Learning to Live with Grace

Everyone needs grace. I find I hold people to my standard. Oh Me! I’ve always believed what a person puts into life, they will also get out of life. I’ve held many a person’s feet to the fire without grace. I hope I’m changing. Judging is an ugly thing.

At the end of May, I was sitting in the crowd of thousands waiting for the 2014 graduates from a prestige Christian University in California to appear. The first person I recognized, whose name started with an A from the Art Department, was the first person to receive her diploma. Seven hundred and forty-eight graduates followed her.

I leaned over to my daughter and said, “I don’t believe it. Annie is leading the graduates. The last shall be first.”

My daughter laughed and said, “Oh that’s good.”

I had flown to Long Beach on May first to attend my granddaughter’s three-person senior art show. The show was a big chunk of their grade. The art students had known about it at the beginning of their senior year and had worked on it all year. Maybe all knew about it, but all didn’t do it. I guess that is where grace comes in.

Our granddaughter had diligently worked on her assemblage show. She had nine finished pieces. She had labeled each piece, and framed her concept statement. Her parents had come two days earlier to help her putty holes and paint from the previous week’s show. Her father built shelves to hold her pieces. All was well.

Each artist was to have a part of the refreshments. Annie was to bring fruit, Beau was to bring cheese and crackers, and our granddaughter, Tiffany was to bring desserts. Two days before the show, Beau and Tiffany were hanging their pieces, adjusting the track lighting, and sweeping the floor. Tiffany, my daughter and myself shopped for the refreshments the day before. We had lemon squares, brownies and chocolate covered strawberries, and they were all arranged beautifully on trays for the refreshment table.

When I arrived May first, the day before the art show, my daughter said, “Annie is still painting on her show.”

“What? She’s had all year, what is she thinking?”

Each senior art student was given their own 8X8 studio for the year. Annie was in her art studio and was painting on Sunday evening, listening to music and being inspired.  The show was Monday night at 6pm.

I noticed Annie’s work and I almost offered to paint her wrap-around canvases. I said to my daughter, “I hope if she doesn’t frame her work, she will finish the sides, which have messy drips and paint on them. I could do it so easy, since I’ve been mixing paints for years. I could get a perfect match. Should I offer?”

“I’m sure she’ll know to do that.”

“I hope so, it looks like the devil.”

At 5:30 Monday night, we were all at the gallery except Annie. They said Annie was still painting on her paintings. Her mother and sister wanted to know where the wall paint and drop clothe was since she didn’t have all of her pieces finished to hang. They were removing nails from the wall.  In their nice clothes, Annie’s mother and sister were painting the area where the art pieces were to go.

At 5:45, we all said, “Where’s Annie?”

“Oh, she’s still painting.”

Our granddaughter, in her nice flowing gown and high heels pulled the twenty-foot ladder to Annie’s side. She climbed the ladder and adjusted the lighting over Annie’s pieces for her.

At 5:50, Annie’s mother and sister brought in the fruit and put it in the refrigerator. I said, “Do they know to arrange it and put it on a plate? We need to help out.” Beau was on target, his girlfriend was there arrangement his part of the refreshments. Everything was ready except for Annie’s part.

Annie came in at 6pm, at the same time the art show began. With a piece of paper and scotch tape, she taped her concept on the wall. She had no titles on her pieces. I went up to Annie and ask her to explain her show to me. She really didn’t want to talk about it. She had a dynamic concept, she could really paint, but she didn’t execute any of it.

And of course, I noticed the raw unfinished wrap-around canvases. I said, “I should have helped her out, I could have finished them for her.”

My daughter said, “No, it’s her grade. I don’t feel sorry for her, she’s had all year to get ready for her senior show.”

My granddaughter who is the sweet sensitive one, said, “I feel sorry for Annie. She should be enjoying her art show. She’s embarrassed how she looks, she doesn’t want any pictures taken of her.”

