I am a big, fluffy gal, and if you didn’t
know me well, you might not know that I can whup anybody at painting. I love paint fumes and the soothing flow of a
paint roller. There is just something
about a fresh coat of paint that clears your mind and renews your soul. I’ve always wondered why it is that many of
the painters I run across, both residential and artistic, seem to be alcoholics as well as very
“soulish” people. We gather at the
contractor’s desk at Sherwin Williams and ruminate about colors and painting
techniques. Old crusty guys with
vaporous breath seem to have a kinship with me. It must have something to do with the soul of
an artist and inhaling deeply. I've been able to avoid the substance abuse, but maybe I'm compensating with food...
An age ago, we lived in a camper (not a trailer) for two years and built a home (ourselves, with our own hands...don't you forget it) on five acres in Douglas County. When it came time to
waterproof the basement, I was the gal for the job. When inspiration hit me, it also happened to
be a school day (for normally-schooled children) and Halloween. Waterproofing a basement is no normal paint job. It's sticky tar applied down deep in the bowels of the earth onto the basement walls before you fill in the hole around the foundation. It gets everywhere. I believe it took me a week to recover the notion of clean skin and hair after doing that job. In order for me to get down to the remote parts of
the exposed basement, I had to be let down with a rope. We had a nice sturdy one and I had four kids
who got a free pass to play that day, except for the times that Mom had to be
hauled up out of the hole. When I needed
a break or to move to another area, I'd holler and the kids would attach the rope to something
and pull me up out of purgatory.
Of course I happened to be in the deepest
section of the outside of the basement as well as completely covered in black
tar (not to mention the state of my hair or face) when I heard wheels crunching
on the gravel driveway. I was in too deep to see anything or to help myself get out.
The kids started yelling, “It’s a policeman, Mama!” I was yelling back for them to haul me up,
but no, too late….I could hear them all running away to check out the cop. I also heard them talking to him; meanwhile
I’m pulling and yanking myself up the dirt wall to try to get out. Just about the time I got my carcass to the
top (and wrenched my back really bad), he’s pulling slowly back up the
driveway. If he had looked back I am
certain that our lives would have taken a drastically different turn. I was covered in tar, my hair and body had red
crusted dirt all over, and by this time I’m a little wild-eyed. I don’t know why I considered letting that
man see me at all. Thankfully, he
didn’t.
When I asked the children about what had conspired, they said that he told them he was out checking around since it
was Halloween. Praise God, he didn't see the zombie painting the basement. For some reason, he also didn’t ask these truant children where their
parents were and just told them to be careful.
That night, when we were regaling the story to Ken, he was
concerned. He told me to make sure that
everything was buttoned up tight the next day….that we were to have “normal”
(whatever) school in the camper and to not let the kids out for any reason, in case
DFACS was sent over or something. I
hadn’t thought of that.
So we were pressed and dressed the
next day, camper clean and kids studying and warned not to go outside unless
Mom did reconnaissance first.
Mid-morning, I heard gravel crunching again outside. I walked outside and saw to my horror a white
government car crawling down the 400-foot driveway.
The emotions that went through my heart that day were indescribable. I imagined my kids being hauled away, Fox5news helicopters flying over, me in handcuffs and chains and wailing
loudly. Next, a woman with a clipboard got out
of the car and started writing. It was
obvious she did not want to talk to me.
She nodded in my direction and with tight lips continued writing and
checking off things on her little list.
She stepped around the house and even talked on her walkie-talkie. I think this was the day I started having
heart palpitations (well, except for that day when I first saw Ken, that). After quite some time and waiting awkwardly for
her to acknowledge me, she walked towards me.
I must have looked like an ashen ghost.
I nearly fainted when she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m _________ from the Tax Assessor’s
Office.” I can't stand taxes or the idea of the government coming onto our land and assessing our property, but all of a sudden she was my new
best friend. We started talking and I
found in her a kindred spirit. All the fear and trepidation washed away as she told me about her family, three beautiful kids and a husband that had left her. They had been separated for a time, but he had recently become a Christian and they reconciled and were back together. By the time she left,
we were friends. We hugged and prayed together in the driveway, with tears rolling
down our faces. Unbelievable.
God definitely has a
sense of humor. I shudder to think about
the peril that we would have been in had someone decided to
call the authorities about us living like crazy hippies in a camper and homeschooling our four kids. People used to
live in one-room cabins and mud huts in America ,
but nowadays that would be considered cruel treatment to children. I happen to think it was the best thing we
ever did for them. All four of them are thinkers and survivors and know how to adapt to lots of situations. Nowadays, whenever we are able to get together around our big round table, one thing's for sure -- there's going to be laughter. Their parents are pretty cracked, but we are really grateful for the mercies of God!
We crazy....
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