Magnum Speed

Imagine this in jet black with two wide yellow racing stripes running over the top of the vehicle from front to back and MAGNUM sand blasted into the rear window.

"You simply cannot drive this thing without speeding" he assured me. He then told me of an incident that happened right here in town on a busy street only a few weeks ago.
"I was torquing my way up the hill when suddenly there he was. A cop pointing a radar gun at me. I guess he heard me because he did not get a look as I flew by at 175 kmh in a 50 kmh zone. I could have run, but how many cars are there like this on the road? They would have caught up to me pretty quick so I just pulled over."
Police Officer: Are you drunk?
Magnum: No, I don't drink.
PO: Are you on drugs?
M: No, I don't do drugs.
PO: Are you stupid?
M: Yes I am!
PO: You are going to jail for the night. Your car will be impounded. The fine is $1100.00. You will have a six month driving suspension. You better call a friend to watch your car while it gets towed. You don't want that thing damaged.
By the way, what do you do for a living.
M: I drive a truck
PO: (pause) Do you have other outstanding tickets or points on your driver's license?
M: Not right now.
PO: (pause) I am going to ask you three questions and I want a truthful answer.
M: (having nothing to lose) Sure.
PO: What is the fastest you have had that car?
M: 258kmh
PO: Were you caught?
M: Don't think so.
PO: When was the last time you were caught speeding and how fast were you going.
M: (Thinking the officer may have has this info come up on his computer, he was honest.) About six months ago I was caught doing 180 kmh is a school zone. (30 kmh) The cop just gave me a warning.

At this point I am wondering how that is humanly possible, I mean to do that and only get a warning.

PO: When is the last time you really got a speeding ticket.
M: About 8 months ago. I was going 35 kmh in the same school zone.
PO: I see by your license that today is your birthday. I am giving you a birthday present. I am letting you off this time. No ticket.
I could see he was nervous reliving the incident.

"Gotta run" he said, and jumped into the Magnum and took off with roar.
I had no reason to not believe him, again, instincts.
Later his wife came home just as I was finishing the job. She told me about his car obsession. She bought out his equity in the house after the divorce and with that he purchased the car. Since then the value of the house had risen substantially. She told me he makes more that ten grand a month and spends it all on his car.

The next morning I stopped by her house to do one final bit of work to complete the job and to collect some money. She called me on my cell phone just as I was driving up to her house and told me not to bother coming. She changed her mind about he wallpaper selection and she was just going to tear it all off. I was right there anyways and went in to talk her out of it. I couldn't so she just paid me and that was that. When I told her I felt bad for her, she told me that she does this all the time. "It will take three time for me to get it right. This is just the way I do things." I tucked my slack jaw back up and just scratched my head as I walked out.
My instincts never told me that was coming.

How Does This Happen?

We did the small talk that guys do and then he was off to one of the rooms and then into the shower down the hall. When he came out, we began talking again and I pieced together the picture. He was a trucker and was rarely home. He had done some 'stupid' things and he and his wife (the lady who had contracted me to do the work) divorced. He needed a home base and a place to park his car so he was renting a room from her. It was because of their daughter, he told me. He and his wife (ex) rarely even saw each other and indeed they had just missed each other on this day.
He then asked me if I could back my truck out of the driveway for a minute while he took his car out. He was going away for a few days. I did that and when I walked back up the driveway he had the garage door open and I saw his car. It was definitely an attention grabber. It was a glossy black Dodge Magnum station wagon with two wide bright yellow racing stripes over the top from hood to tail pipes. It was 'tricked out' with the most expensive wheels I had ever seen, a very throaty exhaust, dark tinted windows, and in the interior, a grey and lime green decor that was literally out of this world with pot lights and glowing things all over the place. He told me the basics in a sentence, $60,000 plus $20,000 in extras (so far) and 500 horsepower.
I could not help but admire it as it was a work of art as well as a powerful machine. I commented that I would not do well with such a vehicle as I would be going broke paying for all the speeding tickets. And then he told me a few of his experiences with his Magnum. Maybe tomorrow I will tell you too.

Trusting My Instincts

The following story could be another chapter in my "Painting to Learn" series, but I will give it to you in a series of posts here. This all transpired in the last few days.

I have been in literally thousands of homes over the years as a contractor. Almost always, the people I meet are total strangers to me, our only connection is the person who recommended me to them. As a result of all this experience, I have developed some instincts over the years and have learned to trust them. When I do not, I run into trouble of various shapes and sizes.

About ten days ago, I was called to give a price on stripping paper and hanging new paper in a kitchen. It was in a house I had passed by hundreds of times in the days when we used to live in that neighbourhood. The 40 something woman greeted me at the door, introduced me to her daughter who was lying on the sofa, doing homework with the TV on, and proceeded to show me the kitchen. The decor in the house was 100% antique Victorian and it felt like I was in a curio shop in LaConner, Washington, complete with scented candle aromas. The vibe in the house was totally feminine and I just knew she was a single mom. Indeed, there was no evidence of a man ever having even been near the house. Of this I was sure.

We agreed on a price and yesterday I did the job. Being alone in the house, everything I observed confirmed my belief about her status, not that it mattered, but at this point it was still an educated guess.

