How big are they anyway?

It is funny about life. When I started writing these columns I wanted to write about things that would change the world, I felt there was too much noise out there. Well, this one is full of noise and by writing it, nothing is going to change, everyone likes it the way it is.

I recently wrote about the price one pays to have their big boy toys. If you remember, Al’s brother was dating a twenty-two year old. I asked the question, “What in the world do they talk about?”

Wow! I have to pass these comments along. They are too rich to hold to myself. I think I am going to take a disclaimer, “These comments are not necessarily the opinion of this writer, I’m just stating what I hear.”

E-mails started coming in on the Big Boy Toys article.
Hi Betty, I just read your "Big Boy Toys" story to my husband and we both laughed our heads off. "What do they talk about?" Dennis said, "Diapers... for him and her." We love your column and look forward to it every week. God Bless and keep up the good work, Dennis and Roxie Schick, Pagosa.

Sam, the one who has the 74 year old neighbor who went to Alaska on a Monster Motorcycle, says, “Betty; Betty, Betty, you are never too old, and nothing is too big. That brother of Al’s must be something else, I want to meet him.”

“This is another great article. I'll vouch for you, these are true stories. EW, Grass Valley, CA

Al’s brother, David, 78 years old, read the article and called. “I had Caroline over the other night; remember she is the twenty-two year old I told you about with the one year old twins.”

“Yes, I remember. You were going to beat up her boyfriend.”

David proceeded. “When Al and your daughter, Allison, were here in Albuquerque, I invited them over to dinner. I also invited Caroline. She came with her two little babies.” Then he laughed, “Caroline had on a tight shirt showing the tops of her breasts. Al got embarrassed and kept looking the other way.”

I said to myself, “Thank you, Lord, I got Al and not his brother. He has the hair but Al has the heart.”

My daughter said, “Mother, it’s true, she was so big, I mean BIG, really BIG; I thought she must be nursing. So, I asked her if she was still nursing. She was huge, she could have. Uncle David stepped in and said disgustingly, “NOOOOOOOOO, they are implants.”’

I said, “Well since they ARE dating, I don’t think nursing is acceptable in the dating arena.”

When Al came home, he said, “The babies fussed all night, Caroline was up and down, yelling at her babies. She is young; she doesn’t know how to take care of them. She couldn’t enjoy her meal. None of us could. So I brought the steaks home.”

I looked at the steaks and said, “That’s too bad. Your brother is a great cook.”

Al said, “It embarrassed me. You could see everything and they were BIG, maybe bigger than a Double D. She bent over and everything fell out. She was flaunting them.”

I said, “Al, what do you know about Double D’s? I didn’t know you were looking?”

“I wasn’t, I kept looking away, but you couldn’t help but look.”

I said, “What is she thinking and what is your brother thinking?”

Al’s brother called. “Al and Allison got to meet Caroline.”

I said to him, “I heard. Since you are the grandfather here and you have the money, if you insist on dating these young girls, buy them some decent clothes and teach them how to dress properly? You’re playing with life. You don’t really care. You should be the adult here; these young girls do not know any better.”

“I talk to them and try to help them,” He said.

Then I proceeded, “By the way, the steaks were great.

“David, since you are out there clubbing, you could redeem your life, help them out. But you would have to change your ways.”

“How’s that?”

“Stay celibate.”

He said, “Never! It will never happen.”

I guess some boys are not going to turn loose of their toys. So how big are they anyway? I know this will give Sam something to write about. Sam, apparently they are too big.

Final Brushstroke! I’m taking a disclaimer on this one. There were three witnesses so I’m passing it along as truth.

A Real Woman looking at a Real Man

Gail Oakes commented to a Facebook friend. "I didn't know there really was a Pagosa Springs. I just remember C.W. McCall singing about the Peterbuilt careening down Wolf Creek Pass, way up on the Great Divide, truckin' on down the other side (put his foot on the brake and it felt just like a plum) and slamming into the side of the feed store in downtown Pagosa Springs. They don't write songs like that any more!"

Yes, Gail Oakes, there is a Pagosa Springs and there use to be a Feed Store in downtown Pagosa. I was here to see it. They don’t write songs like that any more and times have changed since then. The Pagosa Feed Store is gone but there are still some real men in Pagosa Springs.

