peevish mama

Is usually just trash.  Most of the stuff IN peoples’ houses is junk, so chances are extremely high that what they actually choose to throw out, deserves to be thrown out, and probably should have been thrown out a long time ago.  I’m the woman who’s always trying to get rid of things. Simplify. Good riddance. Which iswhy it was alarmingly out of character for me to blow by a little pile of curbside stuff with a cardboard sign labeled “FREE”, only to stop the minivan and actually back up on Penn Ave.  Supergirl was in the backseat and as I threw the car in reverse I muttered “Let’s just get a closer look at that painting . . . thing.”  

She sprung out of her seat, landed in a soft crouch, swiveling her head to and fro to make sure no one was going to move in on our find.  She was so excited she was panting.  I rolled down our windows simultaneously and I imagine that the sight of our mugs being slowly revealed was rather amusing if anyone happened to be watching from the house: Supergirl in her plaid jumper with a huge open expectant smile and bright eyes, me in big sunglasses covering my need for another cup of coffee, a look of mild distaste mingled with curiosity stamped on my tired face.  

“That’s so beautiful!” gushed Supergirl.  The die was cast.  The minivan door slid open and out she popped for her first dumpster diving expedition.  This pastoral Northwoods scene is painted on a piece of plywood, about 20” by 25” so she had to use all her muscle to hoist it into the car.  

It is so obviously the work of an amateur.  It is so obviously something that has moldered in the garage collecting grime and the occasional paint splatter for the past twenty years.  But something about it is compelling.  For one thing, it makes my daughter happy and I can’t help thinking that this two minute episode may end up being one of those salient moments that she remembers for the rest of her life – as opposed to the piles and piles of other moments when I’m being crabby and impatient and not my best self.  Maybe this will be the shiny pebble that she can clutch in her hand someday in the far distant future.

Moreover, it’s a reminder of that little sputtering light inside of us. The flicker that mostly gets tamped down, but sometimes, with a little luck or grace or a change in circumstance – with the stubborn set of a jaw or a deep breath or a rash move, gains a little strength and burns a little brighter and prods us to try something new, causes us to scratch the itch and venture outside our comfort zone, through our fear and do something that we may very well suck at. 

When I look at this painting, I imagine it was painted by a crotchety old guy, someone who worked the same job his entire life and didn’t go in for artsy fartsy stuff at all.  He probably loved being outdoors.  Maybe he had had a cabin somewhere.  Maybe he was retired and one morning as he stuffed his stiff feet into the slippers by his bedside he sighed, gingerly massaged his swollen knee and wondered why he should get up at all.  Maybe he stared down at his frayed moccasins for a while, turning it all over in his head.  What was the point?  Maybe he pulled his feet back out of his slippers and laid back down, closing his eyes and giving into the soft heavy blanket of depression.  Maybe his wife poked her head in and asked him if he was sick, retying her light blue chenille robe as she stood in the doorway with an impatient look on her face, her cheeks still shining from her night cream.  Maybe he said Joyce I’ll be down in a minute to get rid of her and let himself sink into his sheets, his blue-veined eyelids flickering as he marveled at the stubborness of breath. Coming and coming and coming, whether he willed it to or not.  Maybe he held his breath once, just to see if it would work, a tear streaming down his temple from the exertion.  Maybe when he was lying there, thinking of everything and nothing, he remembered that old piece of plywood in the garage. And that box of his daughter’s paints from college.

The painting is signed (on the left) by Savle.  Who is Savle?  Savle . . . Savle . . . Salve . . . Save.