Watching green paint dry…open the windows, turn the couch around, put my feet up, watch that paint dry – mercedes
My mother could be putting away groceries and decide to redecorate the kitchen. No warning. She’d fold the empty Shaw’s bags and tuck them in the closet beneath the pencil sharpener, then pull out paint, brushes, rollers, pans. That was it. The kitchen was now blue. She never went to college or did a lot of traveling, so she gave herself a change of scenery with paint and wall paper. I was 8 when I first helped her hang the stuff. Water, paste, scissors, it was a big fun mess.
My Moms got soul. She hangs up every terrible drawing and dying flower children give her. She isn’t designing her home to make visitors jealous, she wants guests to be comfortable and drink some coffee. She wants company to stay. “Take a look at that blob on the wall. My son painted that for me. Isn’t it beautiful? And that one next to it is something our cat Fritz did when he tipped over some grape juice on a napkin. Isn’t that a hoot?”
When she starts to think about this great big world, she paints the walls. Keeps her from ramblin’. I’m the same way. We build homes, sow gardens. Some plants we kill – pull ‘em out and try again. That’s my mom’s philosophy. She gets sad sometimes, but she picks up a cat and puts it in her lap. That seems to do it.