My daughter said, “Maybe, the show is overwhelming to her. Her mother and sister are enjoying the show and they aren’t taking care of the refreshments.”

I offered my sentiments. “For crying out loud, she’s a senior and is getting her degree in Fine Arts. She doesn’t know better than to have a show like this?”

The university bought one of our granddaughter’s pictures for their art department. This was the first time that one of their students did an assemblage show. Our granddaughter looked beautiful and she was basking in her first real art show. I was basking in her and her diligence to follow through. She got an A+ from both of her art professors on her show.

During the course of the month of May, one of the family members would say, “Can you believe it, Annie was still painting at 6:50?”

“I can’t believe it.” I had to add my two cents. “Someone paid for Annie’s $200,000 schooling. Does she know the opportunity she had? It’s one of the best art programs in any university in the country. Her art show was a total mess. She now holds a degree in Fine Art from a prestige university.”

“And, who am I to say anything? I don’t have an art degree from any university. But, I do know to replenish the refreshment table at an art show.”

Annie received her art degree on graduation night. Great scholars followed in line to receive their diplomas. We all shook our heads, “I can’t believe Annie is leading the brilliant minds of 2014.”

It’s all about grace, which I didn’t give Annie the grace she needed. I didn’t even want to give her grace. Oh me. I’ve got the problem. I’m the undone one here.

Final Brushstroke: The Lord said the last will be first. Those who worked only an hour shall be paid the same wage as those who worked all day. That thought used to make me mad, until I understood what He was saying. Grace is free, no one can work for it, if you get it the last hour of your life or the first, you get the same. He said, I paid the high price with my very own blood.

Annie will be standing with her diploma and I’ll be telling the Lord, she didn’t do what she was suppose to do with her art show. She didn’t refill the refreshment table.

He will say, “I gave you grace. All I ask is that you love and show grace. Did you do it?”

“Well, No, I was too busy worrying about the unfinished edges on Annie’s artwork.”

The Folly of it All

David, Al’s brother called. He needed a family recipe. He wanted to tell me that he would be hosting the next Wine Tasting Party. He prides himself in being an expert on fine wine and fine gourmet food. He is an excellent cook and everyone wants to be invited to his house for dinner.

He had been invited to a Wine Tasting Party with the elite of Albuquerque. They all showed up with their favorite wines. David took his favorite $100 bottle of wine. Somebody showed up with a $4.00 bottle of wine and another guest only brought a sack of chips.

He told me there were so many people who attended that they made a cut of who would be invited to the next party, which would be at his house. He said he met a couple guests at the grocery store. Apparently, they didn’t make the cut and weren’t invited to the next wine tasting party. They wondered why?

I said, “I guess they were the ones who brought the bag of chips. They might have gone to too many tailgate parties, taking a sack of Doritos and a cooler of beer. Maybe they're out of your league.”

He laughed.

The folly of it all! When Al and I lived in Albuquerque, we were aware we didn’t belong in that circle.  We didn’t even pretend to be a part. We didn’t have that kind of money.

Al’s brother and his second wife belonged to a Gourmet Dinner Club in Albuquerque. They put their foot in the door during the 1960’s and became a part of the Who’s Who of Albuquerque. They were invited to the Governor’s Palace, Premiers and Fundraisers.

David’s second wife dressed on a shoestring, but she looked like a million dollars. They dressed the part and acted the part. The lifestyle suited them. They loved being with the upper crust. They were climbing the proverbial ladder.

His number third and fourth wives were in their early twenties. They became instant invited guests when they came into the picture. They really didn’t fit in. David made sure they shopped at the best stores and went to the best salons in Albuquerque. They didn’t belong, but learned how to look the part. It was who they were with, not who they were. They were with David Slade and they used his money to help them look good.

The few times Al and I were with David’s friends, I heard the men bragging about how much they had to pay off ex-wife number two and three. They were dating number four at the time and wondered if they might be paying more alimony again. They talked about their current purchase of a small plane, or buying stock in a shopping center. It was all about money and moving money.

