Karl, How Could You Do This To Us?

I wondered what I would write about in my next article for January 2014. I didn’t have the slightest idea what the New Year would bring. I’m getting an inkling. CHANGE.

I had waxed poetic to a couple of my friends. I told them I found out what the word, daybreak meant in the Bible. It means the day breathes. I had to think about it for a while, and then I had a Holy Ghost Aha moment. I told them, “The day is alive, it breathes for us. All we have to do is live in the breathe of the day, live in the rhythm of God’s heartbeat and we will experience life. We can’t experience God in yesterday or tomorrow, we only live in today’s breath.”

It all sounded good. I told them it was easy to do. Then a phone call and a newspaper reading in the same day quickly challenged my poetic bent. I realized I didn’t like the way the day was breathing for me.

I think it’s easier to handle things when it’s the familiar and it’s the same old, same old. The phone call said things had changed. Corporate had hired a new manager, and she was making changes. She would be replacing my art classes for a few months. My supervisor assured me she would fight for me. She understands the guests, and how many come to Pagosa, year after year because they offer art lessons and how they accommodate their guests.

Then, I picked up the newspaper and lo and behold, I saw Karl Isberg thrown over his desk with RIP. It scared me to death. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could you do this to us, Karl? You can’t stop and retire? Not now, we’re expecting things to be the same. I know it’s been 26 years sitting at the same desk in the same office at the same SUN news. I noticed in the picture, your hand next to your coffee cup, you hadn’t finished your coffee, yet. You can’t go.

You’ve been my friend for 6 years. You took a chance on me when I was a novice writer. You told me your biggest concern about a new column was my sustainability. I told you, not to worry. I knew I had plenty of material to write about. I’m an artist and I live with Sweet Al and a dog named Whiskey on the Lower Blanco in Pagosa. There’s plenty to write about.

You’ve covered my backside many times. Before I knew how to write, I was writing. I don’t know why I didn’t think I might embarrass myself, with my limited formal education and lack of discretion. You understood, and you corrected many typos and awkward sentences. You made me look better than I am. I’d said, “The title is feeble, change it if you want to.” You did and made them better.

I was so excited about writing that I’d send several articles ahead of schedule. It’s been a game with me. The romance in writing these crazy articles is still alive in me, and I’m hitting 256 articles for the Artist’s Lane. I’m not ready to quit, I’ve just got started.

Then, I was driven to have a faith column in the newspaper. I asked you if I could. You said, “Only if you can get faith writers, then we’ll see. I don’t want the same writer every week.” I did, and you did and we’ve been going strong for 194 weeks. You allowed us to write our faith about Jesus. You didn’t change the message. We wrote strong words at times. You took it to print as we wrote them. This is rare for a newspaper. I wrote to the faith writers and told them, “You need to write while we have the freedom to write our faith. You never know what might happen.” Few took advantage of your generosity. Now what?

There were times I asked a favor of you. “Could you slide this event or announcement in for this week’s newspaper, I know it’s 4 o’clock on a Monday and the cut off is 12 noon?”

Our grandsons and all the others in Pagosa sports couldn’t wait for Thursdays. They wanted to see how they did in their stats for the week and what was said about them in the newspaper. You covered every game and reported on them, even sent our daughter, Allison Wylie, to take pictures at the State Wrestling and other sports events.

Karl, how could you do this to us? You know it’s all about us. It’s not about you and if you’re a little tired of working or other reasons, which we don’t know.

I thought your sustainability would far surpass me. I asked you once, “I’ve written a hundred articles so far, how many have you written?” You chuckled and said, “Thousands. I quit counting a long time ago.”

When I read about your retirement, I said to my Sweet Al, “Maybe I won’t have a job writing after the first of the year. Karl’s the one who believed in me. Maybe, our faith articles will be censored. I have always been thankful to him for printing them as they were.”

What else will happen in 2014? I know the day breathes for us, because God said it. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for making it possible for our family to do what we do.

I pray for you that you will have many days breathing for you. You are a dear friend, I want to say thank you from me and my family.

Final Brushstroke! Take advantage of the day. Make it count for you. The only way we experience the breathe in the day, is in this day.

To the Bell Lap Runner

If you’re reading this article, that means you made it through 2013. As we ring in a new year, how is 2014 looking for those who are still in the race?

In church on Sunday our pastor called us the Bell Lap Church because most of us are over sixty years old. It’s a term used in running. The Bell lap runner is the last one to get the baton and he carries it over the finish line. Some of us are on the last lap of the race and very close to the goal.