I went to an art function. A lady said to me, “I read your articles and I love to read about Sweet Al.”

My immediate reaction was, “My biggest fear is I might make Al look bad or make it sound like I am belittling him.”

Her responds was, “Al is a REAL man. You are a REAL woman looking at a REAL man.”
I said, “Do you mind if I quote you? I love it. We are just who we are. I don’t apologize for who we are anymore.”

Being real is not about having a lot of money or not having money but becoming the person we are suppose to be. I believe it is something we all strive for.

Our friend Pat, the Cowboy is the real deal. When I see Pat, I tell him, “You’re the authentic thing. I’ve got to write about you someday and I’ve got to paint you in that old jeep.”

Pat, the cowboy rides his horse every day, wears a dirty old hat, red handkerchief around his neck and scuffed up boots. He gives free riding lessons to all the kids in Aspen Springs who can’t afford to pay him.

Can he afford to give free lessons? No, but his worth is more than money. He is a man of his word. If he owes you, he pays you even if it leaves him a little short. He is learning to live life in a real way.

On Sunday, he slicks back his hair under a brown felt cowboy hat, ties a clean red bandana around his neck, his boots shined and he wears the best clean shirt he owns. He shows up in his old beat up rusty jeep.

He has seen it all. He owned a big ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico, owned jumping horses, he even wrote a few westerns for Hollywood, owned a limousine with a driver, rubbed shoulders with big money and big names. But life got out of hand for this old cowboy, one day he turned back to his roots and got real.

This week in church, he told how he had everything the world could give to him and then he hit bottom. He cried because he was so thankful for how blessed he is now. He didn’t have much but appreciated life. I saw a real man cry. It touched my heart so deeply. He apologized for his tears and I thought, you’ve never been more handsome.

Another example of a real man is Lee Petty. Recently on the Nascar Hall of Fame, they honored Lee Petty, the father of the Petty Racing Team. He said, they were so broke, he drove for groceries. His wife packed a lunch for him and he ate it while he was racing. Today they drive for millions of dollars. Back then $150.00 was big.

His sons said he was tough and a hard man and they didn’t really get to know their father, he was too busy driving. His grandsons said they were scared of him until he invited them to lunch. Everyday, he sat down with them and taught them about winning and told the stories of his days behind the wheel.

The grandsons said it was so special getting to know their grandfather. Their grandfather became real to them. His own sons missed him in all the fanfare and even said, “We didn’t know him like that, we wished we had of.”

The price of a real man! Who can count his worth? There is something authentic, handsome and even right down sexy about a man who looks a little worn and has worked hard for his family.

Some times it takes a lot of living and a lot of working to finally come to terms with one’s self. That’s when others might see him cry, see him shed a tear or two. That is when he becomes a real man and never looked more handsome.

Final Brushstroke! When you don’t have to prove yourself; to yourself or the world, then you become real.

Souls Fluttering and Soles Flapping!

It was a moonlit summer evening, a dance in the town park. We paid our five dollars, ate our barbeque sandwich, and as the wrestling team waited on us the High Rollers sang. It was a night to remember.

We settled into our lawn chairs listening as the band played Cotton Eyed Joe and Mustang Sally.

The crowds flocked to the dance floor, a grassy patch, and they began to move to the music. I couldn’t help but notice Ron Gustafson. He was one of the first out on the grass. He grabbed a little cutie and began dancing. I saw John Travolta emerge like “Saturday Night Fever”. We all looked on in disbelief. Surely he would collapse after that dance. But no! He grabbed another young lady and twirled her around and around. Where did this man learn to dance? He had caught the fever.

I reached over to my sweet Al and said, “Honey, look at Ron. We need to learn how to dance like that. My mind was starting to tap. Why hadn’t we taken advantage of all the dance classes this last winter? They advertised them weekly in the newspaper? A line dance started up, I wanted to join in but I didn’t dare!

As a few young cowboys 2-stepped by. I leaned over and asked my daughter. “Where did they learn that?”

She said, “Coach Candelaria teaches dancing to all the seventh and eighth grade PE classes.” She pointed him out, “That’s him now throwing his wife up in the air”. In the mean time he did another twirl-twist and up his wife flew again.

