Thought after thought invade my mind during painting projects. Between the many conversations I wished I had, or the countless conversations I wish didn’t occur, my mind races with memories and new writing projects. I’ve written best sellers, eulogies, and key note speeches all while standing on a ladder or making perfect finishing rolls down the wall. This past weekend was no different.
First, I realize that I’m not as young as I used to be. My hand stiffens from holding the brush too long. My shoulders and hips ache from the constant movement from paint tray to wall. My neck stays crooked at a weird angle because now I have to use the bottom portion of my lenses to see clearly. Damn bifocals! But all the while, I remain focused at the job at hand. Why? Because my dad taught me how to paint.
When he started his business, I was in my early college years, looking for an easy way to make a buck. Working with my father wasn’t the easiest, fast-track money making option I had expected. In fact, he, my uncle, and my brother made me sweat and I don’t mean glistening like a lady. Nope. I would sweat carrying wood piles here. Climbing ladders to clean out gutters there. I had to drill stuff, cut stuff, destroy stuff, and then take the mess to the dumpster. Good times.
As far as painting masterful walls, leaving no roller marks or knicks on the ceiling of the wrong color, well, that took a little longer to learn. Dad started me out in the closet. I wasn’t sure of his intent at first. I mean, at that time in my life, I really, really, really, needed to get out of the closet. And here, my dad was putting me right back in. Maybe that’s a story for another time.
Soon after graduating from the closets, I started on actual walls, not just the sheet rock hidden behind a door with dim lighting. He taught me the basic process of wall prep that includes any patching. Of course, I had to remove all wall plates and figure out how to keep all the screws together. By the way, the answer is tape. That blue painter’s tape is good for something, and it’s to tape the screws to the back of the face plate you just took off the wall. Genius.
I made a lot of mistakes, as maybe we should when we’re first learning something new. But unlike some of the angry bosses I’ve had over the years, my dad was patient. He would often calmly state, “Put some paint on the damn brush!” or gently explain, “Put some paint on the damn roller!” Ah, precious times.
He also was quick in temper (ha ha). I recall one time I stepped in the full paint tray, tipped it over, and dumped it over the business’s carpet. My dad was the first to say after a small huff escaped his mouth, “Just get a drop cloth and some wet rags.” While my knees were slightly better back in those days, his weren’t; yet, he kneeled on the floor with me and helped to erase the mess I had made.
These days I don’t paint as often, but you can bet your sweet biffy that when I do, memories and writing will take up most of the time spent with a paint brush or roller in hand, all the while thinking of honest criticism from my dad.