And then at 2pm, a man walked into the house, very confidently. I was a bit shocked and at first thought it might be a neighbour. He was friendly and we talked. I try not let my jaw drop when talking to folks, but I could not help it this time. To be continued.

Eating on the Job

It is time for another story in my series on "Painting to Learn". Lessons I have learned while on the job. This one involves food and lots of it.

There are not many workers left who carry a lunch bucket. It used to be that there was no alternative. Either a meal was brought to the job, or one had to drive home for lunch. Over the years, the trend gradually changed, until now, workers will leave the job for coffee break and for lunch. I always thought that it was very inefficient to leave the job at all, unless it was for something that was essential for the completion of the work at hand. The cost of ‘going out’ and the cost of time lost, was a motivation for me to ‘stick to it until it was done'. Because of my penchant for efficiency, I have been reluctant over the years to stop for coffee at all, but I have always stopped for lunch right at noon.
The exception to this rule has always been in the hands of the customer. When I first started working in people’s homes many years ago, folks were more hospitable than they are today and more often than not, I would be offered a cup of coffee and a goodie at ten and at three. I rarely turned it down. Lately, it has been the exception and not the rule, but greatly appreciated when it does happen. I have been offered some very interesting things over the years and some incidents are quite memorable.
My experiences are as varied as are the customers I have worked for. There are a few predictabilities that roughly go along ethnic lines. By far the most hospitable people have been the Mennonites and the Dutch, followed closely by the East Indians. When I first started, I was doing a lot of vacant apartments and some new construction, and the only refreshments I had were what I brought from home. My wife has always been a great cook and the lunches she has made for me over the years have always been excellent and I always looked forward to noon and the chance to ‘dig in’. But as I got into the re-decoration end of the painting business, I was working around people, in their homes, and getting to know them, sometimes quite well.
One of my first experiences being offered a coffee break, was at a Danish ladies home. She was very friendly and at mid morning she asked me if I would care for a cup of Danish Coffee. It was an opportunity to try something new and also a chance to sit down with her and find out a bit more about her story, something which I have enjoyed tremendously over the years. She explained to me that Danish Coffee was quite strong and asked if she should make it a bit weaker for me. Not caring too much for strong coffee, I consented to her suggestion. She sat me down at the table and set the cup in front of me together with a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of cream. I poured some cream into the cup and began to stir the coffee. It did not change colour. I thought the ‘cream’ was perhaps skimmed milk and poured some more into my cup. The colour was changing ever so slightly and it should have been a clue. I sipped the brew and almost gagged. It was thick and syrupy and the strongest drink I had ever put to my lips. She saw my reaction and apologized. She told me that she had run out of her usual grounds and had used instant. Instant was just right for me if it was made with one half teaspoon. Normally she put eight teaspoons of powder into a cup but she cut back to six for me!
The coffee I have been offered since then has been OK and some of it has been great. Some people really have a knack for making excellent coffee. Fresh ground gourmet coffee in a high tech coffee maker surely does beat cowboy coffee taken from an old unused tin above the fridge and served with plenty of course grounds in the cup. The goodies can really only be described as varied and interesting, ranging from delicious to downright awful. It would seem that some people viewed having a trades person in the house as an opportunity to get rid of old stale baking or something that was too good to throw out but nobody in the family was going to eat. In an instance such as that, I would eat what I had started, but never take seconds, pleading upset stomach, or dietary restrictions. I never got sick from anything I ate, but did gain weight on some of the extended jobs.
I was ushered into a kitchen one day and there was a dessert buffet that one would expect on a cruise ship. At least ten different varieties of fresh Christmas baking. The elderly Mennonite Grandmotherly type gave me a quick instruction before I dug in.
“ Try one of each, and then eat all the ones you like.” I am ashamed to report that I followed her instructions to the ‘t’.
I called the German speaking Miss Zumpf the night before and informed her that I would be starting her job the next morning. She insisted that I do not bring any food, but that she would feed me, coffee breaks and a lunch. This was a new one for me. I had been offered lunch many times, but not beforehand, so I would gratefully turn down the offer and eat what I had brought from home. It was empty-handed that I entered Katie’s home and was curious as to what would transpire.
After working only one hour, the first coffee break arrived and I was served a delectable piece of Bundt cake, and when offered seconds, could not refuse. She asked me if I liked chicken and said that she would make me a chicken lunch. A chicken sandwich would have sufficed and I would have been satisfied with and been grateful for just that. Shortly before noon, I caught whiffs of chicken and it was no sandwich she was preparing. The aromas drifting my way indicated that I would indeed be feasting before long. The time came quickly and she sat me down at her dining room table, before an immaculately set table with her finest china and silverware spread before me. There was a bowl of mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, dinner rolls with butter, a fresh garden salad with several different dressing to choose from, but no chicken. She sat down with me and said an elegant grace in German and excused herself to the kitchen. When she returned, she was laden down with an extra large baking sheet spread from corner to corner with oven baked chicken. There had to be at least fifteen pieces of golden brown chicken set before me. I was shocked and all I could blurt out was, “Is there someone else coming for lunch?” Apparently not. It was just me and the chicken. Oh, did I mention more Bundt cake for dessert?
I have many regular customers that have called me back many times over the years. Of those, I have favourites and Pat was right near the top. Pat had a wonderful sense of humour and we would laugh out loud the whole time I would be working in her home. She and her husband belonged to an interesting dinner club which met once a month, rotating between their homes. It was planned out for the year and each month would be a theme night. The dinner was prepared by the host couple and they went all out. It was gourmet cooking at its finest. Needless to day, she was a great cook and baker and it was always evident when I was invited to sit down for coffee. The best treat she ever made for me was a large plate full of scones with butter and home made strawberry jam. I embarrassed myself by eating the plate clean, but I sensed that she took it as a compliment. I was appropriately decorating her kitchen in a colour scheme she got right out of a Martha Stuart magazine.
My first experience working in an East Indian home was making me a little nervous. I sensed that there was distrust and suspicion from the minute I walked in the door. I did what I usually do to build a little rapport and took a mild interest in her home and her children. I quietly went about my work and was polite and friendly when I spoke with her. The grandparents were skulking about in the background, giving me sideways glances, and I was relieved that I was not working for them. At mid morning, she asked if I would care for some East Indian tea. I told to go to no trouble for me but she assured me that the whole family was having tea and it was no trouble at all. I accepted, hoping it would not be another Danish coffee incident. The tea turned out to be quite good, mixed with plenty of milk and sugar, not what I was used to, but good enough for a second cup. I think the second cup was the right move because after that, even the old grandpa warmed up to me a bit. Since then, I have had Indian tea many times and always enjoy it, but knowing that if I had it everyday, I would soon be as big bellied as many of them are.
I have learned that there is a subtle change in a new relationship when conversation takes place over a cup of coffee or tea. They extend hospitality, I accept it, and as a result, a bond begins to form. I have heard so many fascinating stories at these coffee breaks and have indeed had many opportunities to encourage and be encouraged by those who sometimes are complete strangers, until we ‘break bread’ together.