The wives talked about their latest boob job or their trip for Botox. They also might have discovered a jeweler who custom-designed a ring or a piece of jewelry. Oh, to be that jeweler.

I remember once when David’s number two wife bought a custom ring, every woman in the group flocked to have a piece of jewelry made for them. The jeweler moved from a little hole-in-the wall shop in the back alley, and instantly opened a shop in the big shopping center.

There is old money and new money. The people with the old money are common as old shoes. They were raised with money, they understood money, and they didn’t have to prove themselves.

On the other hand, Albuquerque is full of people with new money. They have to prove themselves. It’s where they shop and what they wear. It’s all about appearance.  They struggle to belong. They buy bigger houses they can’t afford just to look like they can afford them.

I remember a story where the man opens the shoe store. He couldn’t afford the inventory. So, he lined up empty shoeboxes on the shelves. He was fine until someone wanted to see the shoes inside the empty box. He looked successful, but he was empty inside. He attempted to impress rather than what he actually possessed. 

Vanity of vanity, emptiness of emptiness. I can’t imagine living in the emptiness of other people. Some try and are never satisfied, but they still try.

Many people who have rubbed shoulders with the elite have moved to Pagosa. They were tired of being caught up in the arrogance of the shallowness of others. They understand the pretentiousness of it all. Men have thrown off the three-piece suit, got rid of the ties, forgot about their razors, and have grown a ponytail. They were once out there, too.

Final Brushstroke! I guess Mogen David or wine-in-the-box isn’t acceptable to bring to an elite Wine Tasting Party. David’s group did them a favor when they didn’t make the cut.  Aren’t you glad you don’t have to worry about it? That’s why we live in Pagosa.

Yes, No, Maybe!

Picture this! Al tells the story when he was a little boy about his granddad in the chicken yard. Their big red rooster with spurs chased him and jumped on his back. His granddad was yelling, screaming and running all over the yard trying to get the rooster off. Al’s little 4’9” grandmother ran out of the house, grabbed the rooster off of his back and wrung his neck with her bare hands. They ate the rooster for supper.

This story is a little more civilized than what happened to Al and I in the doctor’s office in a near by town. I felt like I had confronted the red rooster with spurs in the chicken yard. The nurses were like hens cackling and clucking around him, smoothing the doctor’s feathers down and apologizing to his patients for his obnoxious behavior.

The rooster jumped on my Sweet Al’s back and I felt no mercy but to wring his neck with my own bare hands. Not on my watch is anyone going to make my Sweet Al feel badly about himself.

Al’s knee had been hurting for the past six months. We weren’t sure what was going on. It was beginning to buckle under him and he was walking with a cane.

Friends had referred this doctor to us. Al went through the procedure of filling out paperwork, and then we waited for the doctor. The tall, nice looking, cock-of-the-walk, appeared with a tan and silver hair. He was starched, pressed, creased and had pranced around the chicken yard for thirty years. He was ready to retire in four months and hit the golf course. He was strutting and showing off for the student doctors, who were following him around.

The doctor asked Al about the pain, when it started, where it hurt.

I thought Al answered all his questions. Apparently, it wasn’t what the doctor wanted to hear.

Al explained what it felt like and told his story about his knee and about his ankle. His leg is two inches shorter than the other one because of an accident when he was two years old. He has no anklebone and his ankle is fused. It doesn’t move. All this was related to the pain in Al’s knee.

The doctor asked, “Where does it hurt?”

Al pointed to his knee.

The doctor confronted Al. “Does it hurt all night?”

“I don’t know, it’s when I wake up.”

The doctor asked again, “Does it hurt at night when you sleep?”

“When I wake up.”

The doctor got belligerent. “I ask you if it hurts all night?”

“Sometimes.”

The doctor said to Al, “I want a yes or no answer. That’s all.”

“Well, all I know I have a lot of pain.”

“I didn’t ask you that, I want you to answer simply yes or no.”

Al said, “Yes.”

