I just posted another essay on the Essays about Life page. Last summer I decided to paint some chairs up at our cabin. My father is a nationally-known watercolorist and artist, but I did not get one single shred of his ability to deal with paint. It’s crazy, but when I’m painting a wall or something, no matter how careful I am, paint ends up everywhere! Sometimes even where I intend it to be. Once I was painting a set at the theater, and somehow paint got inside my purse which was not exactly nearby.
So trust me – every word of this essay is true. How, you might wonder, could I end up with the leg of the stool I was sitting on in the paint can? I really can’t tell you, but it happened. When I bent down, why did my hair end up in the paint can? I have no idea, but it did. So I wrote about it.
It was fun. The painting AND the writing.
A friend "donated" her old dining room table for the cabin. I decided to decorate it and put the names of our grandchildren on it.
Painting the table inspired me, so if you read the essay Painting the Chairs, aka Tom Sawyer and Me, Sort Of, this is the chair I am writing about.
