My son and I recently completed a project in my home. We stripped wallpaper off the walls of a bathroom and covered the vacant walls with a lovely sea foam-colored paint. I loved working on this project with my son over his winter break!
While we were painting, I kept flashing back to my Grandpa Nat, for whom my son is named. Grandpa would have loved that my son was taking on a painting project and successfully meeting my expectations. It was my grandfather who taught me the skill of scrapping and painting and keeping a home in shape.
As the owner of a small Catskill’s bungalow colony in Kauneonga Lake, Grandpa did much of the maintenance on his own, with help from my Dad and us, his grandchildren. The difficult plumbing and electrical work was done by professionals, the painting was a chore we could all do. And we did.
“IF you don’t Work, you don’t Eat,” Grandpa would intone. Of course we always ate, but he wanted us to know that it was important to have a good work ethic. In the real world, not working meant no money.
In the spring, that work ethic was obvious. We would go up to the Catskills before the season began for my Dad to help Grandpa get the bungalows ready. My brother and I were scrappers and painters. They would put us along the bottom of the bungalows that needed to be painted, where we scrapped off the peeling paint.
When that chore was completed to Grandpa’s satisfaction, my brother and I would be allowed to paint the bottom. I actually loved it! It was my favorite chore, even though all the buildings were painted white. (I think my sister was too young to be part of the paint squad!)
We still have the furniture. It is well over 65 years old, and needs painting!
When the bungalows were done, we had to paint the wooden lawn furniture. Grandpa went for the greens, blues and gray tones. Scrapping those chairs and painting the wooden slats and metal legs was backbreaking work. We got to do it because we were lower to the ground! But I still remember how tired I would be when we completed this chore.
Now I have to tell you that my Grandpa was colorblind. ALL colors looked the same for him. Whereas, my Grandma loved colors. So in a way what happened one spring is partly my grandmother’s fault.
Every other spring, my grandfather would paint the wooden fence that surrounded the colony. Our colony was located across from the lake along the side of West Shore Road. During the week, the road was quiet with virtually no cars. But on the weekend, the road was zipping with cars. The fence kept all the children safe.
I do not know why, but one spring Grandpa painted the fence when we were not there. And instead of getting new paint cans, he decided to use all the old paint that was in storage: exterior and interior paint. Why waste it? He did not mix the cans together. That might have been better, as everything would have been grey. However, that is not what he did!
Instead as he finished one can of paint, he opened another and continued painting where he left off, over and over again. It was rainbow like in its many colors, but not in any rainbow order. When we drove up to the Catskills and arrived at the colony, we were amazed to see, what I thought was lovely, a multi-colored fence surrounding the property. I cannot remember all the colors that covered the wood. But it was noticeable. My parents were stunned. And then they laughed.
My grandfather had no idea what the fuss was about. When they told him, he just roared in laughter.
I think it stayed that way for two years, even though some of the tenants complained. Although my mother and grandmother were not fans of the multicolored fence, I was. It made me happy. We were the only bungalow colony with such a joyful fence. When he repainted it, he used just one color, grey. After that he often mixed all the paints together when we worked in the spring creating different tones of grey!
So as my son painted the walls in my bathroom, a joyful sea foam blue, I continually flashed back to the joyful multicolored, rainbow fence that surrounded our bungalows.
zicharonot 