Al was getting confused and said to the doctor. “All I know is my knee hurts.”

That’s not what I ask you. “When does your knee hurt?”

“All the time.”

I thought you said, “Sometimes.”

I’m sitting in the corner, being quiet. I listened to him talk down to Al.

The doctor left the room to get an ex-ray technician. While he was out of the room, Al said to me, “All I know, it hurts.”

We laughed about what just happened.

I said to Al, “Just say yes or no.”

Al said, “Yes, it hurts.”

They took Al down for ex-rays, and the doctor came back with his students. He became Mr. Personality. “Well, boys and girls… pull up your chairs so you can see the ex-ray.”

The ex-ray showed exactly what the problem was. All that badgering wasn’t necessary. Eventually, Al will have to have a knee replacement, but for now there were two or three ways to handle the pain.

We listened to the doctor as he went through the procedure. We agreed to the Synvisc-One, a lubricant that will help the pain for now.

Then I asked the doctor the fatal question. “Giving him a dose of Synvisc-One in his knee, will it work?”

The doctor answered, “Yes, no or maybe.”

It all became funny to me, so I challenged him. “I don’t want a yes, no or maybe, I want one word. Just say yes or no.”

The doctor stammered and said, “I meant what I said, it could be a yes, no or maybe.”

His feathers ruffled and my hackles went up. I don’t know if anyone had ever called him down before, but I said again, “Just say yes or no.”

Then it went down hill from there. He recommended a brace on Al’s shoe.

Al said he had never worn a lift for his shoe before, but thought he should get one now.

The doctor said he was going to send in the “brace man,” who would measure a brace for his shoe. It would be a heel on the outside and a lift on the inside.

While the doctor was out, I asked Al, “Do you think you want a brace on your shoe? You’ve been walking on your toes all these years, your ankle won’t move. You wear different pairs of shoes. What shoe would you put a brace on?”

Al said, “You right. I wear different pairs of shoes every day.”

The doctor came back into the room and Al said innocently, “Doctor, I don’t think I’ll get the brace. I have this shoe fetish, I couldn’t have a brace for just one pair of shoes.”

Oh, Lord, I thought that old rooster was going to come unglued. He backed up, threw up his hands and said, “I just recommended a brace, I don’t care if you get a brace or not, don’t get one, I don’t care.”

Then I said, “This is all new to us. We hadn’t thought about a brace before. We need time to think about it. Does Medicare cover the brace?”

“He said, I don’t know.”

I laughed, “I don’t know?” That isn’t an acceptable answer. Just say yes or no.”

The doctor said, “I’m tired of talking about a brace. The conversation is over. I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t care if you have a brace or not.” He left the room again.

The nurse, who had been in the room during this whole ordeal, cheered, gave me a high-five and two-thumbs up. She gave me her card and said, “Call me about the brace or any other questions, I can answer your questions for you.”

 I said to the nurse, “How do you put up with him?”

“If he wasn’t such a good doctor, I would’ve left a long time ago.”

That old rooster wouldn’t leave it alone, he circled the chicken yard, came back into the little room, and said, “I’m leaving.”

I said, “Is that a yes, no or maybe?”

He waved me off with his hand.

Outside, Al said to me, “I’m so glad you were with me. It’s been a hard day.”

“Believe me, I was just getting started. No body’s going to mess with my Sweet Al.”

Final Brushstroke! That old rooster has been the cock of the walk too long. The hens have been fluttering around him and have been smoothing down his feathers all these years.  When he jumped on my Sweet Al’s back with his spurs, I challenged him and wrung his neck. I ate on that old tough rooster all the way home. There was nothing left of him for supper.

Two are Enough – Which Two Do I Choose?

I’m on a roll with this “Crazy Family of Ours.” When my nephew, Davey, and I get together, we exchange stories about the family. I asked him if he knew why we didn’t have Thanksgiving Dinner together at his Grandmother’s house. He said he didn’t know.

I told him, “We had too many kids.”

