The Basement Mural
His father gave him an important task, one he knew his ten-year-old son could handle. Apply a coat of primer to the wall in the basement. The boy had helped his dad paint before, just a little. This would be his first solo paint job. But even if he messed up it was in the basement and not really noticeable.
The boy would be at home, it was summer recess. Usually, he and his friends would do something together, such as go down to the river and catch frogs or go play home run derby with whiffle balls in the vacant yard adjacent to where the cranky old man lived. The boys had learned the hard way that the old man would not return their baseball if it landed in his yard. In June, the geezer kept a foul ball that accidently busted his dining room window as he was darning socks. Whiffle balls do not break windows. Today was not a day for frogs or home run derby. The weatherman forecast rain, rain, rain. Could he invite his friends over? They could play with their toy men in the basement. No, not today. He had a job to do and the sooner he began the sooner he would be done. If he finished today, they could play in the basement tomorrow if the rain continued. Today, no playing. Tomorrow was tomorrow. Today he was to paint the wall.
Before he left the house, the father had gone over the details once more. Here was the paint and drop cloth. The boy could figure out the roller, paint tray, and brush on his own. Still, his father stirred the paint with a stick and told the boy to outline the wall with the brush first. Move the drop cloth as you move along the wall and be careful on the ladder. Paint the wall, his father said, the sooner you are done the sooner you can play.
Dad picked up his lunch bucket and headed out the door, going off to work. He watched as his father drove off in his red pickup. It is a good thing dad had installed new wiper blades. The rain was almost like a vertical river. The boy could take all day to turn the cinder block wall white. The son would save his dad time. By the time he returned from work the wall would be ready for the finish coat, which the father, himself, would apply.
The little boy wasted no time, setting to work with the brush first. It was not like he had to paint the entire basement, just the one cinderblock wall. As there was no baseboard of other trim the task was uncomplicated. Like any other room in the house the wall, floor to ceiling was eight feet tall. The length was fifteen feet. The sooner you are done the sooner you can play, he reminded himself.
His mother came down the stairs, passing by on her way to check on the laundry. On any other day, she might ask him to help fold towels or match socks. Considering he was already covered in paint she quietly passed by and returned upstairs with a loaded wicker basket of clean clothes. She did not interfere with his progress except to offer him milk and cookies mid-morning, which he devoured.
Before lunch time the first coat was complete and drying. He asked his mother what he should do about cleaning the roller and paint brush, as dad had not mentioned anything, probably assuming the painting would take all day. She handed him a roll of aluminum foil, instructing him to wrap the brush and roller separately and put them in the freezer. This he did, then washed his hands for lunch. He sat in the kitchen eating his Peter Pan peanut butter and Smucker’s grape jelly sandwich on Wonder bread. Outside the rain was coming down harder than before, so hard his mother had to shut the window, so the rain did not run down the wall. There would be no going out this afternoon. He returned to the basement to look at his paintjob and discovered it was already dry. This led him to think about what his dad had said. If putting on the first coat, painting the second coat would surely be a greater time-saver for his father. His father had not set out any paint for the final coat. Surely, he would paint it something other than white.
Dad kept partly filled gallons and quart cans of assorted colors under the basement stairs. There were old paintbrushes and stirring sticks as well. He opened and examined each can, arranging them into a broken, 1950s color wheel. There was coral leftover from the dining room, turquoise used in the living room, and leftover from the master bedroom: robin’s egg blue. Other colors included what might be identified as a Pepto pink, salmon more orangey than the coral, a tinted almost lemon yellow, a violet and a vermillion. He did not identify those colors as having been used in the house, yet they were nearly empty paint cans. None of these cans contained sufficient quantity to give the wall a second coat, but combined they were more than enough.
He began by pouring the contents of three cans together and stirring. The result was barf-color. He replaced the lids on those cans and pushed them back under the stairs. He counted the paint brushes and selected an equal number of paint cans. He would not mix the colors, instead painting as much wall area as the remainder in the can could cover. When he emptied a can, he wrapped the brush in foil and applied the next color. He worked left to right, leaving gaps so the colors did not bump into each other. He reached as high as he could. The rectangular shape of the blocks acted as an elongated grid. He filled the wall not by working with blocks made of blocks, but more like hard edge puzzle shapes arranged by intuition. By the time he reached the right edge of the wall the paint on the left had dried sufficiently so he could paint the interstices. Then, stepping back he looked at the wall and smiled. Won’t dad be pleased, he thought to himself.
No, his father was displeased. His wife had prepared him and reminded he of something he always said: “If you want something done right you should do it yourself”. The father would now have to repaint the wall with two coats instead of one. Eventually, the boy learned to ask his father a simple question each time his father assigned him a task: “Do you want it done right or do you want me to do it”?
This was not the first, or last, time the boy would paint something that upset his dad. His father had somehow forgotten about the time he left the lid off a gallon of forest green paint. There was no paintbrush. Does a three-year-old boy even need a paintbrush?
Sandy Kinnee
May 17, 2020
Note: This is a true story from when we lived on Pine Grove Avenue. I had completely forgotten about this event until my mother refreshed my memory, just yesterday. I did not mention that my four younger brothers were at home at the time, ranging in ages of nine months to nine years. Mom kept them busy upstairs and out of the basement. I did not add them to the story as they played no role. This is the home my sister now lives in. Reading this story, she will want to go to the basement and guess under how many layers of paint is my boyhood mural.
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