The pastor said he was going to quit calling us the Bell Lap Church, and then he realized it was always the seventy year olds who showed up on moving day to move another family in the church. So, he asked the people over seventy what kept them going. Everyone had his or her reason. For me it was a gnawing in my being that I couldn’t answer.

Maybe it’s a sense of so little time to accomplish what the Lord has required of me. When I stand before Him I would hope He’d say, “Well done, my faithful servant. You did everything I put in your hands to do and you trusted in Me to get it done.”

I’ve chewed on that question, “What keeps a person like me over seventy going?”  Is it because I haven’t seen the fruition of my own work yet? But then I realized those things I’ve done in faith for eternity will not be seen in their fullness until I step over to the other side. It’s just a matter of keep doing what I’ve been doing and growing in grace.

I was reminded of Mr. Holland’s Opus. He felt his life didn’t count for anything because he didn’t get to do what he really wanted to do. But in the end his life had a greater effect on so many more lives. He was a blessed man because he stayed on the path he was asked to walk.

Some of us haven’t bloom and we are in our seventies. It wasn’t because we were slouches all those years. We were knocking and pushing on doors. Some were opened to us, many were not only shut, but locked, but we kept on knocking.

I was telling a writer friend that my first book has been made into a movie script and I was going to do scripts for my next two books for a television series. I said, “I don’t know why I keep pushing. It probably won’t amount to a hill of beans.”

She said, “We’re doing it for the next generation.”

That was my answer. That’s why I do what I do.

Hopefully we are all doing something for the next generation who are wandering aimlessly, who do not have the same work ethics that were pounded into us? Young people are looking at a world so twisted and perverted in morals and principles that nothing makes sense to them. There are many who have not had a good family life with traditions and standards. It wasn’t their fault. It’s been handed to them and they are dealing with it the best way they can.

When my friend said, “We do what we do for the next generation,” I thought of this poem, Building The Bridge, from Rare Old Chums by Will A. Dromgoole. I think it says it all.

“A pilgrim, going a lone highway

Came at evening, cold and gray

To a chasm, deep and vast and wide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim.

The chasm held no fears for him

But he paused when he reached the other side

And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,

“Why waste your time in building here?

Your journey ends with the close of day

You never again will pass this way.

You’ve crossed the chasm deep and wide

Why build ye here at eventide?”

The pilgrim raised his old gray head,

“My friend, in the path I’ve come,” he said,

“There follows after me today

A fair-haired youth who must pass this way.

The chasm which held no fears for me

To the fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim.

My friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

Final Brushstroke! So to my Bell Lap friends, who have made it another year and hopefully many more years, we are building a bridge for a fair-haired youth who must pass this way. Yes, we’re building a bridge for him.

What does he see in her?

This time change is killing me. I used to wake up at 4am, but now I’m looking at the clock at 3. I woke up with Jake on my mind. No, Al’s still the one, but it might not be for long, if he doesn’t start training his dog. His dog, Whiskey is getting by with murder.

We had dinner with Jake’s owners, Sam and Judy. Remember Jake, the dog who wears pajamas to bed. He’s the one who can’t go out without wearing his little booties and a coat over his sweater.

Can you imagine taking the time to dress a dog so he can go out and do his business? I can’t comprehend this love for a dog.

His owner said last night he could have bought a new car for the money he’s spent on Jake’s doctor bills. They have probably spent $1,000 on his teeth and thousands of dollars on other body parts. He’s got problems with his stomach and he is on a special diet. Then, there is his liver, blood tests, and it goes on and on.

I asked Sam how many pills Jake takes every day? He said, Jake is taking only three capsules a day now, but they are very expensive.

“Only three?” I said, “Jake is a ‘Doctor Bill.’ Jake and I would split the sheets. I advised them that they should get insurance on that dog since he spends so much time at the doctor’s office.”

Sam said, “Jake can’t get insurance, he has too many pre-existent illnesses. But, he could qualify under the Obana Care.”

“Oh great. There goes our insurance rate! Something else for My Sweet Al to worry about.”

 Now, I find out that Jake is also having trouble with the time change. Him, too? What’s his problem?

Sam said, “Well, Jake used to go to bed at 9pm, but with the time change, he has to go to bed at 8. He won’t go until we do. He sits and looks at us until we all go to bed together.”

“So does that mean you and Judy have to go to bed at 8 because of Jake?”

“Well, yes.” Sam hemmed and hawed around. “But he doesn’t wake up until we wake up. Even when we sleep to seven, he won’t move. Then I get up and give him a pill, I put on his booties and coat over his pajamas and take him outside.”

“That dog is running your life.”

“But we love him.”

I said, “I’d get rid of him.” Then I remembered Whiskey. Just this morning, I thought we had her trained from jumping and eating everything on the cabinet. She grabbed the loaf of bread and ate it. Whiskey is a “Grocery Bill.” She helps herself to the snack cart and everything else in her reach.

