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.

You've Got to be Kidding!

When I wrote about the hound dog, I knew I was walking on sacred ground. All of Pagosa owns at least one to five dogs each. I received so many comments about dogs I couldn’t help myself; I had to write another dog article!

My friend tells me her dog sleeps in pajamas. Her husband sheepishly says, “Not all the time.”

I raised my eyebrows; this is good stuff, does this really happen? “You’ve got to be kidding; your dog sleeps in pajamas? Al would die if I put pajamas on his hunting dog. It would challenge his manhood. He probably wouldn’t mind if I put a red vest or camouflage on Shy Anne if it meant getting his game, now that I’m thinking about it.”

My friend continues, “Our dog sleeps with us, and by putting him in pajamas, it keeps the hair off the sheets.”

“Okay, I think I can understand. Wouldn’t it be easier just to let him sleep on the floor? I’m just asking.”

She continues, “Our dog has a closet of clothes. When our dog goes out, I put booties on him, his feet get cold and I put a coat over his sweater.”

I made a mental note. “You mean the layer look? I must be missing something here. Maybe there is a difference between city dogs and country dogs or maybe there is a difference between a man’s dog and a woman’s dog.”

Our yellow Labrador is country and so is Al; Al would have fits if I put a coat on his dog. She owns only one coat; when it gets dirty she runs to the river even in the winter. The Rio Blanco is her bathtub and in the summer her swimming hole. Her thick coat of hair is good enough to keep out freezing cold and in the summer she sheds it in the heat.

We do not walk our dog, and she has never been on a leash. Her favorite pastime is retrieving birds. She roams our property and knows her boundaries. She knows to stay home where she is fed. Her daily routine is following Al to the garage and back. Her social life is barking at her best friend, Daisy, the dog next door.

Al’s dog thinks she can drive the old blue truck which has turned into her doghouse on wheels. Al takes her around the property in it and she is content being a country dog. No one follows her around with a pooper-scooper. She is hearty, never has been to a doctor, except for shots. She has a dog’s life and is happy. Now I am wondering?

Al and Shy Anne have their favorite hunting shows they watch in the evenings. Al pats her head and tells her the same old hunting stories and she relives every story and hangs onto his every word. She gets scraps from the table and is over weight. We should put her on a diet, but she would be the only thin one in the household. She would feel she was being punished and deprived.

At nights, she sleeps on her own cedar mattress on the floor. Her dog bowl gets washed when it looks dirty. Whatever Al doesn’t eat, Shy Anne eats. Al and his dog is a pair made in heaven. They belong together. I wouldn’t say they are starting to look alike, but they surely act alike.

They prowl the kitchen at night for a snack; Al pops a marshmallow in his mouth and gives one to Shy Anne.

So what is the difference in dogs? It must be the way they are loved. They all seem to be the perfect match for their owner; it is more what their owner needs than what they need. Al needs a good hearty dog, one who can move quickly from moving objects; such as car wheels, jacked up cars and swinging hammers. Al needs a dog who embraces heavy handed pats; and. one who gets excited when a gun is cocked.

Maybe it’s their master who needs to be adjusted. Meanwhile, I am keeping Al and his dog away from the city. They think they have a pretty good life. How does the song go? “How can you keep them down on the farm once they see Paris?”

Final Brushstroke! Keeping Al and his dog down on the Lower Blanco makes them fat, happy and content. Life is pretty sweet. It’s a dog’s life.

Never Say Never - Road Kill in the Freezer

How does anyone go from “Never” to “I guess its okay?” It starts with shock then it works itself into normal.

Back in the ‘60’s we had a neighbor lady, a widow. We called her “Crazy Old Lady Badell”. She had a big, fat, white furry cat which sat in her lap. She stroked it daily and the fur flew. She found great comfort in that cat.
It died.
My friend said to me, “Crazy Badell froze her cat.”
I said, “Froze her cat? Why would she do that?”
“Well she was really attached to it,” she said.
“I knew she found great comfort in that cat. I need to see it for myself.”
“Yes, it’s in her freezer. She’s crazy. I’ve never heard of such a thing as that.”