“I am impressed.” So I turned to Al, “Let’s dance. Everyone one is dancing.”

Al replied, “I’m not a good dancer. You know my good leg is two inches shorter than the other.”
“You know I don’t pay any attention to that. We need to get out there and dance.”
Al stalled, “I will when there are others on the dance floor. I don’t want anyone watching me.”
“Al, nobody cares how you dance.”
“Maybe they will play Nat King Cole or Stardust.”
“The High Rollers are not going to play Stardust. That’s the music of the fifties.”
“When they play a slow one, then I will dance with you.” He says with a wink.

I waited patiently through many fast songs and a few cake auctions. We watched as a family all in matching plaid Bermuda shorts were whooping it up all over the place. By now, the loud shorts, all the locals and even Ron was on the dance floor again, everyone except Al and I. (Later I learned the Bermuda shorts were driving through to California, saw the Hoe-down and stopped. They bought a home-made pie and danced their shorts off.)

Finally, the music slowed down and Al said, “Let’s dance.” He led me into the crowd of dancers. He twirled me around and we began to dance.

Al is holding me tight and I’m looking into his eyes. I’m imagining I am dancing to “My Special Angel”. Memories from days gone by came over me. I was in love all over again.

Suddenly Al dips; then he trips again and trips again. I’m abruptly brought back to reality
“What’s up with this?”
“It’s the shoes.”
“What do you mean the shoes?”
This is a man who can’t say no to new shoes. He has twenty pairs of tennis shoes in his closet.
“My soles turned under and I tripped on them.”
“Al, what in the world, why would you wear these shoes with the soles flapping?”

“I glued them. They must have come unglued.”

About that time, I was becoming unglued. “Throw away those shoes when you get home.”

“Ok but they are good shoes. They just need to be glued again.”

The music continued to play and the conversation changed from days of love and memories to Al’s unglued shoes.

We continued dancing, my soul was no longer fluttering but Al’s soles were still flapping.

When we arrived home and I said, “Give me those shoes.”
“No, they are still good. I will wear them out in the yard.”

Do you know how hard it is to pull a pair of shoes out of the hands of a man who has a shoe fetish? Almost impossible! He proceeded to get Shoo-Goo Glue from the drawer. The shoes are back in his closet. I’m waiting for the right time when he is gone. Those shoes will soon be gone too. Maybe I should appreciate Al’s soul like he appreciates a good pair of soles? Well we both need lessons….

Final Brushstroke! Dancing is like moving as one to the music that moves your souls or soles, whichever the case might be.

Don't We Want to Win?

“Don’t we want to win?” Apparently I asked the wrong question at a recent gathering,

It is funny, we can be all loving and sweet, but when the games start, it is another story.

My son-in-law and I are competitors, especially when there is a dollar bet on the table, the rest of the family will bow out. No one else in the family cares if they win or lose. They play these mindless games like Chicken Foot or Thirty-One where there is no strategy. They are just having fun. To me the fun is in the winning. So apparently I have a problem. I say, “Why play, if I can’t win?”

My daughter says, “We are just having fun. Mother, you turn into this beast when you play.”

I say, “After the game, I’ll be sweet and nice, but during the game, forget it.”

My son-in-law and daughter threw a party for family and friends. I stepped into it again. It was a big shrimp boil. The shrimp and crab legs were boiling in the pot and the conversation was apparently simmering among some of the guests when I walked up.

I met the new football coach for the high school football team. We were introduced. He said, “Are you as sweet as your daughter?”

I said, “No, she is sweeter than I am.” A few laughed.

Some of the parents, grandparents and the coach were talking football when I came into the conversation. I threw out my favorite player’s names and said, “With them we can win.”

The conversation stopped. Apparently I said the wrong thing. One of the grandmothers grinned, looked down at the ground and stirred the dirt with her toe.

I knew she had an opinion so I said to her, “You have an opinion. Don’t we want to win?”

She bowed out of the conversation gracefully, I should have, but I wanted to know, “Don’t we want to win?”

My grandson came later into the conversation and asked the coach, “Can one person win the game?” He was referring to the extra large young man from Bayfield who monopolized the game last year. It appeared he carried Bayfield through the season.

The coach said “No, it is a team sport. Everyone plays in order that the one player can get through to the goal. That’s how the game is supposed to be played.”

