I love Pagosa. Our little town is not like some of the others around the state. We still have a hometown feel. I don’t want to lose our family-friendly place. We are free from the pretentious trappings of the big city.
I saw a woman step out of her shiny clean Cadillac wearing diamonds and pajamas. By the looks of her clean car, she is definitely a visitor.
So, what am I saying? Pagosa is who we are. I love that our little town has an unpretentious way about it. But there are limits. I have to draw a few lines with my Sweet Al.
He was bragging about his old 4Runner at the breakfast table. I told him, “You can love her all you want, Al, but don’t take her to town.”
“Why?”
Because the hatch door on your lovely is tied up with a rope, secured to the trailer hitch by a wire to keep the door shut. It’s so redneck. She’s wearing an eyepatch on her back light.
“It looks fine. Nobody cares.” Al became offended.
Offended or not, I pointed to the side window. In case it snows, you’ve duct taped a piece of cardboard and a big black garbage bag to cover the open window. Can’t you see how bad it looks? Not to mention the rusted back bumper. The license plate is hanging on by a wire.
“But it runs like a striped ape.”
“I don’t care how much he loves her or how she runs,” I said to my daughter, “It’s OK for your dad to drive around the property, stay on the Blanco, but not go to town.”
She said, “It looks like Pagosa. You ought to see the sights that come to my store. Let him take his love to town.”
Sounds like a song by Kenny Rogers, “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” I went to the computer and listened to the song and the lyrics. There was definitely an article here.
Even if you paint the rusty bumper, roll and curl a new tint job, I don’t want you to take that car to town.
And yes, it’s true that Al isn’t the sharp salesman, all dressed up with the shiny shoes he used to wear, and I know his old car still needs his company, but don’t leave the property with it.
She turned 28 years old. For a gal her age, the motor still purrs like a fine-oiled machine. “If you feel the need to take her out for a drive, just keep going and leave her at the boneyard in Bayfield. I’ll pick you up there.” Oh, Ruby, don’t take your love to town. For God’s sake, turn around.
So, if you see that old car driving the streets of Pagosa, just know my Sweet Al is taking her out for a drive. He doesn’t care how she looks; she’s his.
When I went to the garage to get in my Subaru, I noticed the back door open. “Al, what’s that all about? What have you done?”
“Oh, when we went to town, we filled up a couple of 5-gallon cans of gas for the ATVs. Your car has a little gas smell, that’s all. I’m letting it air out.”
“What?” I came unglued. “I told you not to carry gas in my car.”
“Well, you told me not to take my car to town.”
Final brushstroke: Country living in Pagosa is who we are. As hard as we try, we’re all wearing caked mud on the back of our pants. I’m glad when my daughter says, “It’s OK to look like Pagosa.” It’s a good thing. I don’t think my Sweet Al will ever change.
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