, better he buy him a pound of butter.”

They all laughed and said, “You’ve got to write an article on this one.”

“Well, it is a little close to home, twist my arm a little. Here goes!”

Al’s older brother is a curious kind of fellow. He’s got a Midas touch. Whatever he touches turns to gold. He knows how to make money; but for his married life, he strikes out big every time with alimony and attorneys.

It’s probably the women he chooses. He won’t date anyone over thirty years of age. Mind you, he’s turning seventy-seven, but the women still flock to him. He puts on his MMo Joe, and the women hand him their key. It is a sight to be seen. He has refused to get old.

On the other hand, Al loves his family, very much married and looks married. You do know how married looks? It says, I’m married and I can have that extra buttered bread and gravy, I’m OK with home haircuts, and I’m carrying my wife’s purse because it is too heavy for her.

Al understands he is getting older and he is okay with it. He has moved into his older years with grace and richness. Not only that, he has ME, his faithful wife who reminds him, he is loved by writing articles about him.

One thing David has is his faithful and loving brother, Al. He depends on Al for everything and Al has been and will be loyal to him to the end and will never disappoint his brother if he can help it.

Al’s older brother still sports a gorgeous full head of hair and believes Al should to. Trouble is, poor Al doesn’t. So David believes that Al should grow hair on his head and so every time he goes to Costco, he buys Al another bottle of Rogaine. Because Al doesn’t want to disappoint his brother, he faithfully uses it.

Every night, Al sprays this whipping cream substance on top of his head. He stands there with a nest of whipping cream atop his head and every morning he checks to see if he has grown another hair. He started with three hairs on top of his head, he insists he now has five and I think he is stretching it. For me, I’m not counting. I see his heart and he is beautiful.

So back to the family dinner! I’m not so loyal as to Al growing hair, I don’t care. The enormous supply of bottles of Rogaine is building up on the shelf. Al can’t use them fast enough. I’d like to trade them in and get some money back. I see serious cash here. I’m licking my chops and rubbing my hands together and I see dollar signs. I think we should trade them in and get the money back.

Al says, “No. My brother bought these and I have to use them.”

I say, “Al, it isn’t going to happen. Forget it. You haven’t grown one hair since you started using this stuff.”

Our son-in-law says to Al, “Dad, you should shave your head, it is the style and you would look twenty years younger.”

I said, “I love your Dad just the way he is. I don’t care if he has three or five hairs. He’s seventy four years old and its okay. He’s not trying to pick up a thirty year old. Anyway, I don’t think he is.”

So the family continues to joke and Al still is trying to grow hair for his brother. So what is the moral to this story? I don’t think there is one. Maybe it is this! Some things need to change and other things can’t change and some people don’t have enough sense to know the difference.

Well, the conversation went from funny to funnier and one day I must share more with you. Some things are too funny to keep under wrap. Maybe it is one of those family jokes that should have stayed in the family. And maybe, if I don’t change my ways, growing hair will be important to Al, he might start looking around. The price of butter won’t make any difference and he will have an ample supply of Rogaine.

Final Brushstroke! Some things will never change and it just doesn’t make any difference. And some things change whether we like it or not. The Rogaine supply is growing and Al’s hair isn’t. I’m still contemplating serious cash.

The sisterhood of Traveling Stories

The women of Pagosa might not all fit into a size three traveling pant, but we all fit into the stories of Pagosa. We have learned to live in the country, we have tugged and pulled and lain on the bed and zipped up, and have learned to fit into these crazy stories. Some stories have become more comfortable than others.

I went to the library. The librarian said, “Road kill!”

I knew she knew what I knew.

She then leaned over the counter and I leaned in.

She had a secret to tell me. She whispered. “We have twenty pounds of bear fat in our freezer.”

“Hum…? Bear fat?” I thought, “What would any one do with bear fat in their freezer? I’ll have to ask Al.”

“Honey, what do people do with bear fat?”

“I don’t know. I knew a lady that kept some in a Ball Jar on the window sill. She said when it turned from clear to milky she could tell the change in the weather.” Al’s mind started spinning.

“No, Al, I refuse to keep a jar of bear fat in the window. We are not a bunch of Rednecks.”

My fickle friend, Sam said, “Do you really have road kill in your freezer?”

“Yes, we do.”

He asked, still shaking his head in doubt, “And you eat out of your freezer?”

“Yes, we do Sam. And when we invite you over, we will be serving you meat out of the freezer.”
Sam turned squeamish and choked.