The shrimp was still boiling and the conversation was soon boiling too. I realized everyone had an opinion, but there is only one man who has the job. That job is to build a healthy team, teach the boys respect for each other because football is a team sport.

It all sounds noble, but when I sit in the bleachers, I forget about loving my neighbors, I want to see our team win. Forget about grandsons, family love, feel warm and fuzzy.

So, am I as sweet as my daughter? It depends if it is during the game or not. I must apologize to the coach. I truly want my grandsons to learn how to respect their teammates, be good sports, and be kind and generous. I am thankful the coach is doing that. I can say that now, but when I am in the throws of the game, I am going to be the first one yelling, “Put so and so in. With him we can win the game.”

And Coach, you’ve got a hard job, and you are not going to make everyone happy. I’ll probably be yelling at you most of the time. But I have a feeling you are up for the task. Grandmothers like me don’t seem to scare you.

Football practice has begun. Parents are hauling their boys to practice. The boys run the field, tackle each other, get knocked down, pushed and scraped. They will learn their plays and build a team.

Come Sunday, I will be toting my Bible, talking about loving my neighbors, but come Friday night, I’ll be yelling with the rest of them, “Let’s Win. Kill them!” Something comes over me; it is the smell of winning.

Let the games begin. There will be more sparks flying than at the shrimp boil. Everyone will yell at the coach, yell at the boys, praise the boys and praise the coach. Then afterwards, they will go out for pizza and forget their differences until Friday night comes around again.

Final Brushstroke! There are two different kinds of win. One is winning the game and the other is winning your neighbor. The wise man knows how to do both.

Daddy's Little Girl

Whether a daughter is seventy-three or three, they never quit being Daddy’s Little Girl. I am seeing this scene played out in front of my very own eyes.
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I recently wrote “When Grown Children Come Home”. I got flack from the family on this one. They said I didn’t tell the whole truth. I told the truth as I saw it. They are finally speaking to me again, but maybe not for long. I decided to go for it again.

The Grown Children article caused even a stir among our friend’s children. Why is it? Is it because a family doesn’t want to change, they like it the way things are, or they don’t feel it is necessary? I don’t see any change in the near future in our family either.

I have observed Al’s relationship with our youngest single daughter who is over thirty and has come home. When she moved back to Pagosa, she reminded us she could take care of herself and has for twenty years, but she came home to be with family.

I think my sweet Al is the problem. Al caters to our daughter. They argue a lot about nothing. He teases her, she gets into a huff. They go garage sale shopping together, fishing, and they love their dogs. She programs her dad’s shows for him, explains to him how to answer his phone and is a very good daughter. She tells him what to do and he does it. It’s a great relationship in their minds and everyone is happy.

I am staying out of this match made in heaven; it would be like separating two mad dogs, they would turn and bite me for sure. But it’s too good not to write about, so I am pouring me a cup of coffee and watching this thing go on between a dad and a grown daughter. This is one of those family things. I remind him she is grown up and she should be doing things on her own. Al maintains she is alone and he needs to take care of her.

Our son-in-law says, “She doesn’t need a husband because she has DADDY.”

It’s true. Al keeps oil in her car and washes it, takes care of her puppy, makes sure she gets up early for work, even takes breakfast over to her house and visits with her before she goes off to work. The list goes on and on and on.

I’m with our son-in-law I’m not hearing wedding bells any time soon either.

Al is the best ironer in town. So our daughter says, “Daddy, will you iron my blouse?”
“Yes honey,” He says.

Am I jealous? Absolutely not, he does and will do the same for me.

But this is one where I sit back and say, “Al, she doesn’t need you doting over her.”

And he responds, “But someone needs to, so I do it.”

A few weeks ago, our grownup daughter went out to a party. Al woke up at two in the morning, didn’t see her car, she wasn’t home. He started worrying about her, so he called her and told her she needed to come home.

Mind you, she’s been on her own for 20 years and has had the freedom to come and go as she likes. Al is being a concerned dad.

“This isn’t really happening?” She said. “I can’t believe you called me at a party and told me to come home. I am old enough to know when to come home. Don’t ever do that again, you embarrassed me.”