Then several years later, I opened my freezer and a wild turkey was starring me in the face. With its wings spread across the entire chest freezer, I yelled “Yikes, what’s this? Al, what have you put in my freezer?”

“Don’t touch it, don’t mess up the wings, it’s a trophy.”

I struggled with that turkey for months. Finally I said, “Get rid of that turkey or I will feed it to the dog, I need the freezer space.”

Al says, “I hope you didn’t mess up the wings.”

“Al, just get rid of that bird. I’ve fought with it long enough.”

Then there was the badger, the road kill. “Al, I don’t think it is safe to put road kill in the freezer with our food. It will contaminate our food.”

“Oh don’t be silly. It’s fine. We’ve never had food poison, we are all healthy.”

Then there was the bear hide that took up half of the freezer. “Al what is in that big black bag in my freezer?”

“Oh, my friend got a bear and he gave me the hide. I want to have it tanned.”

Two years later, I was still packing food around that big lump.

Then came the buffalo hide. “Enough is enough,” I said to Al

Al gave me a rebuttal, “This hide is valuable, it is a buffalo hide. Don’t touch it.”

I didn’t buy into it. “Al, get rid of that hide or I’m throwing it out.”

“I don’t know what to do with it, give me some time. It’s fine where it is.”

“No Al, it’s not fine. I need the freezer space.”

So that’s how you go from saying “Never” to saying, “I guess its okay.” After the initial shock then you start figuring out how to live around it.

I talked to a friend, “Is this normal? Are we going to die with some kind of disease from those animals in our freezer? It’s gross.”

She said, “My husband does the same thing.”
I guess if some one else is doing it, then it must be okay. “What is in your freezer?”
My friend said, “I have a wild pig with big white teeth in mine.”
“Well, Al brought home a coyote.”
You go from shock, that’s crazy, to a mutual society. Then it is upping your friends.

I walked into the kitchen, Al is using my blender. “Al, what’s that pink stuff in my blender? It looks like Milk of Magnesia.”

“Oh nothing! They are just deer brains, I’m blending them. Then I’ll apply them to the hides which will make the hides soft.”

I should have known. Al got another wild-hair idea; he had been reading his Trapper Magazine again and decided to tan hides. Maybe he’ll get that buffalo or bear hide out of my freezer.

“I knew I should have thrown out those hides when I had a chance. Al, sterilize my blender when you get through.”

“Betty, you are so touchy.”
“Touchy or not, sterilize my blender.”

I have taken away all of Al’s fun and he is driving me up the wall with all his hunting stuff. I use to think we had a little class, but now I know we have none. I am wondering about the Health Department. I’m not shocked at anything any more.

Turkey season is here. I might be living with another turkey in my freezer. I’m still sleeping with an old turkey in my bed.

Was old Mrs. Badell so crazy after all? Maybe a cat in the lap is the way to go. Mrs. Badell is way dead and gone and her big, fat cat is probably mounted and sitting on someone’s mantle.


Final Brushstroke: I don’t know what brings more comfort; sleeping with an old turkey in the bed, or stroking a fat cat on the lap.

Betty Slade: Play It Again Sam!

Betty Slade: Play It Again Sam!: "Lack of Understanding I have recently acquired a second husband. It’s just what I needed, someone else telling me how to write. His name ..."

Play It Again Sam!

Lack of Understanding

I have recently acquired a second husband. It’s just what I needed, someone else telling me how to write. His name is Sam and he is the husband of a friend.

Sam yelled across the parking lot the other day, “Hey! I didn’t like your article this week, it wasn’t funny - I like it when Al is in hot water - You were too easy on Al this week. I guess I’ll give you another chance, maybe I’ll read next week’s article.”