Spill

I have written a collection of stories, of lessons I have learned from my experiences in the workplace. I have posted a few of them over the last year, together with stories from my childhood. Here is a confession of misdeeds, all in the past, you know.
There is an assumption with most people, that painting is a messy business. It can be, but anyone who is organized, is neat and clean by nature, and takes a few basic precautions, should have no excuse for making a mess. There are many experienced and inexperienced painters who can paint in almost any circumstance and never spill a drop. When I hear about those homeowners who have paint running off their elbows by the end of the day, I have to scratch my head and wonder how they do that. With proper equipment, correct technique, and good quality paint, the need for drop sheets can even be eliminated, and as a rule, I seldom have use for them.
Having said all that, the odds of having an unfortunate accident rises, as the amount of time spent working with paint increases. Experience is also another key. A lack of experience is a detriment because one has not developed a technique that is conducive to safety. On the other hand, too much experience is also a drawback as it creates a sense of cockiness and carelessness and at that point an accident is just waiting to happen. I have had both kinds, and some in between. My paint spills have been minor, relatively speaking, but a great inconvenience and embarrassment nonetheless.
My very first experience with paint was as a young boy of ten and does not really count. I was staying on an Uncle’s farm in Saskatchewan and one of my projects for the two weeks I was there was to paint a granary. I was given a gallon of red paint and a big four inch paint brush and was simply instructed to paint the walls red. It was fun for a while, but being a hot day and running out of shade made finishing the job pure drudgery. Swinging the big heavy paint laden brush became a two handed job and at the end of the day my wrist was useless. I doubt the building was properly protected against the winter elements that year, but portions of the soil surrounding the granary were.
The next time I had a run in with paint was when I was in my late teen years and I was on a Saturday job with my dad, who was a builder at that time. He was building single family dwellings and would do a lot of the work himself, such as the painting. It was a warm spring day and it was time to paint the trim boards on the roofline of the house. On this particular day, it was decided that a solid colour stain would be used instead of paint as the colour was right and it would require only one coat, if applied properly. The viscosity of paint can be thick and often has a slightly coagulated texture to it, making it relatively drip less when rolling or brushing or pouring from one can into another, or from the can into a paint tray. A first time effort on this is a no brainer.
Stain is a different animal altogether. It is more liquidy than water and as a result, more volatile. My dad stood over me as I opened the can, stirred the stain with a paint paddle, and then informed me that if I poured too slowly, the stain would only run down the side of the can and dribble into the dirt. To prevent this, I was told to tilt the can in a quick surge and thus facilitate the pouring of the stain into the paint tray and no dribbling would occur. Being entirely unpractised, I did as I was told to the best of my ability and the stain surged full force into the sloped tray, with plenty of volume and momentum to slosh over the edge of the tray and gush right onto and into my dad’s shoe. It resulted in a 'multiple choice' trauma. Which is worse, spilling expensive Oxford Brown stain into the dirt, not being competent enough to even pour a little paint into a tray, a ruined pair of shoes, a father’s wrath, or the sheer embarrassment of having the homeowner just happening to be there to witness the incompetency of his builder and his son. Already having feelings of inadequacy, I chose all of the above.
My first real paint job, which is a story all in itself, was in newly constructed apartment buildings with unfinished floors and it did not matter how sloppy or not a painter was. It still bothered me to drip and spill so I made an effort to train myself to avoid bad habits. This paid off later when I specialized in repaints, or redecoration, working in finished homes, around people, pets, furniture, and over sometimes very expensive carpets and hardwood flooring. I concluded that it was easier to clean a drip here or there than to trip over a bulky drop sheet and clean up a big spill. It always made the customer very nervous to see me roll and brush without a drop sheet, but I always told them that they did not have to pay me for the job if they found even one drop of paint on any furniture or any floor. That made them look all the harder, but not one person ever called me on that guarantee. But that does not mean there was no spilling.
The first time it happened to me, my first thought was that all the profit from the job would be designated for a carpet replacement. I had bumped a pail of oil paint and just caught it before it spilled its complete contents. There was very little paint in the can to start with, but cleaning it up was tedious and time consuming. It was a different colour than the carpet and try as I might I could not get the stain completely out. There is a point in rubbing the nap of a carpet, where the strands of fibre begin to unravel and it gives the carpet a different texture and general appearance. I had reached that point and so I just left it alone. I put a chair over the spot and hoped when it was dry, it would not be as noticeable.
I was partly right in that it had improved by the next morning, and only looked bad from certain angles. What really saved my bacon was when the lady of the house decided to rearrange her furniture, and, wouldn’t you know it, she placed a lamp table right over the once exposed area, where the now almost invisible stain was. I never heard anything more about it.
