THOSE WAS THE DAZE

In my inventorial stroll through memory lane, I came across this moment in time, when we as kids, the future of my dad’s US of A, were called to task.

 

It started with my older sister Tessie (much older) who according to Dad couldn’t boil water, let alone become married. Dad came from the kitchens of two exceptional cooks, both my grandmother and mom. Mom did all the cooking, never allowing a young single girl touch either her cooking or baking. Of course today, if you were to eat at my sister’s house, you will see the continuation of the long line of tradition, or good cooking and great dishes. In fact, if you ever get a chance, try anything, including her chicken soup.

If you think Dad had problems with my sister’s water boiling (which she did burn), he had even more problems with me. At the tender age of 11, he one Monday morning handed me a paintbrush and a can of paint and said he wanted the kitchen painted. Without smiling first as he left for work, I wondered if this was all a joke of some kind, and that he would come back in and say: “Gimme that thing, who are we kidding? I would then smile and say: Thanks Dad!

Never having painted before, I opened the can and could immediately smell work and immediately got instructions from mom. “Make sure you put some newspapers under that thing! I don’t want paint all over my kitchen.” This posed a dilemma for me, since I was told by dad to paint it… all over… the kitchen! I believe this is when the headaches started in my young life.

Surveying the situation, I decided to paint the walls first and then the woodwork, which I think for an 11 year old is a reasonably sane plan. I figured since the walls and woodwork would be painted the same color with the same paint, I could be less tense about the wall paint hitting the woodwork because I would cover it all with the woodwork painting.

Around mid-afternoon or so I had finished the walls, with a minimal of criticism from mom. I started on the molding that sat at the foot of the walls. After about an hour, my knees were hurting so I decided to lie down… and paint. Painting sideways is a lot like drinking sideways, it takes a lot out of you, and is very messy, yet relaxing.

By 4:30 pm I was finished! It took me a whole day to paint the kitchen! Dad would be home soon and I figured I had to stick around for the critique, dressing down and pointing out of where I screwed up. As far as I was concerned, I was ready to open up a painting business, except it was too messy, hard on my knees and meant work.

While I was still in the bathroom trying to un-web my fingers because of the paint that was between them, I hear Dad’s voice in the kitchen. Here I go, out to hear it.

Dad is standing in kitchen, looking all around with his hands on his hips, the smell of Chicken cutlets simmering in the pan as I step forward for my execution.

He comes over to me and looks at me and says nothing. He continues to scan the walls and takes periodical close-up looks of the job I just completed.

“I see some spots you missed, here, and here and especially over there,” pointing as he speaks. I am slowly losing height, sinking into my shoes. “Did you use a ladder?” No I answered and told him a chair. “And look at your shirt and pants, you should have used old clothes” By now I’m down up to my knees in my shoes.

“And look at this brush! I’m going to have to throw that brush away: you didn’t clean it! Go get some ‘Turps’ and clean the brush-good!”

OK I said and then asked him what Turps was, and he rolled his eyes and took the brush to clean it himself. Then like magic, he was over his inspection and smiled. “NOT BAD, just get the ladder tomorrow and hit those spots, OK?”

I had arrived, later in life he would take me with him to finish off the basement, and do some jobs painting signs, lettering them as he taught me how to hold the brush and stroke it properly.