Painting The Carport, Part II

Last week I began this column, but it became much too long. I ended with a joke about an exhibit of bulls and a husband who ended up in traction after the wrong comment to his wife.  Now that might not have made much sense at the time, but perhaps it will after reading the following. Or not.

Last week I began this column, but it became much too long. I ended with a joke about an exhibit of bulls and a husband who ended up in traction after the wrong comment to his wife.  Now that might not have made much sense at the time, but perhaps it will after reading the following. Or not.

Let me paint you a verbal picture of our painting escapades, with Zack still physically challenged, recovering from Guillain-Barre:

There we are on the scaffolding, a smallish model for two grown people to share. The conditions are hot but windy. We should have waited for a calmer day. Everyone knows you don’t paint in the wind, but Zack has a schedule in his head. It might as well be written in stone. The painting was planned for this particular week. One thing hinges upon another. Windows and doors have been covered with paper in preparation; spackling and detail work has been done. There will be no postponing.  There will certainly be no arguing or even discussion. I have learned better.

The sun is often in our eyes. Zack holds the paint sprayer, sometimes above the level of his elbows, a very difficult task for any length of time in even a healthy person. We take breaks if he needs them. When he becomes overheated, dehydrated or exhausted, he loses all perspective and pushes on instead of resting, until I insist (and insist and insist) that we stop.

We’re tired, uncomfortable and having difficulty keeping our balance. We concentrate hard to avoid tripping on the electrical cord (connected to the sprayer) as it weaves to and fro at our feet and Zack moves about the scaffolding (scaring me to death as he often backs close to the edge). This would be challenging even for someone with normal balance.

Tubes from the bottom of the sprayer lead into the full, heavy paint can. Normally this paint might be hooked to a ladder or scaffolding. But because of Zack’s difficulties, it is instead attached to ME. I’m holding it as high as possible (not easy), bobbing and weaving, attempting to anticipate his every move and gesture (like a shadow. I still have a little trouble with that telepathy thing sometimes). I’m trying not to spill the paint or let the cord trip us up. I’m hoping not to step off the high platform and drag him with me, connected as we are by the cord and tubes.  I’m trying not to catch a face full of paint. If I’m not quick enough following his movements, the tubes will pull from the sprayer, requiring reattachment and copious expletives.

My “assistance” is criticized frequently and with little tact as the “boss” barks directions. No matter which way we turn or spray, the breeze blows the paint all over us. Soon we’re both covered with a fine mist of white, then a thin layer. I spill some paint. I’m too slow. I‘m standing in the wrong place. I allowed the tubes to pull loose (again). Intent as Zack is upon finishing the job (in this century) and staying upright, his mind slips into auto pilot.  Polite discourse is not high on the agenda. I decide to forgive him until later. He has no idea exactly how I’m managing to do all that I’m doing. , nor does he care. He doesn’t need to, never thinks about it. Not his job.  A multi-tasker I am NOT (by nature). Fast I am NOT. But neither of us fell off the platform or met with serious injury. By the time we finished, I was ready for a rubber room. In solitary.

I began last week’s piece by writing the following: I’ve heard it said that the most stressful times in a person’s life may involve moving, having a child, breaking up or divorce, undergoing construction —or experiencing a death. I joked that at least one of these things might lead to another. As with many of our “adventures”, it was a minor miracle neither of us was hurt while constructing the carport. We were fortunate we didn’t split up during the “close quarters” and stress of togetherness during the painting phase especially. And Zack was very, very lucky I didn’t put him in traction.

(Now that he’s better, I can joke about it).

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/