“Sam, we have never eaten road kill, except for a deer or elk Al hit on the road. I guess you won’t be coming to our house for dinner, will you? I don’t make the rules in Pagosa. I have found if you don’t bend to the way it is, the rules will break you.”

I asked my daughter, “Do you think other people have road kill in their freezer?”

She said, “Mother, you would be surprised.”

“Well, it sure makes for good stories to write about.”

A Facebook friend wrote from New Zealand. “I laughed at the old turkey in your bed.” Oh me, now Al is known in New Zealand. So you see how these traveling stories from Pagosa get around.

Jake, the pajama wearing dog, with a six inch hole in the back shows his rear, but has become famous. Responses about Jake came from China, The Philippines and around the country.

From China, a friend writes, “We miss our hunting dog. We couldn’t take him with us.”

From the Philippines, an owner writes, “The Prince has jasmine rice mixed with dry food and heated canned food in his own skillet. Sundays are for junk food where a small fries and cheeseburger from McDonalds are the best part of the week. His ya-ya brushes his teeth every day, and showers him in his own bathroom twice a week with orange peel wax and oatmeal cream (he has never seen a mud puddle that he didn’t walk around). The daily coat brushing is his version of the heavy handed pat although I found a point on his scalp when scratched that will put him to sleep. No pajamas needed as the city dog shares one thing with the country dog, his love for his cedar bed and his owner.”

A writer writes about his dog, Harley. “Totally related to this. Harley (so named, he's the closest I'll ever come to owning a Harley), loves his bed. He gets in it every night and waits until we cover him up w/his blanket, where he sleeps completely covered up until he hears the slightest stir in the morning. Sometimes, when he gets up, the blankets come with him - our little turtle dog. He’s eleven now.”

I have found these traveling stories fit all. They are like a pair of good blue jeans. They might not look that good on some of us, but worn enough, they become comfortable and we wear them anyway. Everyone owns a pair or two.

Final Brushstroke: At the moment, I am eating wild turkey, shot by my grandson, who has his story to tell and Al is hugging his dog.

If Walls Could Talk. What Would They Say?

Sipping on a cup of coffee - eating authentic Mexican Food - talking about anything and everything, we meet at the Granny Kitchen in the Lucero’s home in Clovis, New Mexico. Many friends and family have put their feet under the Lucero’s kitchen table and great ideas and warm hearts have come from there.

As I sat at the table and admired the faux finishing on my friend’s walls, I needed to e-mail her son, telling him how much his masterpieces meant to me. So I wrote, “I enjoyed looking at the walls in your mother’s kitchen. They are beautiful. You painted and signed those walls with your heart. You are a true artist.”

This was his comment. "Thank you so much! Those works I did during my personal recession are revealing an inner agony to "exist". Those works were birthed in sheer agony. When I look back on them, it is almost surreal! Thank you for your kind words and your ability to see "into" the work."

“These last years have shattered all that we believed to be of substance, and from the fragments of life that lay lifeless on the ground mixed with the ashes of many, we begin to reform our selves and our work using only the memory of what we once called our craft and our lives.”

”With our remaining strength and our will to exist, we once again test our passions against a very fragile canvas called life. Maybe this is what glory is made of.”

I sent these words to my friend and said, “Never paint over those walls, they tell your son’s story? We almost missed his story because we were enjoying our own story. How sad for us if we had.”

We run from agony. It feels to us those are the times we look so bad and we want to hide from everyone, but in them they are probably some of our most defining moments. We might barely be surviving in a crazy economy, or our bodies are hurting or our hearts are breaking and we are crying out in our pain, but somehow we live in our masterpieces.

One of my friends, who has done some important things in the church community; at one time a leader of several organizations, is now giving care to her aging mother. She said she had cried out to the Lord, “These hands have done some worthwhile things and now look at them. I am homebound, cleaning up and taking care of my mother.” The Spirit of the Lord said to her “Your hands have never been more beautiful.”

Again I am reminded how beautiful our hands are when our hearts are hurting, or when we are giving beyond ourselves, we are probably living our defining moment.

I have just finished the third draft of a 62,000 word novel on the Mysterious Life of Mary Magdalene. The hook line and the theme throughout is “A woman knows her own pain.”

Where is this book going? Why did I write it? Who’s going to read it? What’s the next step? The answer is, I don’t know.

Maybe it is like the walls in the Granny Kitchen. With all the busy activity around the table, all the high power talk and ideas, all the food and good friendship, the walls we write on go unnoticed. But, once in a while a person looks to the side and notices and understands the artist, writer, poet or caregiver and their defining moment.

