Bright and early Wednesday morning I had three guys walking
around on top of my roof. The dog didn’t like it. I, on the other hand, was
thrilled. They were up there to kill the mold that made the roof look old and worn
out with black streaks in the valleys and other places the sun doesn’t like. It
was a cheap process---$325. While they were up there
they tarred down a shingle that was dislodged in a wind storm last spring and was
flopping back and forth. I gave the company owner a $50 tip and told him in
earshot of his young workers that I wanted him to take the guys out to lunch
for fixing the shingle. Fifty dollars was a bargain compared to what it would
have cost to have a roofer come out to fix it, if you could get one to come out
for a single shingle. I was a happy camper.
That was the ‘potatoes’ in my week, now on to the ‘meat’---my
first time mixing paint on a palette in over seventeen years. The instructor has a stand-alone,
two story art studio that looks like a grown-up version of a miniature house
for fairies in a forest. She’s a ten year widow and her second husband built it
for her. How cool is that! Her lake side yard was private with massive trees
and the weather was perfect so three of
us sat out on her deck sketching for the first hour, then we changed to
painting. The third person was one of my friends from the Gathering Girls. B.L.
had not painted in a number of years either but she was bolder getting started and was the first to get her paints out while I was being a Nervous Nelly dragging my feet.
Did I enjoyed the class? The
answer is yes and no. The ‘yes’ part was the setting was perfect for what we
were doing, the company and conversation was good and I actually started thinking like an
artist again. But B.L. and I both agreed afterward that the instructor is not going be
a good teacher even though she has a degree from one of the most prestigious
art school in the country. For example, she took the brushes out of our hands
and painted on our works herself to demonstrate what she thought we should do---painted way too long, to be exact. "Show, NOT do for" was the motto I remember from the hallowed halls of good teaching.
B.L. was more generous than me when she said, “Some people can do but not teach” while I thought the large display of her work hanging in the studio was all over
the map---many excellent pieces but others not so much. From her online presence, I didn't expect that. And B.L. and I were both
shocked when it was time to pay and we found out the price she quoted in an
email was per hour, not per class. We decided we’d go back one more time---armed with questions
and issues we think she can help us with---then we’ll find a nice way to back
out gracefully from continuing the classes, and maybe try to get-together on
our own to paint to keep us inspired.
After the class was over I followed B.L. to a near-by small town
in a farming community where we had a leisurely dinner and a serious conversation
followed by ice cream sundaes. Everything is better with ice cream sundaes. A
Celtic band had just started a free concert across the park from the ice cream
shop, so off we went. B.L. jokes that she’s on the go so much she practically
lives in her car and she produced two folding chairs from her ‘magical red box’
and we enjoyed most of the concert before I was yawning and we left. It had
been a long day and Levi was glad to see me back home again. I hit the bed at
9:30 like a five year old and the next day I unpacked my car of its art
supplies, discarded the painting I began in class and started another. And that
fact, after all these years of not painting, made the class worthwhile.
Friday was the carrots in my week. It was time for my monthly
cleaning girl to show up. I haven’t written about her since the time I devoted
an entire blog to her titled Babies and Broken Promises. She had given up a newborn baby girl to an open adoption and the
adoptive parents---back then---were not holding up their end of the bargain of allowing
a three hour visit every three months and she was distraught beyond comforting.
According to my cleaner, it’s all been ironed out and visits are back on track,
but get this: The adoptive parents are paying her to clean their house during the
resumed visits. I honestly don’t know what to think about that. What I do know
for sure is that I’m glad my problems are not the sort that keep my emotions
spinning like pinwheels in the winds. “I cried because I had no shoes until I
met a man who had no feet.” Yup, there are always people out there dealing with
weighty issues worse than our own. ©
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| After Treatment |
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| Before Mold Removed |
