It all started when my mother decided she didn’t like the color of our house any longer. In 1947, when the house was built, my folks decided to stain the cedar shingles a dark brown. It was a decision they both agreed to and were happy with with for about 10 years. Then my mother decided she wanted the color much lighter, so she wanted it painted.
My father was of the opinion that since the shingles were stained they could never be painted. He insisted that paint would never stick and he would not put it on the house. My mother on the other hand did not believe a word of his reasoning and she wanted the house yellow.
They had lively discussions about it for months and always came to the same conclusion. Mom wanted it painted. Dad didn’t. Finally in a moment of exasperation, my father declared that if my mother wanted the house painted she could do it herself. And in equal exasperation she declared she would.
With the impasse ended my mother ordered paint and brushes and my father began to worry. He began to think about mom on a ladder. Once the paint arrived, mom started at the bottom and intended to work her way up. Meanwhile Dad began to build an elaborate scaffold system for Mom to work on.
With the scaffolding in place Dad was confident Mom could paint safely. He relaxed. In fact, he would settle himself in a chair every afternoon and cheer her on. It was the talk of the neighborhood- my mother was the one painting the house while my dad was the one sitting in a chair encouraging her in the work. Men would stop on their way home from work and visit. Women would bring snacks so Mom and Dad could keep up their strength. The neighborhood kids just enjoyed the fun of someone painting a house.
My brothers and I were enjoying the unusual drama. Finally our parents had settled the dispute and devised a plan. Mom was pleased because the house was going to be yellow. Dad was enjoying his afternoons in his lawn chair.
Now I know it seems strange that Dad would go to all the work to build a safe scaffold for Mom to do the painting when he simply could have painted it himself. But once my mother decided to paint, nothing was going to stop her. And there was the matter of his statement that he would never paint those shingles. No, the only course of action for Dad was make it safe for her and then make the best of it.
That summer our house was transformed from a dark brown to a shade of yellow that both my parents loved. And my mother, she became part of the neighborhood folklore.