So the son’s comment, “Those works I did were during my personal recession, revealing an inner agony to "exist". Those works were birthed in sheer agony. Thank you for your ability to see "into" the work."

Final Brushstroke! When we take time to see “into” someone else’s work, we see their test of passion against a very fragile canvas called life.

Your Truck is too big for you

“Al, your truck is too big for you.”

“No it’s not. I drive just fine. I know how wide my truck is.”

“You ran over the last two curbs?”

“I didn’t see them.”

“Of course you couldn’t see it, the truck is too big.”

“I’m a good driver.”

Honey, I know you are, but you can’t handle big vehicles like you use to. Give yourself permission to say, ‘It’s okay.’”

I was gnawing on a bone and I wasn’t letting it go. So the conversation went from the truck and landed on the dinner table with friends.

“I told Al his truck was too big for him.”

“No it’s not.” Al defended himself in front of our friends.

My friend echoed my cry. “I know what you are saying. Our children bought us a brand new truck, it sits so high I can’t see over it; they wanted to do something nice for us. They didn’t ask us what we wanted or needed, they thought they were doing us a favor. It is too big for us too. It’s so big, we take our old car on vacation.”

“Al doesn’t want to admit we are getting older.” I continued, I wasn’t letting it go. Saved by the bell, Al’s phone rang. Al had traded his simple phone for an I-Phone. He played around with it trying to figure out how to turn it on.

I said, “Not only your truck, but your phone is too big for you. You’ve had it for three months and you still don’t know how to answer it.”

“No it isn’t, and I know how to answer the phone. Thank you very much.” He said.

My friend intervened. “Every season has its limitations.”

“It’s so true,” I said. “It’s like giving a sixteen year old a new Porsche. They do not know how to respect it. Or these kids are brilliant on the computer but they can’t count back change. So it isn’t about getting old, but about knowing the season and its limitations.”

I was relaying this conversation to another friend who is our daughter’s age. She said, “I know what you mean. I spent yesterday with my folks helping them buy a new truck. My father didn’t want me to go and I said, ‘Yes, I am going. Look at me, you can’t hear and I can.” My father wanted a three quarter ton truck with dual wheels and a big engine for pulling things. I said “No, Mother can not get into a big truck like that.” He ended up with a half ton pickup which is still to big for him. He thinks he is young enough to pull horse trailers and move things.”

When do we finally move in to the next season in our minds, let go of our expectations and how we use to do things? Maybe it is when we get an accurate understanding of where we are. I don’t think it is about getting old, digressing, or being less than we use to be. It is understanding where we are.

“Well, let me tell you the end of the story. Al’s brother called, who is four years older than Al but is still dating thirty year olds. He was irritated. “Al, what the h___ were you doing? I called you and all I could hear was a bunch of old people in the background talking about getting old. You never turned off your phone.”

In the process of fiddling with the phone at the table, Al left it on and his brother listened to the whole conversation. I said to Al, “I rest my case. I told you that phone is too big for you.”

At seventy-seven, Al’s brother doesn’t think he is too old to date thirty year olds. He thinks he navigates very well and the young girls think so too.

Just because you think you navigate well and have the ability to buy a big truck or an I-phone, or a Porsche for a teenager, or date thirty year olds at seventy-seven, it doesn’t always suit the season. Maybe Al’s brother needs a wife like me to remind him how old he really is.

Final Brushstroke! Oh, to have the understanding to seize the season we are in and let go of fanciful notions. Every season has its purpose. Don’t miss it.

Stepping over the line with foot in mouth – Not a good thing!

My daughter said, “Mother, know your reading audience. This article is perfect for your Bible study ladies, but not for the newspaper.”

“I’ll work on it.”

She added, “I’ve learned in Pagosa, don’t talk about religion, politics or Walmart.”

And I added, “Or cell phones.”

This is my story and I’m sticking to it. Tuesday was the day. My leg hurt, I had a broken blood vessel, a dark day to boot, couldn’t get anything done, and I thought tomorrow had to be better. I need prayer.”

On Wednesday morning the Activities Department called and said, “You have six students, we forgot to call you last night. Be here at 8:30am.”

“Oh Me! It’s 7:45. Yes, I’ll be there.” I went into overdrive, a three minute shower, a comb through the hair and off the Blanco in fifteen minutes. Mind you, I still needed prayer.

I arrived and readied the room for the class. The students showed up on time, bright eyed and bushy tailed. They were anxious to learn and I moved into even a higher gear.

