Looking Out My Backdoor - Old dog, new tricks

Scritch, scratch, scrape, scratch, scritch. Chips flying. Breathing dust. I really should have eye protectors.

I cannot believe I am doing this job. Just last week, just days ago, I told you I do anything to avoid using sandpaper. Here I am, sanding down metal rocking chairs, one pair so old that the only thing holding them together might be the paint. I proceed cautiously, dust up my nose, in my hair, in the fibers of my clothing. Oh, well. Must be done.

It was not my idea. Kathy and Richard are the first pair of snowbirds to arrive for the winter. Kathy, bless her perfectionist heart, suggested that since I’ve slathered everything else I own with a bright, new layer of life, the rockers deserve a similar renewal.

I could have nodded my head and ignored her. But, no, I could hear the rockers squeaking out, “Me too! Me too!” Green, I’m thinking. Shades of green. With that thought I am doomed.

First, I must make the job tolerable. This I do by covering my hands. Something about the texture of sandpaper, my sensitive finger skin finds intolerable. I have nice leather gloves but I know that before I make one chair decent enough for paint, my good leather will have holey fingers, that is, with holes, not sanctification.

Fortunately, in my bathroom supplies, I have a large box of nitrile gloves. The life of a glove, at most, is half an hour. Tolerable.

My rockers are metal, outside chairs, and, as such, have been sitting in the weather, enduring these nine years of intense UV sun rays and pounding rain. They are faded, chipped and peeled in places down to the original, down to rust.

True to myself, I picked the most difficult looking chair to start, one with 5 layers of old paint. Three hours into the job, with sandpaper, a knife and a wanna-be wire brush, my chair looked downright scabby. I’d swept three cups of chair paint debris from beneath my work table. Time is flexible. I will continue to scratch-scratch until I deem the chair ready for paint.

As the pile of discarded nitrile gloves mounted, I’d quit measuring paint dust/chip debris.

Meanwhile, my attitude to the dreaded job had changed. I won’t say I loved it, but by focusing on the transformation of the poor neglected and abused chair, what I can sing is this: You gotta have heart, miles and miles and miles of heart … there’s nothing to it but to do it … You gotta have heart.

Thank you, Eddie Fisher. And just like that, the work doesn’t seem to be half as hard. Even smarmy lyrics send me encouragement from the past.

Monday morning I engaged Leo for a quick trip to the hardware store. I left armed with heavy-duty work gloves, safety glasses, and a real wire brush. At the Comex I bought heavy-duty sandpaper and four vibrant paints, flowers in jewel tones, Bougainvillea that hang over my garden wall, plus one leafy green, one paint for each chair.

Back to work, with better tools, I quickly discovered that something had shifted, perhaps only within myself, but the shift felt monumental. These poor, abused and much neglected rocking chairs had become my teachers. When I go slowly enough, even inanimate objects speak clearly.

I had been holding up a good front about my coming move. My battered chairs showed me my edges of fear and trepidation, to move, to change, during the end-days of my life. As fear feeds fear, it grew, without me noticing.

My new home will be vibrant with splashes of color, each color a flower, my new garden, singing loudly with joy. Now I know, I can feel, deep in my heart of hearts, this move will be good for me, will give me, even now is giving me, the capacity to change, to begin again, a new chapter in my life book.

As I scratch-scratched away old paint, my sensitive hands protected with new gloves, I sensed the chairs showing me that even I, creaky and rusty as I am, can shine with new life.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].