Her friends got a good laugh out of it and thought Al was cute in doing so. She didn’t. They argued in a lighthearted way and continued doing what they do, being Daddy and Daddy’s Little Girl.

So when do you cut the ties? And can you cut the ties, let them grow up and still love them?

I say, “Yes!” But no one is listening, they like things the way they are.

Al says she is stubborn. She won’t do what he tells her to do. He knows what is best for her. I look at Al and think, “And where does she get this from?”

Is anyone going to change? Why change and mess up a great thing.

We have three daughters and if you ask Al, each one is his favorite. In his old age, he won’t have to worry; his girls will take care of him. I’m not sure about me.

I’m praying, “Oh Lord, don’t let me fall into the hands of my children.”

I tease with my daughters, “You won’t put me in an old folk’s home, will you?”

Not teasing, my daughters answer, “If you’re not difficult Mother, or it IS Shady Farms.”

Final Brushstroke! It’s all in the family. A girl will always be her Daddy’s Little Girl. Some things will never change.

Big Boy's Toys - Just a Bigger Price!

As soon as “The truck is too big” article came out, I received several replies. It hit a nerve with several people. I thought I was the grownup here; apparently I am the old one here. This is from Sam. Betty, Betty, Betty, TOO OLD? TOO OLD? TOO OLD? Our boy toys are NEVER too big; and we are never too old for new and bigger toys. If I could afford it, I’d have me another plane and just fly the wings off of it. I have a neighbor who is leaving next month to travel to Alaska on his monster motorcycle, he is 75 and I don’t think I’ll tell him his motorcycle is too BIG, or he is too old.  Hang in there Al!! Love your column!!!!!

A neighbor said, “Ease up Betty, don’t be so hard on Al.”

A co-worker at Ace asked our daughter if her Dad drove a big silver grey truck.

Our daughter said, “Yes.”

She said, “I thought so, I watched him go back and forth, up and back in the parking lot for ten minutes trying to park. Tell your mother, I agree, the truck is TOO big for your Dad.”

Everyone has an opinion. So here goes, to all the grownup boys with their big toys and big price tags.

Al’s brother calls the same day, leaves a message on the machine. “Al, lay off the butter. And it would do well for Betty to lay off the butter too.”

“It will do well for Betty to lay off the butter too?” These were fighting words. I’ve know Al’s brother, David, fifty-one years. We decided a long time ago we needed to love each other for Al’s sake, so we do. We live in different worlds, sweet Al is our only common ground.

When Al’s brother called back later, I told him I wrote about him and his 30 year old girlfriends, and called them his big boy toys. I also reminded him he turned seventy-eight this month.

He said he just got back from the gym.

I said, “I guess with those thirty year olds, if they see you without clothes, you would do well to go to the gym.”

“It’s not that. It’s rigorous, dating these young girls. I’ve got to stay in shape; they take a lot of energy.” Then he laughed. “I had a date with Caroline the other night. She is twenty-two. Her boyfriend got mad and I was going to have to beat him up.”

“Realllly! And he was scared of you? Oh my, the price of big boy toys!”

Al’s brother said “I’ll send a picture of Caroline; she is a knock-out, except Al doesn’t know how to retrieve pictures from his phone. Maybe your daughter can retrieve it for him.”

“I know,” I said, “His phone is too big for him too. Back to this girl, do you realize you are dating someone the same age as our granddaughter? She could be YOUR granddaughter.”

So what in the world is a twenty-two dating a seventy-eight year old man?” I asked him.

“It’s because I know how to treat these girls. These young bucks don’t treat them right.”

My son-in-law says, “It’s his money!”

My daughter says “It’s his charisma!”

I say, “What in the world do they talk about? It’s ridiculous.”

David says, “I don’t do anything, they just start flirting with me.”

Al says, “It’s true. He walks in the door, women’s heads turn. He doesn’t encourage them. They fall all over him.”

David tells me, “I’m bringing a girlfriend this weekend to Pagosa. Betty, don’t get religious with her.”

I cock my eye, lift my eyebrow and think, “Oh me. I’m too old for all this nonsense.”

So you see. Everyone is in his own world and apparently doesn’t mind paying for his toys. Al likes his big truck and his brother likes his young girlfriends. Everyone has their toys and I have my stories and I love writing them. I know you think I’m making this stuff up, I’m not! If I’m lying, I’m dying!