His response was, “Are you kidding me?”

No, Grandma Slade always thought I had done My Sweet Al an injustice. She said I had put a hardship on her Poor Little Al having that passel of kids. He had to work so hard to provide for all those children. She felt we should’ve only had two children, like she did. Having her David Warren and Al was perfect, two were enough.

I felt like “Sophia’s Choice.” Which one would I choose if I had to choose among my children? A mother can’t make that choice. She wouldn’t and couldn’t in her right mind.

I asked Al’s mother once, “Since, I have four children, which two do you think I should choose?”

She said, “Of course you would choose Al’s first born, she has my name.” Then she told me the name of the other one she would choose.”

Davey said, “You must be kidding.”

“No, I’m serious.”

She didn’t think her Poor Little Al could do no wrong. Therefore it was my fault. R-e-a-l-l-y? David Warren had two children plus Davey, who didn’t count, he was from a first marriage, and Poor Little Al had all those unruly kids because of me.

Grandma Slade would have Al over for lunch all the time. She would invite the secretary, Cleo, to join them. I said once, “If I was invited, I would come for lunch. Why wasn’t I invited?”

Al said, “You know Mother, she can only seat four at the kitchen table.”

Davey said, “Man, she was something else. What did you do?”

“Well, when Al left for work I’d tell him I’d meet him at the office and have a picnic lunch with me. I suggested we go to the park.”

“Did Uncle Al know what you were doing?”

“No, he thought I was thinking of him. He still recounts all those picnic lunches we had in the park, and how much fun we had being young again.”

I always agreed, weren’t they sweet?”

I told Davey that I asked the Lord what to do about Al’s mother always wanting my place.  He said, “Take your place, then she can’t fit in it.” That’s what I was doing, I was just taking my place.

Al’s mother would send home one piece of pie for Al on several occasions. Do you know how that went over with four teenagers in the house? You tell them they couldn’t eat it, Grandma Slade sent it home to their dad. I was to make sure that only her Poor Little Al ate it.

I guess she thought I was starving Al, too. She would send dinner home for us. She believed Al loved and missed her cooking. She would send chicken cooked in red wine. Can you imagine what teenagers thought of Grandma’s cooking? To this day, if they smell burgundy wine, the kids go into orbit.

It was strange. I’d go by Al’s office. He was working for his brother at the time. I noticed Easter Baskets with green plastic grass, little candy rabbits and chicks. They were placed on Al and his brother’s desks.

I’d say, “Who brought those Easter Baskets?”

Al would say, “Oh, my mother put them on mine and my brother’s desks.”

Did she hide Easter eggs for you, too?” I’d say, “Al, you and your brother are over fifty years old. What is your mother thinking?”

“Oh, it’s Easter and she was just thinking of us.”

One time I said to Al, “Your mother has a problem.”

He said to me, “It doesn’t bother me.”

I said, “Well, it bothers me.”

Back to Thanksgiving dinner, Al’s mother always invited David Warren’s family over first. They only had two children. Our family was always invited after they finished eating. We had four children and we might eat it all.

Oh the stories I could tell on Al’s mother.

Final Brushstroke! Al’s mother taught me one thing among many. I pledged when my children got married, I would love whomever they chose. Ask my sons-in-law today what they think of me, I’m sure they would have plenty of stories to tell on me. One thing they can’t say is that I ever chose between our daughters and them. I never have.

I’m Changing My Will!

In the Slade family there are three Davids, Al’s father, his brother and his nephew. In order to keep everyone straight, Al’s brother was called David Warren by his mother, but now known as David. Al’s nephew was called Davey until he grew up, now known as Dave. But to me, he’ll always be Davey.

At our last writer’s meeting, Davey and I laughed about all the nonsense of the family. We have these stories between us about this Crazy Family. I told him, “You won’t believe it, but I’m wearing the mink coat.”

His response was, “How did that happen? I didn’t get anything.”

“I guess, I was the last one standing.”