“Show Time!”

I went into my element. Performing with great gusto; the paintbrush danced across the watercolor paper, it was magic. I shot brilliant and dazzling information to them. Miss Personality had arrived. My leg was still killing me, but art overshadowed the pain in my leg.

The students were all beginners except one man. This man, from Texas, taught a high school art class. Everything was going good so far.

Four students from the same family; one set of grandparents and their college age granddaughter and her fiancée were attending the class. The art teacher sat at the back of the room and an older lady sat next to him.

The teacher and the older lady were busy working on their watercolor when the black belt fundamentalist grandfather whammed me with the question. “What church do you go to?’

I told him. He started thumping the Bible at me. I couldn’t get away from him.

“God help me,” I cried. He wouldn’t quit. I finally said, “I’m a believer, believe me, I am a believer. Let’s get back to painting.”

The granddaughter who was not of his persuasion began to talk in defense. The fight broke out. The grandfather continued to rant. Mind you, I needed prayer and now I’ve got a holy war on my hands.

I lassoed them back into painting. Then the granddaughter’s phone rang. I said, “No phones in the class.” She looked the other way and dismissed me with her hand, and continued to talk on the phone.

The brush off immediately stirred the pride in me and I thought, “How rude! Hey, it’s my class.”

When she got off the phone, I told her, “Please, don’t take any more calls, it harasses the class.” Whether it did or not, it was harassing me.

Then I looked at the art teacher and ask him, “Do you have trouble with phones in your school? How do you handle them?”

He replied, “Our school’s policy is, ‘no phones on the property.’”

I said “Good. That’s the way it should be.” (Mind you, I’m still off my game from the day before and now stirred over the dismissal with the hand.)

Then the young girl said, “My teacher tells us to go online for an answer. We need our phones.”

Then the grandmother jumped into the mix. “My granddaughter has to take calls from her mother, if she doesn’t answer the phone, she will be in big trouble with her mother.”

“During class?” I asked, “Well, her mother needs to learn boundaries. She should know better.”

The Bible thumping grandfather said, “Yes, her mother needs to learn boundaries.”

The grandmother rolled her eyes. I had apparently entered into a family feud and I didn’t have enough sense to keep my mouth shut, I was now a part of it.

Three hours later and six finished paintings, I cleaned up the classroom, climbed into my car and collapsed. “What just happened? Lord I need prayer, deliver me from myself.”

Final Brushstroke! Best not leave the house without praying. Holy ground is different for different people. Walk carefully.

A Salute to the Women of Pagosa

I love reminiscing with the old timers of Pagosa. I recently wrote about the Girls of Pagosa, now I want to salute the Women who left even bigger shoes to fill. In the 70’s and 80’s there were few licensed builders and with no money the women worked along side their men hammering, sawing, painting and building. The women of Pagosa raised children with a lot of heart, not afraid to work and with guts to stand in a man’s world.

The school needed a bus driver for the Lower Blanco. I thought I could do it, how hard could it be, just picking up and delivering children? Wrong. In January of 1979 with four feet of snow on the ground, worse winter in history, I became a bus driver. I left home in the dark at 6:00am every morning. It was so cold I couldn’t get the door open to my own frozen vehicle, drove to the bus shed to warm up the bus. I didn’t last long as a bus driver but apparently long enough to give a few people a laugh or two.

Recently I met a lady who grew up in Pagosa. Her dad was the head of the bus shed for the Pagosa School District. She reminded me of something I had forgotten. This is one of those things I would like to forget.

This is how the conversation went, “My Dad knows you.”
“How’s that?”
“You were that crazy lady that stuck the school bus several times. He had to come and dig you out.”

“Oh, those were hard days,” I told her. “I remember when I had to put chains on the bus. I thought I was going to die. It was so cold my fingers stuck to the metal. There were a couple of sixteen years old boys on the bus and I said, ‘Get out and help me.’”

They looked at me and said, “We don’t know how. We don’t have to.”

“Get out here anyway. You’re too big to sit there watching a lady put on chains.” We got the chains on the bus. Today I am sure a lawsuit would be in the making. But then, it was growing boys to be men and girls to be ladies.

I talked to Jane Stewart who owned a business in down town Pagosa in the late 70’s when it wasn’t popular for women to be in business. She taught many of Pagosa’s youth how to work, including three of our children. I’ve thanked her many times for putting good work ethics into our children. She tells about the time when Judge Hyde was holding court. The jurors had parked in front of her establishment during lunch. She walked into the courtroom, stopped the court and told Judge Hyde to have the jurors move their cars. He did and they did. It took guts which she had and has.