She still jumps up on me. I yell all the way out the door to the car, “Down, down, down. Get down.” When I come home, I look around to see where Whiskey is, I open the car door, get out before she jumps in my car, then I yell all the way back into the house, “Down, down, down, get down.”

I told Al he’s got to train Whiskey or get rid of her. He went into shock. Al says he loves her. And he confesses that he’s a little lenient on her, but the reason she jumps up on me is because she is excited to see me when I come home. I’m not buying it.

What about these dogs? Jake wants to go to bed at 8 so his master obeys. Al loves Whiskey and is determined he can’t live without her. Now, I’m waking up at three thinking of Jake. I jumped out of bed and had to write an article about him. I’m losing sleep over these dogs.

Whiskey is an ugly dog by all standards. She has beady eyes, a crop of wiry hair between her eyes going down her nose. Al says she is beautiful and is loyal to him. She wants to be wherever he is, and he can’t live without her.

Pagosa is a dog town. I see you driving around with your dogs in the front seat. They used to ride in the back of the truck. I’m perplexed with all of this dog love. I guess, when someone falls in love, they can’t help it.

Remember the days in high school when a good-looking guy was going with some ugly girl? She was latched on to his arm at the football games. Of course, we were jealous because she got the cute one. Remember what we’d say? “She’s a dog, what does he see in her.” I think I just answered my own question.

Final Brushstroke! Dogs are loyal and some of us are fickle. I’m sleeping with my Sweet Al and thinking about Jake.

What’s with the Underwear?

Al came home without his underwear. He can’t find them, and he has worried me to death. He’s looked in the car, and he’s called our daughter and worried her sick. He’s had her looking for them in her car, house and yard.

He called the store to see if he left them there and wondered if they would give him another package of underwear. They said no.

He’s asked me to backtrack everything he brought home from the store.

I put all the groceries up, but I didn’t see his underwear. I told him,  “I didn’t lose your underwear, Al. Let it go, buy another package of underwear and forget it. It’s only $7.00.”

“It’s not the $7.00, but it’s the principle. I bought them, now they’re gone.”

What’s with the underwear? This week Al’s brother David called. I was telling him that my book The Spirit of the Red Candle: Journal of Mary Magdalene has been made into a movie script, and it was in Hollywood being shown to a producer as we were speaking.

David’s advice to me was, “When it turns out for you and your book is made into a movie, keep your panties on.”

I laughed at him. He’s got one thing on his mind. I said I’m seventy years old. Maybe when I was thirty you might have needed to worry. I don’t think that’s a problem.

In the same phone call, David said he needed to get away. He had been working really hard, so he was going to Mexico for a few days. I told him, “Keep your panties on.” He’s getting close to eighty years old. He is forgetting things. He probably wouldn’t mind losing his underwear, but what’s he going to come with? Now, that’s something to worry about.

I was baking for the holidays and I found Al’s underwear. It’s the same size and color as a two-pound bag of powder sugar. I had the thought, I should just wrap the underwear and put them under the tree, he’d be thrilled. But I decided to tell him I found his package of underwear in the baking drawer. I should have never told him.

Meanwhile, the holidays are here, Al wanted to play Chicken Foot with our youngest daughter. If you remember, I’m in the mode of scaling down and moving things. He couldn’t find the Chicken Foot Game. He has driven me crazy. “Where is it? You’ve moved it. You lose everything, and I just wanted to play Chicken Foot with our daughter. It’s just like you, you lost my underwear.”

I said, “Just play Scrabble with her and forget it.” Then I laughed.

He said, “You know I don’t play Scrabble. I’m not a good speller.”

I said, “Put on your big girl panties and play it anyway.”

He reminded me again,  “You were the one who lost my underwear and now you’ve lost my Chicken Foot Game.”

I told our daughter, “I won’t hear the last of that one, I should have just tied a bow around his underwear, put them under the tree and let Al think I bought them. He would have been full of gratitude.”

I said to My Sweet Al, “Take all your old underwear out of the drawer and throw them away.” You would’ve thought I asked him to hang the moon.

He said, “Throw them away? No, I’m using them for grease rags.” That’s another story for another time.

Final brushstroke: Meanwhile Al’s brother is in Mexico during the holidays and he will probably lose his panties there, too. Oh me, we’ve all got our issues.  Better that I put Al’s underwear in the cabinet and not hear the end of it, than David leaving his in Mexico.

Confessions of a Garage Sale Goer!