Of the few spills that I have had, only one was witnessed by the customer. She was one of those who was nervous about me working without a drop cloth. She interrupted my work by asking me if I was sure I was using the right colour. I assured her I was, and to prove it, I put down my pail of paint and got my colour chips from my tool box. I selected her colour, showed her how the numbers on the can matched, and then held the chip to the wall where the paint had now dried. As I was telling her how the surrounding existing colour effects the appearance of the new colour, I backed into my pail and kicked it over. It was a pail I had been dipping my brush into and had very little in it, fortunately. It was latex, or water based paint and with copious amounts of water, I did get it all out. I was embarrassed. The incident apparently had no long term negative effect because to this day she remains my customer.
A more recent incident was probably my worst spill, not because of the amount of paint but because of the damage produced. I was rolling the walls in a bay window and as I stepped back from doing the small ceiling, the edge of my foot caught the corner of the paint tray. The tray flipped and I reached down to prevent the tray from going completely upside down. In so doing, I dropped my roller right onto the carpet. Why was it the worst? The carpet was white as the driven snow, and the paint was ‘Sundried Tomato’, a very deep rusty red, heavily pigmented colour. I knew I was in big trouble but went about trying to clean it up anyhow. Keeping the stain wet and flooding it with water is the only hope of ever getting it out and I did that for hours, alternately flooding and mopping up. The carpet slowly turned from dark red to a light bright pink. I went to the paint store to purchase a new product that was especially designed to take paint out of carpets, and tried, to no avail, to remove the stain. By this time the paint was all out, but the stain remained.
I kept it wet and the next morning when the customer came to the house, I confessed. I told her I would pay for a carpet cleaning specialist to tackle the problem, and a few hours later, he came. He tried several different chemicals and techniques, but the pink did not lessen in degree. I was given a lesson on carpet technology and discovered that nylon carpet fibres have microscopic pores that are designed to take in the dye at the factory. A white carpet has vacant pores and apparently I had filled them with red pigment. It was a done deal. I apologised profusely and offered to buy her a new carpet. She did not think that would be a good idea because then she would have to replace all the carpet in her townhouse to match the new one. Because the problem was only in the bay, I suggested we just replace the carpet in that area. No, old against new would not look good. She finally came up with the perfect solution. She had a bookshelf that fit perfectly in the space and perfectly covered the stain. She insisted that I not compensate her and being very gracious, suggested that I just forget about it, like she would. I have liked her very much ever since. *
The funniest incident, resulting from a spill, happened in a very expensive and fancy home. These people were new clients and we were recommended to them based on our neatness and cleanliness. My son, Andrew, had recently started working for me and we were sorting out our division of responsibilities and I was getting used to working with a partner. One thing we always do, when there are multiple cans of the same colour paint, is to open all of them and test the colour, to see if they are identical.
Andrew did this and declared everything ready to go. We worked out of the same can and when we were ready for the second one, I did what I always do. I grabbed the can to give it a quick shake before opening it and pouring from it. I did not know that he had not hammered the lid on tight, something I always do with full paint cans standing around. Fortunately it was on and over the kitchen countertop, where I executed this manoeuvre. Unfortunately, when I twisted the can to give it a shake, the lid flew off and half of the contents flew across the countertops and did its thing according to the laws of gravity and physics. There were cookie jars and canisters, cutlery and dishes, and a gorgeous silver tea service, complete with cream pitcher and sugar bowl, and fancy spoons with which to stir the paint, ..er, tea. Had it been latex, we would simply have rinsed everything off in the sink, dried it off, and it would have been as if nothing had happened. But it was alkyd (oil) paint.
I jumped in my truck and ran for supplies. I had to drive twenty minutes to the nearest store and purchased several large rolls of paper towelling, garbage bags, and a bag of sugar, and then to the paint store for an extra gallon of solvent. It was a three hour job. After my initial reaction, which had been one of anger, I realised it was as much my fault for shaking a can with a loose lid. Andrew felt guilty because he had broken protocol, so between the two of us, we laughed as we hurriedly tried to get things in order before the owner came with her kids from school. I had just topped off the sugar bowl and had thrown my bag of sugar into my tool box, when she walked in the door. If she ever found out, she did not tell me. I often thought that if I had told her, she probably would have thought it a good explanation for the lingering odour of paint thinner at her tea parties.
I have learned from paint spills that nobody is perfect. We all make mistakes. But mistakes can also be corrected, with time, patience, and know how. When we get proud and over confidant, we are setting ourselves up for a bit of humbling, and that can happen very quickly.
* There is a footnote to this story. Since I wrote this, there has been a new development. A few days ago, we came home late and found a message on our answering machine. The person leaving the message took great pains to identify herself but I recognised her voice immediately. She started talking about the pink carpet and I was getting nervous. I had visions of replacing the carpet at my expense and began to feel foolish that I had thought I had seen the end of this incident. Then she mentioned that she had rented a carpet steamer and had been cleaning her carpets. She had found the container of special paint stain remover that I had purchased and tried and found wanting, and she had soaked the carpet with it prior to steam cleaning. At this point I was getting hopeful. And then a minor miracle happened. The stain came completely out, as she put it, 99% clean. She was thrilled and just had to phone and tell me. She was thrilled? As my heart rate returned to normal, I realised I could finally put this incident behind me.