Davey and I were always the outsiders. He was from a first marriage, raised outside of the grasp of family ties until he was eighteen.  I came into the family at eighteen by marrying My Sweet Al. Davey and I have always had a kindred tie - we didn’t belong in the family. Not by our choice, but by the Matriarch of the Family, Grandma Slade.

Grandma Slade had her own value system. Neither Davey nor I quite fit on the family tree. When Grandma Slade talked about her will, we were never included. The other members wondered if they were or not. She was always changing it. It was a standard joke among the family, “Are you still in Grandma’s will?”  

She was always mad at someone in the family, and with a sharp pencil on a long yellow tablet, she cut them out. She had beautiful antiques and family heirlooms. There was an on-going-list of who she didn’t want to have them.

Al and David’s names were permanently written in ink, they were not negotiable, even though her sons didn’t live to her likings. David went through women like changing shirts and my Sweet Al fell in love with someone she didn’t choose and who didn’t measure up to her standard.

One of her biggest pet peeves about David was how well he treated the women he dated. It was important for whoever he dated that they looked perfect. If they were going to accompany him to a social event, they must wear and look their best.

He’d give the girl his credit card to use at his favorite dress, jewelry and shoe stores. He made sure they wore expensive clothes and beautiful shoes to match. They had their hair, face and nails done at his favorite hair salon.

 David’s mother was always mad that he spent his money on silly young women who didn’t deserve to be treated with such lavishness. After all, they might not be in the picture the next week, and she believed they were all after his money.

She thought David Warren should buy her expensive clothes and pay to have her hair and nails done at his favorite salon. After all, she was the mother and had done so much for her two boys.

Over the years, David went through many young wives. His mother was in a state of flux. She’d give her family heirlooms to him and his new wife to adorn their home. Things changed, the wife didn’t love her son anymore, and she wanted her things back.

No one was good enough for her two boys. David bought his third wife a long fox coat and also a long mink coat. The ship hit the sand. Grandma Slade let everyone know how displeased she was, “How could he buy some little snip two fur coats? I’m his poor mother, and I don’t own a fur coat.”

Grandma Slade stewed over it for months. Finally, she decided, if her own son wouldn’t buy her a fur coat, she would have to do it for herself. She went down to the best furrier in Albuquerque and put a long mink coat on layaway. The price tag was $10,000. “I’m going to have to pay it out the hard way,” she boldly declared. “David Warren should have bought me a fur coat before he bought that little floozy one. She didn’t earn it, but got it anyway.” That wife lasted five years and took all the mink and fox coats and jewelry with her when she left.

By the fourth wife, Grandma Slade refused to attend their marriage. The fourth was twenty-five years younger than David. In Grandma Slade’s mind, she was a little gold-digger and no way would she get any of her family heirlooms. She actually lasted twenty years in the family.

I told Davey that his dad was giving Grandma Slade’s summer cottage to his fourth ex-wife. Davey said, “I didn’t know it. He’s a fool.”

I said, “And Grandma Slade would have turned over in her grave if she thought ‘the little gold digger’ was getting her summer cottage.”

It wasn’t about longevity if you belonged in the family or not, it was all about how Grandma Slade thought of you. My Sweet Al loved me and I had captured his heart. David’s wives had his money and spent it.

She contended that Poor Little Al didn’t know what was good for him. She did. All she ever wanted was for Al to be happy. And she knew who would have made him happy, and it wasn’t me. She should have picked his wife for him.

When Grandma Slade passed away, I was still standing beside My Sweet Al after thirty-two years. When I told my nephew I was wearing Grandma Slade’s mink coat, we had a good laugh. I told him, “Believe me. That mink coat was a thirty-two year lay-away and carried a big price tag, and I earned it the hard way.”

Final Brushstroke! A good marriage is worth working for. I guess if you live long enough, things come to you, either by sticking it out, by default or earning it the hard way.

A Matriarch in Her Own Country.

