Lessons

This one is about my ex-step-father and I. (Wow, what a mouthful!)

When I was younger, I helped my step-dad, Terry, with a lot of odd jobs. We did everything from plumbing to carpentry to gardening. None relaxed me so much as painting. Not the color-by-numbers, or Da Vinci painting, but the kind that involves interior or exterior paints, Purdy brushes, a roller or two, a five-in-one, a steady hand, and a bit of patience.

Painting to me is like playing an instrument, or working on a car, or perfecting a dance routine. It's something I love to do, and it's taught me a lot about life.

I've learned that even the steadiest of hands get a little baseboard paint on the walls or floor. Nothing in life is perfect, even if you give it your all. I saw that if you want to do a good job, you can't rush. Take your time--the end product is so much more rewarding. I learned to plan ahead. Don't just dive into something without knowing what you need. I learned that shortcuts are basically cheating. Sure, if you use painters tape, your lines will be cleaner, but there wasn't near as much heart put into the project. But most of all, I learned that even when you don't notice, there's a lesson out of every moment. You realize that when using a roller, if you go too fast, you'll splatter yourself. So you slow down. Or you start to see what the brush strokes look like if there's not enough paint on the bristles. So you add more. You're constantly checking and rechecking yourself, to learn what not to do, and what you should do.

Growing up, I never realized how much I'd apply some of these lessons. It never hit me that years from when it happened, I'd know not to get exterior paint on bricks, because it's a b***h to get out. Or that time spent with family-doing something you love-is more rewarding than anything.

Terry and I don't talk often anymore--fate brought he and my mother together, and took them apart, but every time I smell fresh paint, or hear the instantly recognizable sound, I think of him. And I think of the times spent together as father and daughter. And I miss them.

After moving my brother's room to a different place in the house, I decided to claim his old room as my own. I also decided that it could use a fresh coat of paint. Change it a little. While joking with my sister about the odd colors we were using, my mind kept straying back to Terry. I'd remember when we were painting his Uncle Layton's kitchen, and even though he didn't really need my help, I still tagged along, and kept him company. Humming along with the radio, and reading my book. Or the time he and a college student we knew were hired to paint a mural in the local gymnastics studio and how he had to perform plastic surgery on the poor Tin Man-the mural was of the characters from the Wizard of Oz.

I don't know if my relationship with Terry could ever be patched, but I do know that the lessons he taught me, intentional or not, will stick with me forever.

Reviews

[R.W. Blue]

You wrote this quite smoothly, I must say. From the intro to the conclusion, the words just flow to create a wonderful memoir that holds pennies of wisdom. I really enjoyed the third paragraph, and your way of incorporating the steps of painting to life was ingenious. Fantastic job.