The Four Ghosts

The phone rings and a sweet voice tells me I did some work for her a few years ago and would I be interested in painting her bedroom. I ask again for her name, stalling for time, because I have no idea who I am talking to. There is something familiar in the voice but I cannot register a name or a location or the work to which she is referring. I give myself away when I finally admit that I just can’t remember, and at that point I ask for more clues. Eventually the light goes on and everything comes back. It is embarrassing, because for the customer it was an important occasion to hire a painter to do her home makeover.

I have come to understand why I remember some people so well and others not at all. Either I made a very good connection on a social level, there was something very unusual about the person, or something happened on the job to make it out of the ordinary. I have several day planner books full of customers names and addresses from many years back and as I page through them, looking at the entries, I find that there are some that absolutely stand out and others give no clue as to what I did there or who they were. I deal with approximately 120 customers in any given year, and end up working for at least 100 of them. Out of those there are at least half that are new people I have never met before, who got my name from a regular client, or from one of the paint stores in town who graciously passed my name on as a recommended painter. So I should be forgiven for forgetting a few of them.
Some of them, in fact, many of them are unforgettable.

I first heard of these ladies referred to as the ‘four ghosts’. It was at a family event at my Uncle Henry’s house where someone inquired about his neighbours across the street. The house was attractive, the garden and lawns tidy and lush, and it seems that on occasion, there was a glimpse of the residents, but only for brief periods of time. All he knew was that they were four sisters and they came and went mysteriously like ghosts. It seems no neighbour had actually talked to them and so they were a mystery to all.

Not long after, I got a call from a Mrs. Quiring, asking if I could come to her home to give her an estimate for painting and papering their house. Her address was Princess Street, but much to my amazement, as I drove down the street looking at house numbers, I came to a stop across the road from my Uncle Henry’s house. I had a little thrill as I knew that this would be interesting and if I got the job or not, I would be the centre of attention at the next family gathering as I told everything I knew about the ‘four ghosts’.

A nervous, but pleasant lady greeted me at the door and bid me enter, as she stared intently at my feet. I had come to learn over the years that this was the signal to remove the shoes. Often I am loathe to do so when I see the kids and pets and various degrees of filth in the home, but here, I knew my socks would not become soiled. After cursory introductions, I learned her name was Helen, and she proceeded to show me around.

The house was elegant in an understated fashion and the furnishings and art work were classy and tasteful. The home looked well organized and very well taken care of. After complimenting her on her lovely home, she agreed with me and made it clear that it did not really need paint, but her and her sisters wanted a change. A ‘pick-me-up’, she said.

Sisters? I could hear or see no one but Helen. Were they at the library, out shopping, or locked in the dungeon in the basement? The house did have an air of mystery to it. I thought I had heard scurrying in the kitchen, or was it a back bedroom? I was quite curious, but there would be no satisfaction that evening. I took specifications, measurements and detailed information about the level of quality that was desired, and soon was out the door, on my way home to work out the price.

“Interesting,” I thought, but nothing really to tell Uncle Henry except for the description of the house and a bit about Helen. She did have one eye that seemed to look to the left, or was it the right. But that might have been the good eye. I did not want to stare so I really did not even know anything about her eye. It just didn't seem right.

I had gained her trust, and that is often all it took with older people. She said I was hired and I could start any time. When all the wallpaper had arrived, I presented myself at her door one day, and began to do the work. I remember the first day clearly as the house was steamy and moist with the heavy smell of cooking. It was Borscht! As I learned later, there was laundry day, cooking day, cleaning day, gardening day and shopping/ post office day. Sunday was church and visiting, but I never did find out what Saturday was until a while later. I was setting up my tools to begin preparation and it was inevitable that I would sooner or later have to meet the other ghosts. And I did. Well, sort of. Helen pointed out a figure stooped over the stove and say, “That’s Katherine. Agnes is in the back bedroom not feeling well today, and the other one is Susie.”