Is there a Garage Sale Go-ers Anonymous group in town? If there is, My Sweet Al and I need to attend.  If there isn’t one, there should be, this whole town is full of Garage Sale Junkies. I would tell the whole world I’m not one of them, but I think it is time to come out of the closet and confess I also have a problem.

I don’t want to have garage sales, don’t want to go to them, and I don’t want any more junk. But somehow I‘m always sorting through junk, which we have accumulated in weak moments. This stuff comes to the door. People know we can’t say no, so they bring their treasures to us.

I’m finding when we have garage sales, the serious garage sale people come before we open, even though we specify, 8am, no early birds. They come at 7:00 and stand there with things in their hands waiting for us to tell them what it’s worth.

Instead of saying, I’m not open yet, I’ll say, “Oh, just give me a couple of dollars.” That’s how a lady got a good pair of antique snow skis. Al is still mad at me for selling those for two dollars.

Then there was the antique toboggan that Al had in the family for years. It was probably worth some money. Another lady came early, caught me off guard and I sold it to her for a few dollars. I think they know what they’re doing, and I don’t.

When I told my friend, she says that’s what serious garage sale people do. My friend knows, because she has a friend who does that and she actually makes a living by being the first one there to get the good deals. She takes these treasures and puts them on E-Bay.

Another friend, when she is having a garage sale, she makes it a party. Her husband fires up the barbeque grill and serves hot dogs. I can’t imagine cooking for people in the midst of all that junk. She does and she always makes $500.00 or more and she doesn’t have that much to sell.  She uses it as a time to get to know the neighbors, and she’s making money and new friends.

So when do you hold or fold? I don’t have garage sale smarts. Garage-sale-smart people live at garage sales. They hang around garage sale people.  They know the lingo, they know a good price, and they know how to do it.

I think I need to join the GSG’s Anonymous. “Hi, I’m Betty.” I’m married to a Garage Sale Junkie. He won’t stop collecting junk. He promises me he will stop but he won’t do it. He sneaks it in and hides it under the couch pillow or on the top shelf of the closet. It’s tearing us apart.

I confess I have my own junk addiction, as well. Our addictions feed off of each other. He brings home a blue bottle, and I can see it on our mantel with flowers. I can’t say no to him or the bottle. He brings home a table. I see one of my paintings on it. The light goes off in me. I grab it up. I say, “It’s mine.” It’s that hallelujah moment when the heavens break open and the light shines around it. We are both junkies.

The new me — I will say no to all garage sales, shopping at them or having them. But when the junk mounts up, I give in. Al gets energized with garage sale day. I want to crawl into a hole.

Back to my recent episode with our garage sale, which prompted this article in the first place. I have to confess. I put an ad in the Classified Ads, planned, worked like a dog, got it ready and then came the rain. I went to the football game the night before the garage sale, and heard there would be 60% chance of rain for Saturday.

I had reserved the church in case of rain. I didn’t want all that mud tracked into the church. I couldn’t decide the best thing to do, follow through or shut it down. Apparently, there is protocol in calling off a garage sale. I didn’t do it right.

On Friday night, my friend came up to me and said she had invited 9 friends, and she had things to donate to the church, thinking it was a church event. I told her I called it off.

I was reprimanded. “You called it off. I drove by the church.  I didn’t see a sign that said “Garage Sale Cancelled.”  You should’ve put up a sign.”

“I thought when people saw the rain they would know it wasn’t going to happen.”

“You need to call Tradeo and have them announce it.”

I didn’t think it was necessary. I went home that night and started to pray for more rain. As if we hadn’t had enough rain all ready, I had to prove that I was justified that I had a good reason for calling off the garage sale.

I don’t quit when I commit to something. Surely the whole world knows that and wouldn’t see me flippant toward serious garage sale shoppers. I woke up the next morning. Gray skies!  I ran to the computer Giddy and e-mailed Tradeo. I e-mailed all our church members since I announced it the week before. I told Al he had to go to town and put a sign that said, “Garage Sale Cancelled due to Rain.” Because I was told to do it so no one would be disappointed.

He said, “Betty, they will know it’s cancelled. People know it’s going to rain.” By 6:30am it poured down, I was relieved. For you serious garage sale people, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you in the rain. I had heard a few people came by. They must know about all the good treasures we want to set free.

I have boxed all our garage sale stuff up which takes up the whole barn. Some of our vehicles are going to be out in the rain and snow so that I might make $100 in the Spring. I’m going to do it come rain or shine. Again, if you see my sweet Al wandering by your yard sale, tell him he already has 3 of those at home. Pretty Please.

Final Brushstroke! Deliver me. My Sweet Al and I live among junk. Let me know when the next meeting is for the GSG’s Anonymous, we’ll be there.