I enjoyed talking with my nephew at the Southwestern Christian Writer’s meeting held in Durango. My nephew is an associate pastor with Calvary Chapel. He was invited to talk about his book, The Christ Virus.

Dave Slade, my nephew, shares the same name with his father. They both live in Albuquerque. Everyone thinks Al’s brother, David, wrote this Christian book. Never! We both laughed at what kind of book his father would write. It would be something like One Thousand Pick-up Lines, or How to deal with your Exes and Exes and Exes, or Sugar Daddies need love, too.

I told my nephew I wrote about his father wearing black leather. He reminded me that in one month his father would be eighty. He said, “Grandma Slade was something else, too. You should write about her and this crazy family of ours. Do you remember all the funny things she used to say?”

“No, I was too mad at her to think she was funny. But, the only way I dealt with her and Al was laughing at all their nonsense. If I didn’t have a sense of humor, I would’ve killed both of them. I could write a thousand stories about those two. So, maybe it’s time to write about This Crazy Family of Ours.”

When I arrived home from the writer’s meeting, I had an email waiting for me. It read, “You have a gift for humor. Finish that second book and think about sticking something together about out crazy family.”

I sent an email to him, “Al’s mother always thought a book and movie should be written about her life. She wanted to play her own part. She would turn over in her grave if she thought I would be writing her story.

“I’ve just scratched the surface with David Slade in his black leather and his girlfriend with the saggy knees. Touching the Matriarch is another story. It’s like standing on Holy Ground. I’ll have to take my shoes off for this one.”

From the first day I met Al Slade, his mother let me know, I was not of their class. They had doctors and lawyers in their family. Funny, to this day, I’ve never met a doctor or lawyer in the Slade family.

No one was good enough for Mama’s two boys. She called them, Poor Little Al and David Warren. She told everyone on many occasions how she almost died giving birth to Poor Little Al. From that day on, Al owed her big. And, My Sweet Al believed he owed her his life.

I should’ve got the first hint when Al and I began to date. He decided I should look like his mother. Can you believe it? She was fifty and I was seventeen. He told me his mother was a model for Neiman Marcus in Dallas and she knew how to dress. She dressed in expensive clothes and name brands and he wanted me to wear his mother’s clothes. Talk about Norman Bates and the Bates Motel.

While we were dating, he brought me several of her dresses to wear. He said I would look fashionable like his mother who was a southern belle from Tyler, Texas.  It was 1959, the days of hats and gloves, fur collars, big shoulder pads and three-inch heels for every occasion.

She told me up front, she wore a size 7 shoe. Any foot bigger than hers was way too big. She bought expensive shoes from Paris Shoe Store on Nob Hill. She spent her days shopping at Kistler-Collister Dress Store and Margo’s.

And guess who was with her? My Sweet Al, my future husband. He spent hours growing up, waiting by the dressing room door for his mother to come out and model for him. He waited to see the latest styles on his mother, the former model of the 1930’s. He loved beautiful clothes, too.

My own mother didn’t help matters. She said, “Look at how a boy treats his mother and you will know how he’ll treat his wife.”

I watched how Al treated his mother. He treated her like a queen, a matriarch of her own country. He lavished her with Vogue Magazines, chocolate, and flowers.

When I came into the picture, everything he did for me took away from her. Poor Little Al was caught between the Queen and the girl he loved. The more he reached out to me, the more she pulled at him. I’ve always given her the credit for holding our marriage together, she didn’t know it, but she made me determined to stay in it and fight for My Sweet Al. She fought to destroy the marriage and I fought to save it. And the story begins…

Final Brushstroke! I should’ve got the hint, but when you’re seventeen and in love, nothing matters, except I wore an 8½ shoe. I could never fit into her shoes, and she never let me forget it. Now I’m writing her story, talk about Sweet Revenge.

Reader Comments: From a reader: About your article, Black Leather. A man pushing eighty wearing black leather, a woman would have to be rea-----ly drunk and in a dark room to be attracted. S.O. Pagosa