It took the full four weeks that I was there before one of them would even acknowledge me or look at me. They had an uncanny knack of doing their work while at the same time avoiding me or even being near me. Only German was spoken so I assumed that I would not be able to carry on a conversation with any one of them anyway. They were always in a flap about something and there was a sense of urgency to every move. They were hard workers and it seems that work was all they knew. I tried several times to ask some personal questions of Helen, but she would brush me off and besides, she was the foreman and was too busy giving orders to take any time to speak with me. I was never offered coffee nor was I ever asked a question that did not relate directly to the work I was doing.

And so it surprised me one day when Helen called the sisters together and they stood as a group and watched and marvelled at the most exciting aspect of the new decorating job. It was way out on a limb for these ladies, but they had thought about this long and hard and now that it was actually happening, they were giddy with excitement. There was a closet door in a small foyer between the kitchen and dining room, a broom closet with a flat swing door, something they had never liked, did not understand why it had to be there, and how they could make it interesting. They got the idea from a wallpaper mural book, and now I was hanging a door mural on the door, making it look like a half stable door with a horse hanging his head over the
door as if waiting for a carrot. It was striking, but a little quirky for the setting and the house. I found out much later why they went that route.

I did discover that Helen was the youngest and took it upon herself to be the caregiver, according to her understanding of things. They were all well past retirement age, but seemed very close in age. The three eldest were slim and wiry, while Helen was short and plump. Perhaps, had Helen worked as hard as she made the others do, she too would have been slim. Helen was the only one who drove, so I supposed it gave her an extra element of control and it certainly did make the older sisters dependent on her.

We parted on very good terms, and though I learned very little about them, I had grown to like them. I did not expect to ever see them again. But I was mistaken.
It was eight years later that Helen called and this one I remembered. They had decided to sell their house and had moved into a condominium. Would I be interested in doing some painting and wallpapering? I always give priority to old customers so I accepted and this time Helen did not even ask for a price. She simply asked me to do the work and give her the bill.

There were no dark recesses of a house to hide in this time, so I finally got to meet the sisters, officially. And this time I learned enough to give me understanding. I could not help but notice a very large jigsaw puzzle half constructed on the dining room table. They all worked on it, but in turns. This used to be a Saturday activity, but now that there was no garden, there were two days a week dedicated to jigsaws. Helen was the most heavily addicted. She could not seem to tear herself away from the table and shouted out the duty roster to her sisters from her perch under the bright chandelier where she had gathered all the edge pieces and was making great progress. She complained mildly about how difficult it was getting to see the pieces in the evening and night light and she had to get as many pieces in the daylight as possible. Her eye had been injured as a child and was increasingly bothersome. Susie was diagnosed with cancer and was mostly confined to her room, but when she came out, looked fine to me.

It was during this time, over an offered cup of coffee, that I heard some of their story.
They had grown up in Russia during the Russian Revolution and were very young girls at the time. Their dad and brothers had horses and the girls had taken a great interest in them. It had been a happy and prosperous time until the troubles came. The rumours had spread like wildfire and soon they found out for themselves that it was more than rumours. The soldiers had come to their village and the whole family went to hide in the barn. They were found and all made to line up outside, standing against the barn. As these young girls watched in absolute horror, their parents and brothers were shot and killed. I could only assume what had happened to them next because she paused for a time in the story and then found an important task to distract herself.

I thought that this explained why they were reclusive, had never married and were very slow to warm up to a stranger, a man, in their home. They had been scarred for life. Two of them had been able to work at careers when they came to Canada, but the other two had to be cared for by their sisters.

I no longer looked at them as oddities, but my heart was broken at the thought of what their whole lives had been, playing out the scenes of their childhood time after time, and somehow coping, well into their 80’s. After Helen had opened up to me, there was a difference in her demeanour and it rubbed off on her sisters a little too. Two of them actually exchanged a few words with me.

Shortly after, I heard from another customer in the same building, that Helen had been diagnosed with cancer, in her eye, and the doctor’s had to remove it. It was not long after that, she died, followed by two of her sisters.

Several years later, my sister, who was the director of nursing at an old folk’s home, told me that the last sister had passed away. The caregivers had found $35,000.00 in her purse. I do not know what happened to their bank accounts, their assets, or their earthly possessions. They had no one. I always had hoped that their church had somehow taken care of these things for them.

It was a lesson for me. I admired them, in retrospect, for the way they stuck together. Perhaps they had made a pact when they survived their ordeal. But they had to put up with the whispers behind their backs, the sideways glances and the knowledge that they were different. They probably spent a great deal of time, each in their own way, wondering what might have been.
I ceased to judge people hastily after I met the Quiring sisters.

Near Death

Today's post is another in my series on lessons of life I have learned in the everyday world of my work. I do not consider it morbid. At my age, I have seen and experienced enough to know that that cliche "Death is part of life" rings very true. All death related experiences we have help us to deal with our own inevitable demise. This trilogy may even help you, as it has helped me.



It is only natural that in the course of decades of dealing with people, that I would sooner or later have a brush with death, not my own, but someone for whom I was working. The mainstay of my business has been working for retired folks. These are people who have done decorating, for the most part, themselves, and as they age, they find the work too difficult, or they find themselves in a financial position where they can afford to hire out the jobs they used to do themselves. The statistics on death and dying indicate that women live longer than do men, and this has certainly been my experience over the years, judging by the number of widows I have had the pleasure of working for. I have always found them congenial, sometimes very lonely, and always appreciative of the fact that there was once again a man in the house, if only for a few days. There have been many times when I have been called upon to do those mundane tasks that the departed husband used to do, but have been neglected, due to his passing. Changing a light bulb in a difficult location, tightening knobs and handles, gluing loose drawers, lubricating squeaks and keyholes, moving furniture and or picture hooks and adjusting doors are just a few of the many tasks I have performed in this capacity.

