Paint

I have given into my compulsions, one of which is to paint.

Approximately, seven weeks ago I moved into an old grocery store in a small town in Mississippi. I had lived down the street from the space for almost a year, and every chance I got I went creeping down to the old store, peering through its windows and imagining how I could recreate it. To have the opportunity to do so would be a dream come true, a fantasy that I had been having since as long as I could remember. One day, a couple month's short of having been in my present studio apartment a year, I got up the nerve to ask the landlord if I could rent the larger space. He was all too happy to get more rent.

I won't go over all that I had to do to prep the space for decorating. I'll just say that it had been two years since the grocery store space had been rented, but it seemed, from the look of things, more like thirty years. Mildew was everywhere and earthworms were coming in with each rain, which was a lot considering it was spring. I was not however deterred by any of what had to be done; all of it was a labor of love. In fact, I have become quite comfortable with cleaning dirt from corners, removing cobwebs, bleaching everything down. The results make weary muscles worth it.

Speaking of dirt and comfort, I found myself a week ago circling back in my Chevy Blazer to a pile of junk I spotted along the road, or, well, beside someone's house, as I was headed down a backroad to the next largest town. I did a pass by, then parked across the street from it to assess the pile's contents. Finally, I drove over, got out and knocked on the door. "May I dig in your junk pile?" A half-naked man looked at me curiously then stated, "There's nothing in there worth anything!" I let him have his say, then came back, "So, you don't mind if I look through it?" Shaking his head and closing the door on me, he nevertheless told me to go ahead. I did.

Mantle found along the road in someone's trash. Beneath it, a kudzu basket.

I took away from that junk pile three or four items, most of them heavy--a broken chair, a broken dining table, odd pieces of wood, and, ahem, a full mantle with a lovely burn spot. I had scored big. I drove back down the road, forgetting all about going to town. The Blazer's lift gate was left open to hold the mantle, which wouldn't fit in the back because of its width but which was securely lodged between two of the table legs. I put on the flashers and hoped I could drive the fifteen miles home without running into a trooper. Whenever someone got behind me, I pulled over, and within twenty minutes I was safe and secure at the front of the grocery store-turned-home unloading my goods.

I told a fellow junker about my bounty and showed her a picture of the mantle. Right away, she suggested I paint it--black or purple. I had had the same thought. I may paint it yet, but for now I am enjoying it as is, burn spot and all, for as much as I have a compulsion to paint things, I also am drawn to wood. It is truly one of the most delightful things. Perhaps it lives long after its source is gone. I'm looking over at the mantle now, appreciating how it warms my living area, set as it is against a cool denim blue wall. Like other objects I've collected and saved, the mantle is teaching me about the beauty of imperfection. I am learning about visual balance and life balance. Paint does freshen things. Almost every wall in this place I've repainted in the weeks I've been here, but for me there is no kilter without objects whose patina suggests the lives they've lived.