Paint By Memory

This weekend was an industrious one for me as I decided the spare bedroom could not go another day without a fresh coat of vibrant color on it's walls. After much consideration, I finally settled on a warm pumpkiny-cinnamon color with the puzzling name of "Chivalry Copper." It's been a really long time since I undertook a painting job on my own and my aching back reminds me this morning that professional painters are worth every penny of their fee. What started out in my mind as a job that would take a few hours, quickly morphed into a three day endeavor: Day 1 was spent running back and forth to the paint store for sample colors. Day 2 was marked by taping and protecting all the woodwork, ceiling corners and doorframes, lugging and scooting furniture into the center of the room, removing pictures, nails and hooks,laying down the sheets on the floor and barricading the Danes out of the room. Day 3 involved transforming the walls from dull white to WOW!

I found the painting process meditative and with the rhythmic swoosh of the paint roller, it wasn't long before my mind took me back to my childhood. My parents were from an era where repair work around the house and yard was rarely hired out. Dad was in charge of the painting, roofing, wallpapering and every thing related to the yard. Mom's responsibilities comprised of running the household and giving my Dad orders on what she wanted done. Dad could fix just about anything--from a sewer backup to repaving a driveway to putting on a new roof. Being the only child at home, I often played Dad's apprentice during the fix-up jobs. I spent hours riding around in our pea-soup green 1967 Chevy Impala with him to Color Tile and the lumber yard collecting items to bring home for the job at hand. At the paint store, I thumbed through the "Learn to Draw" paperbacks, which promised to teach anyone how to draw horses or cars or animals, while Dad made his purchases. He bought me the one about drawing horses, and as I studied the placement of the circles, oblongs and rectangles on the way home, I thrilled to the thought that I might become a famous artist one day, as promised by the copy on the front of the booklet.

I remembered coming home on my last day as a 7th grader, summer in the air, to find my Dad repainting my room the Robin's Egg Blue I had admired on our last trip to the paint store. I quickly changed clothes and placed my little AM transistor radio in the middle of the room to keep us entertained while we painted. Over the course of the afternoon, we talked, joked, hummed and enjoyed each other's presence. Alice Cooper sang "School's Out for Summer," the windows were open and the intoxicating blend of paint, summer fast-approaching and the roses outside my window, intermingled to make a lasting, loving memory of hanging out with my Dad.

Back in the here and now, I realize that my painting project provided me the mental space to tap into some long buried memories of times with my Dad which I hadn't accessed for years. Although he's been gone for eight years, I felt his presence with me over the hours as I transformed the shade of the room. His patient lessons on how to prep for painting, how to pour paint to minimize drips, and how to coat the walls to trap the "holidays" came back to me as if he were showing me just as he had way-back-when in my bedroom in California. My mind was able to reconnect while my body went through the physical motion, in sync with the memories.

I emerged on Saturday, paint-speckled and smiling after my loving commune with my past. Now as I enter the vibrant bedroom, I see Dad there smiling and admiring the work we shared.

Thought for the Day: Is there a way you can provide yourself some mental space and time to reconnect to some loving memories that have been buried over time? Who served as a mentor or guide to you that you would like to reestablish contact with--even if only in memory?

Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely. Light and colour, peace and hope, will keep them company to the end of the day.
--Winston Churchill