I used to come across the odd widow that could not even write a cheque and had to pay in cash, as her husband had always done all the financial tasks and she was too old to learn the basics of household bookkeeping. Many times I have written out my own cheque and the widow had simply signed it. I always had a fear that these poor souls would one day be taken advantage of by some unscrupulous character.

It sometimes surprised me how soon after the husbands death I was called in to do some work. It was usually a case of the wife wanting a paint job, but the husband was holding back for one reason or another. In his absence, there was now no holding back. In other cases, there was now insurance money for the things the wife could never afford before. Indeed, one lady explained to me through teary eyes that it was her husbands wish that the home be decorated the way she wanted, after he died.

I first met the Friesens just after they had retired and moved from Manitoba to the west coast. It had been their dream and had been made possible by the fact that they had purchased a number of rental homes in Winnipeg and the extra income that this business venture provided, enabled them to make the move and also purchase a beautiful luxury townhouse in the nicest part of town. I worked for them for several weeks and got to know them quite well.
It was about 10 years later that I got a call from Mrs. Friesen informing me that they were down sizing due to their age and the fact they were having difficulty negotiating the stairs in their townhouse. Mr. Friesen had suffered a heart attack and because he had little strength, would need to be in and out of his bed throughout the day and stairs were not an option.
They still required something very nice so opted to move into the top floor suite of a new condominium, a corner unit facing south-west, the most desirable unit in the structure. The construction had been delayed, but because they had sold their previous home, they had to vacate so they were able to obtain a short term lease on a condo within eyesight of their new one. This was very handy as they came daily to the construction site to see to it that their unit was customized to their specifications. The building contractor's painters were relieved of their duties for this particular suite and I moved in to do a custom paint and wallpaper job. I saw her everyday, and him about every other day, only because the elevator in the new building was already operational.

I was doing the finishing touches one sunny afternoon, when I heard the sirens wailing. This was not an unusual occurrence, so I paid little attention, until I heard the sirens stop their blaring in the street just below where I was working. I put down my tools and went to the window, where I had a bird's eye view of all the proceedings. The attendants were in the older condo for some time. I was only mildly interested because I knew several people who lived there besides the Friesen's, and I was curious. There were people congregating in the foyer of the building and then I saw Mrs. Friesen. My blood ran a little cold as I saw her slowly walking beside the gurney that was being carefully wheeled out to the waiting ambulance. I recognized the snowy head of her husband. He had been carefully wrapped in a white sheet and was lying very still.

My first concern, strangely enough, was whether or not I should continue working. If the husband was indeed dead, or was no longer able to come home, would this suite still be their home? If someone else bought it, would they want these colours and wallpapers? I reasoned that the home did belong to them and they would not want to leave it in an unfinished state, so I continued working. It was eerie, because I was hanging the wallpaper in his room, the wallpaper he had chosen, and was looking forward to enjoying when they would move in, in a matter of days.

Several hours went by, and I heard someone quietly enter the suite. I was deep in thought and was surprised by Mrs. Friesen. She asked me if I knew who it was that was taken by the ambulance. I said I did and I inquired about her husband. She told me he was dead on arrival and the staff at the hospital had been unable to revive him.
It was awkward for me but she was gracious and assured me that this had been expected and she was prepared for it, as well as someone could be. She asked me to finish his room, and as it was the last thing to do in order to complete the job, she had a cheque ready for me and just like that, it was over.

There was a sadness that came over me as I took a last look around. The suite was beautiful, not only as a result of all the hard work, but because it was the culmination of a dream and plan, made by two people in the last years of their lives, a dream only she would be able to enjoy. She lived there for a number of years, by herself, and then I lost track of her. I still drive by that location now and then and always look up to that corner suite and the memories come back.
Another similar story unfolded in the Clearbrook Village, a very large retirement condominium complex built on the location of the High School I attended for the last three years of my formal education. The Hieberts were in their eighties but still quite perky and knowing what they wanted. Mrs. Hiebert had her heart set on a wallpaper for her kitchen that was a riot of bright red strawberries on a pure white background. She had apparently wanted something like this for many years and her husband had finally relented, and I was called to do the job. They were sweet on each other and he did a rare and wonderful thing for her the day I was to hang the paper. Because the kitchen would be slightly out of commission, he offered to take her out for the evening meal. Apparently this was an extremely rare occasion and she was giddy with excitement and anticipation. They left shortly after I did and I was eager to hear of her experience the next day.

The following morning as I arrived and buzzed the intercom, I sensed something was wrong when he answered the call and there was something different in his voice. As I entered their suite, he told me what had happened. As they were walking out of the main front door lobby, his wife stumbled on the door mat just inside the door, fell to the hard tiled floor and broke her hip. She was transferred to hospital where she underwent surgery and he was going to go immediately to visit her and come back with a report on her condition. I was grateful that it was not more serious as it would be shame for her to lose the joy of seeing her newly decorated kitchen. She had been truly excited about the prospect of being surrounded by strawberries.
When Mr. Heibert finally returned, he was dejected and related the sad news to me. His dear wife had trouble coming out of the anaesthetic and lost some brain function. The doctors were not sure what the long term issues would be.

