matching tracksuits

Today we embarked on the most time-consuming aspect of our little house project: painting. As we always do, we misjudged -- or rather I misjudged -- just how much more work we had to do before we could begin painting, and I was confident we would end the day with the first coat on both the trim and the walls.

First and hopefully last, for we bought paint that the clerk swore required only one coat, and no primer necessary even when changing a wall from a dark earth tone to a light blue. Still, I was hoping that even if we had to use a second coat, we could have the first one on today.

By the time we took a watermelon break in the late morning, we still hadn't cracked open a paint can. By the time we do get painting, the Boy is in bed, the sun is high and hot, and the prospect of painting glossy white paint in blinding sun necessitated not only a hat for the head but sunglasses to protect the eyes. And since I'm not sure about the quality of L's (which is a shame to admit), I gave her a pair of my old sunglasses and my hat -- and suddenly she looked older.

As with yesterday's helping, the Girl's help in turn required some help. Still, fewer runs than the deck painting session.

Back inside, K and I worked to finish all the white in the house. I know this is the second photograph I've taking of K in this very position, but I was unable to find the first. Were we painting the living room? Repainting the living room? Painting the study-soon-to-be-L's-room? They all seem strong possibilities, reminding me once again of the cyclical nature of working about the house.

The heavy rain of Sunday

produced a mini-terraced backyard.

Fortunately, it didn’t result in a flood like a year ago.

I’ve always had a strained relationship with lawns. They’ve always seemed like something that’s better in theory than reality, because until recently, I’ve never really experienced a decent lawn. Growing up, we had a spotty front yard that invited weeds to fill in the blanks in the spring or simple bare earth. I’m not sure which was worse. Still, it made for a frustrating mowing experience: it’s hard to hold a straight line when the only thing sticking up are a few blades of grass and some dandelion stems. As such, I disliked mowing — the front yard at least. The backyard was decent. No, I just hated mowing: it was too hard to worry about straight lines (I am a bit OCD about that) and keep the power cord out of the way. Indeed: the first lawn mower that I used was our Sears electric mower, a fantastic idea that resulted in extension cords striped with black where I’d run over them. It’s not lie a gas mower running out of fuel, those sputtering, gasping final rotations of the blade that let you know you’d better hurry up if you’re to get to the end of the row before the thing dies. Running over the cord with an electric mower leads to instant silence, and since there was no way I could fix it myself at age twelve or so, it meant the end of mowing until dad returned.

That was a shame, for as I grew older, I came to appreciate the meditative quality of mowing and to enjoy the challenging of maintaining an always-straight line. By the time I was in high school, mowing the lawn was a positive joy, at least in the backyard, where the grass was dense and only thinned as it neared the back property line. Forcing the grass to submit to my will, I’d keep my eye on the front outer wheel, making sure it ran just to the side of the wild, unkempt grass. My best friend (also a fan of mowing) and I came to call such grass “conquerable.” He’d drop me off after school, sticking around for some basketball, then comment as he left: “That’s some really conquerable grass,” he say, almost enviously. I’d do the same when the situation was reversed. We couldn’t hack our way through Amazonian undergrowth, but we could reduce the height of grass by half in a split second.

Now, mowing my own grass in my own yard, grass that I’ve struggled with dethachers and aerators, grass that I’ve spent hours weeding, grass from which I’ve probably thousands of Sweetgum saplings from overly-neglected spiky seed balls, it’s positively Zen-like. The belt for my push-mower’s assistive drive has now broken for the second time, and the struggle only increases the reward. I mow a different pattern almost every time: left to right, front to back, diagonally this way, diagonally that. And no matter how tired I am when I make the final push, no matter how soaked my shirt and cap are, I’m always a little sad to be done.