I am currently in the process of prepping my house to paint it with a friend who is driving down from Michigan next week. By “prepping” I, of course, mean power-washing the grand dame, scraping old whiskered paint off her epidermis, and priming her bare sides with an oil-based primer. It is a messy and hard job and I’m nowhere near done. It is August in the southeast. Doesn’t this sound like fun?

Thanks to the advice of my intelligent wife I am employing our iPod to keep me entertained, or at least distracted from the mind- and arm-numbing task at hand. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?? I am in day three of the chore (”chore” seems far too puny a word to describe this), and, though I absolutely dreaded initially getting started, I now find myself slowly, if unintentionally, establishing a rhythm in my work. And I profess this is a good thing, very good actually, as God himself might have uttered after a long day of making things out of dust and spittle. Obviously, my task is slightly lower on the overall ladder of life, but it feels achingly good - especially at night when I crash hard into my pillow - to take a venerable old beast like our 1925 cottage, remove her shabby, tattered clothes, scrub her down with just as much gentleness as vigilance, patiently reapply protection to the scarred and vulnerable spots, and finally bless her skin with much adornment and fresh cosmetics. I can’t wait to see how she stands shimmering at the corner of 19th and Russell looking proud as she displays her silhouetted profile from north to south, east to west. I am eager to see how the setting sun will ultimately reflect its orange dappled light across her newly painted brow. May she roar like a lion. Look at me, I sound like a dad.

So far, I have found these artists to be most excellent soundtrack accompaniment while prepping and painting:
Robert Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise (New Ground)
Patty Griffin (Flaming Red)
David Mead (Wherever You Are, Luxury of Time)
Russ Taff (The Way Home)
John Hiatt (The Tiki Bar Is Open)