“Well Sam, I thought I was writing serious stuff, these articles are not supposed to be funny. I’m trying to make sense out of a decision I made fifty-one years ago and he just won’t go away. When I said, “I do,” I didn’t realize I was saying yes to an overstuffed brown chair, a big screen television, Nascar, turkey calling, more junk you can shake a stick at and a dog.”

Last year, at this time, I wrote about two fools in love and it seemed to spark a new height for my writing. I thought this article warranted another run. It was everyone’s favorite about Sweet Al. Phyllis Dillard has her Fang, I have sweet Al and now apparently I have Sam. So here it is! I’m playing it again Sam!

Why do fools fall in love? I don’t know. Al and I have been trying to figure it out for years. Today, April fool’s day is our fiftieth anniversary. No joke, It was April 1, 1960 and what were we thinking? We weren’t. We were in love.

Why did we pick that date? It was on a Friday and we had a free weekend and nothing to do. We had dated for a year, fought the whole time, and couldn’t live with each other or without each other. I was eighteen and he was twenty-two. No one thought a marriage between us would ever work. My mother was fed up with the fighting and said either get married or he needs to go.

 Al was cute, oh, so cute. He drove a brand new ‘60 Plymouth Fury, long and sleek. He wore pressed blue jeans with sharp creases and shiny brown and white wingtip shoes. His red James Dean jacket over a brilliant white tee-shirt with rolled up sleeves was his signature. His thick straight black hair was greased and combed back into a ducktail which came low on his forehead into a widow’s peek. All this made him the catch of the day. He had the cutest buns, he was adorable and he was a Slade. I was in love.

Al, being the perfect gentleman held the door open for me, called before a date, didn’t honk but came to the door, talked to my mother, brought flowers and candy and walked on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from on coming cars. His mother worked hard to make her son look good and have manners; she didn’t know all that work was just for me. She had greater expectations for her beloved son and all this only added fuel to the unquenchable fire of love. All the other girls were crazy about him and I got him. What a way to start a marriage. I wouldn’t recommend it! But what a catch!

And what was the catch? Living together! We didn’t know we had to learn how to live together. Al was a Baptist and I was a Morman. His first job was to make me a Baptist and my job was to stand firm. Well, you can see how the sparks continued to fly. I dug my heels in deep and sat in a Baptist pew every Sunday morning and sang thirty verses of Just As I Am. I thought if they sang another verse I would lean over and strangle Al. I didn’t want to be there and I wasn’t letting Al forget it. God finally intervened on that one and millions of other potential disagreements over the years.

When I write about Al, I always ask him if he wants to say something in his defense, and he says, “Just stay sweet.” The years have brought both funny and not so funny stories. Today we laugh at them. Who would have ever guessed that these stories would be published in the newspaper? I am just thankful you didn’t read it on the front page or in the police blotter under domestic violence.

A month ago a woman invited us to a community marriage seminar. She was telling me about the wonderful speakers. Did we look like we needed a marriage seminar? She was taken by surprise when I told her I could teach the speakers more than they could teach me. After fifty years if we haven’t got it yet, we probably won’t.

I told her she didn’t know my sweet Al and neither one of us were going to change. We really like it the way we are. He makes my breakfast every morning, brings me coffee and loves and supports me in my painting and writing. He listens to my Bible studies and rather enjoys them. Now, am I going to change all that? Absolutely not! I’m not taking a chance that the experts in marriage might fill his head with silly notions, like me cooking breakfast for him or going hunting with him.

I look at my sweet Al today, he’s lost his widow’s peek, he still brings me flowers from the yard, a daisy or lilac, he calls me baby doll, tells me every day how much he loves me, and he kisses me goodnight every night. He is there for our children and grandchildren and will do anything for any of us. He is still a young man in love.

Our life has not been the norm but whose has? It’s been a great life. When fools fall in love, nothing else matters. One thing for sure Al has never forgotten an anniversary.

Final Brushstroke! Who wants a second husband, when one will do just fine?