Final Brushstroke! Everyone has their toys. But oh the price we pay for those toys.

Seven Bags, Large Suitcase, Purse, Three Hats and a Therapist

How did I get into this? I asked myself that question after being lost in a blizzard in Denver, Colorado for an hour and half. My plans were to pick up a friend in Denver, then off to a four day Writer’s Conference in Estes Park, Colorado where I would pitch my book.


I had worked night and day getting ready for this Writer’s Conference. My two bags were tidy and organized, my manuscript was polished and I was ready.

When I finally arrived with poor instructions, I was greeted with a pile of things in the doorway. I saw one big suitcase, purse, three hats and seven open bags with a variety of things falling out of them. There was sticking up and out, hangers among shoes and underwear in one of the bags. Another bag sported a CD player with tapes, makeup and sweater. And the bags go on and on.

I looked at all her bags and I said kindly, I thought you were a traveler. Apparently you have never learned how to travel.

She answered, “Oh, I do travel. I am use to traveling and living out of my car.”

“So, let me help you take your stuff to the car,” I said as we made three trips.

When we arrived at the conference, everyone one was having a bad day. In my mind, I just wanted to leave. If I had not paid for the conference, the room and meals, I would have left. But being practical, I knew I had to see it through, besides I had the car and I couldn’t leave my friend stranded with all of her stuff. Mind you, she was going to live out of my car for four days. We made multiple trips getting her things to the room.

This friend continued to lose things and in so doing she searched every bag every time. She couldn’t find her room key, her watch, her tapes, and her medicine. She had left her medicine at home. She called her husband who made a special trip to bring her meds. I was watching this friend and thinking, “I thought she was more together, but of course, I have never traveled with her, just have had lunch with her on several occasions.

About this time, traveling with sweet Al was looking better and better. I thought to myself, “I’ve got to apologize to Al for the hard time I give him. Where is my sweet Al? He would be carrying his bags and mine too. Instead I am carrying hers.”

The conference continued. Mind you, my friend is a therapist with a degree. She counsels people who can’t get their life together. She needed counseling. I didn’t come to counsel her; I came to pitch my book.

My friend continued to baffle me. She wanted to write and had one thing she wrote about twenty years ago. Why was she at the conference? On the way home, she misplaced a bunch of CD tapes she had just purchased. Half way down the mountain from Estes Park, we had to turn around and go back. Trying to retrace our steps to find her tapes, I once again, shook my head and wondered how she could be counseling others when her own life was such a mess.

When we reached Denver’s city limits, she said she knew the way to her apartment. We missed the road and wandered through downtown Denver. Four days earlier I had driven Denver streets looking for this place, now I was lost again. Her husband was laughing when we reached their home and he said, “That’s my wife.”

I looked back to see if we had left anything. She had left one of her bags sitting on the sidewalk. I walked back to the car and picked it up. I was not as tolerant as her husband. So I delicately and tactfully asked her, “What the heck is going on? You’re a mess. You’ve got to get your act together. I won’t be traveling with you again.”

She said, “Oh, you don’t mean that, do you?”

“I think I will bring Al next year.” I said.

After the lost tape incident, she finally had a break through; enlightenment came to her in the morning light. Good thing, I was about to have a break down in my darkest night.

This seventy-four year old therapist began to self-analyze. She came to the conclusion, “My life is like these seven bags, I have been stuffing stuff into my life for years, trying to figure out who I am and what I need to be doing with my life. I keep looking through these bags trying to figure out what it is I am looking for. I keep wearing a different hat. The medicine represents the wellness of my soul, and the thing I needed the most, I left at home.”

She was so excited about her new discovery; she said she had to write about it.

I said, “Me too.”

She called this week. She hadn’t written a thing since we came back from the writer’s conference. So much for her enlightenment!

For me, I was looking for a publisher and for answers to this world of writing. I found a publishing house who will publish my book but most important, I kept looking for my Al and all his bags. It’s a funny thing; we have the best thing sitting in the chair next to us and we don’t recognize it until we are put to the test of unfamiliarity.

Final Brushstroke! Would we really want to change someone else’s bags for ours? I’ll keep my sweet Al. I’ve grown accustom to his sweet face and all his stuff.