I remember seeing Mrs. Ross (Troy and Cody’s Mom) every week at the laundry mat washing the team’s football uniforms after practices and games. She was getting them ready for the next game.

And who could forget Mrs. Helen Ash on the front row singing her heart out, “I’ll Fly Away.” Also, there was Mrs. Lucille Rackham, grinning from ear to ear, with a skillet frying up Rocky Mountain Oysters.

There was Evelyn Davidson with seven children, several adopted. She was the best mom in the world. Gilbert tells of the time when he and the boys went out hunting, they came back with nothing, while they were gone, Evelyn shot a big bull elk off their front porch. When he got home, she told him to go out and skin it.

How many of you bought milk from Mrs. Fay Brown? Our family bought four gallons every week in big glass bottles for a dollar a bottle. We raised healthy kids on farm milk. Today, the health department would step in. No telling how many cows Mrs. Brown milked everyday.

I remember seeing Mrs. Ruby Sisson driving her green 1955 Chevrolet down the dirt road coming in from the Upper Blanco every morning. She was on her way to school to teach the youth of Pagosa. She was one tough little lady.

My daughter reminded me of the Gallegos girls and women who went on cattle drives every year.

I wish I could mention all the Pagosa women’s names; their faith, their hearts and the legacy they left behind. They have written their lives on the hearts of the children and people of Pagosa. They were moms, teachers, bus drivers, church goers, business owners and farmers who showed up every day.

These women and others have left some big shoes to fill. With the same heart and grit, the girls of Pagosa are showing up every day living their stories and hopefully one day someone will show up and write their stories.

Final Brushstroke! Who can find a virtuous woman, her worth is more than rubies. My salute goes out to the Women and Girls of Pagosa.

Hit the Ball, Drag Joe

I am sure every one has their family jokes. We have ours. You know how it is, you give the punch line and the family laughs.

Over the years our family has had its mode of operation. Al says “No,” before he hears any details. I say “Yes,” before I think. Al digs in his heels and I ride off without the horse. It has been a lifetime pattern and that when the punch line, “Hit the ball, drag Joe” came into play.

Once in awhile Al gives in and I win. He goes reluctantly and I smile as if to say, “Aren’t we having fun.” But the family knows I am not going quietly and Al isn’t going easily.

You’ve heard the old saying, “You can take a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” I have found if you salt the oats, you can make him thirsty.

A good example happened recently. A young man, who I have known for years, was in jail. He needed a home. He didn’t have any place to go, so the court ruled for him to stay in jail. The day of his court date was his sixteenth birthday. There were tears in his eyes and his heart was soft and he was sorry.

He needed someone to believe in him, and I did. I could help him. So I said, “Yes, he could come and live with us.”

Al said, “What were you thinking? We can’t raise a sixteen year old boy.”

I wasn’t giving up on this one. So I said, “But he needed a placed to live. What’s the problem?”

“Call his attorney and tell him you can’t bring him home.”

Well I salted the oats for days before I called his attorney, I prayed and prayed for the young boy, called everyone I knew who he could live with. Then I turned my prayers on Al. I prayed and prayed for Al to change his mind.

Then when I figured God had worked on Al, I asked him, “Have you changed your mind yet? Can we raise him?”

“No.”

More prayers and finally I got it, my own oats were salted. “Al is right. Our life style is not conducive for a sixteen year old boy.”

I have not given up on this young man and somewhere and somehow along the line I am going to help him. The family knows how determined I am and how determined Al can be. So this is how our family joke began years ago and has continued as of today.

When I say, “Hit the ball and drag Joe,” our family knows. When I say I am going to do something, they immediately ask, “What does Daddy say about it?”

I respond, “Oh you know.” They laugh. They know their Dad probably said “No,” and I am determined to finish the game.”

If you are wondering and have never heard the joke, here goes. A professional golfer was going to teach his novice friend how to play golf. About the fourth hole, the professional golfer dropped dead with a heart attach. The novice finished the game. When he got back to the clubhouse, someone ask him if he enjoyed playing golf. He said, “Well, it was a great game until my friend dropped dead and for the rest of the game, I hit the Ball and had to drag Joe.

So now that I have let you in on one of our family jokes, you know the punch line and have been indoctrinated into our family.

Final Brushstroke! You win a few and lose a few. The game is always interesting and it is always worth playing even when you hit the ball and have to drag Joe.