Several weeks went by and the back-ordered wallpaper for the bedroom arrived. I made arrangement to come and complete the job and it happened to fall on the day that she was coming home from the hospital for the first time, but just for a short visit. Mr. Heibert was sure that coming home would be just the thing that she would need to jog her memory and get her back on the path to recovery. He knew that she had loved the strawberry wallpaper so much that the excitement of seeing it would perk her up and she would be fine. I remember the scene so well as the care givers wheeled her into the suite. I hardly recognized her. She was thin, frail, and there was a vacant look in her eyes. I had done extensive work at a home for the infirm and I saw that look many times, especially on the Alzheimer’s ward. I could hardly bear to see what happened next. Mr. Heibert lovingly wheeled her into the kitchen for the long anticipated ‘unveiling’. Her reaction brought tears to my eyes and a defeated slump to Mr. Heibert’s shoulders. She looked without seeing, and without any emotion in her voice simply said, “That’s nice”. His faint hope of her recovery was gone, and in its place came a sadness that was unmistakably written in his face.

She did not stay long, I was finished by the end of the day, and I only met him one other time about a year later. I asked him how he was doing. He told me that his wife had passed away and he was going into an old folks home soon. He was not the same man I had met a year ago. It was not long after that my sister, who was the director of nursing at the home he went to, told me that he too had passed away. All I could think about was that there might be a possibility the two of them could meet in a lovely field of strawberries in Heaven.
There is another story I would like to include in this chapter because it happened very nearby to the Friesen's original townhouse. That, however, is the only similarity. It involves a widow and how she resolved a very sticky problem.

In my travels around my community, I make observations of the various neighbourhoods and Strata Title Developments and usually make queries. I do this because I am sometimes asked questions regarding things like strata corporations, and which condo or townhouse development is well run and where are there problems and where is there good management and harmony. These are very important things to know before moving into a community such as this. It also makes for interesting conversation to pass the time as I am working.
This particular townhouse complex was very attractive, had an excellent location, and all units had a great view of a lake in the center of town and was in easy walking distance to the trails that surrounded that lake. But looks can be deceiving, as I found out when I asked a few pertinent questions of Mrs. Warkentine.

Apparently, there were quite a number of residents who were seriously considering selling and moving. That was difficult to understand, considering the location and beauty of the property. It seems that when neighbours are at odds with each other and there is no prospect of resolution of those difficulties, people lose hope and just want to leave. The problem was the president of the residents Strata committee. This development had no outside management, but took care of all their own affairs right on sight with an elected board. The president seemed all right, at first, but power went to his head and he was making life torture for the 30 owners in the complex.

I do not even know what the issues were and that was not the point of contention anyway. The personality clashes were the biggest problems. There was confrontation, anger, vengeance, gossip, and myriad of other sins going on in that place, all traceable to one man. The president.
As Mrs. Warkentine relates it, things came to a head one night at a council meeting that went long into the night and got very nasty. She had tried many times to reconcile, compromise, and forgive, all in the interests of keeping peace and holding on until they could vote this guy out when his term expired. She was at her wits end. After the meeting that night, with tears streaming down her face, she kneeled down at her bedside and prayed. As she tells it, “Lord, you know how we have all tried to get along with this man. You know who is right and who is wrong. You know that we are going to lose all our good people if something is not done soon. I can no longer do anything about this in my own strength, so I am giving it over to You, God. Please give a solution and give a solution soon. Please. Amen"

Apparently, she fell into a deep sleep, confident that the solution was at hand, as she is woman of strong faith. In the middle of the night, she was startled by the sounds of ambulance sirens, not in the distance as usual, but coming up the driveway which went right past her bedroom window. She arose, got partially dressed and raced to the front door to see where the vehicle would stop. It seemed to stop at the entrance to the presidents unit, but she was not able to confirm that until she actually walked to the location. There were several other neighbours gathered already and soon the stretcher was wheeled out. The body was completely covered, obviously dead. When she saw the president's wife, she knew immediately that it was the president who was indeed deceased. She was stunned as she made her way back to her home.

As she told me the story, her eyes welled with tears, and in a weak whisper, she said, "I didn't ask the Lord to kill him. I feel so guilty."

As this had only happened the previous week, her nerves were still raw and she had not fully processed what had happened. I tried to assure her that yes, her prayer was answered, but in a most unexpected way. She should not feel guilty, because if indeed it was an answer to her prayer, God made the decision to take his life, not her. She was not easily consoled.
Several years later, I returned to do some more work for her. I tentatively asked how life in the complex was. She answered with a cheery smile, "Just wonderful." She offered no details but her meaning was apparent.

I have learned from these incidents that our lives are not in our hands. Having plans and dreams are good, but does not guarantee that we will see them come to fruition. And we should be prepared for death at any time. That means that if we are to leave a positive legacy, we had better be working on it constantly or we could be snatched away in the midst of something negative, and who wants to be remembered for leaving this world when nobody liked them.

Story Time Again

After inundating you with pictures the last few days, I thought my post for today would be another of my stories from "Painting to Learn", a collection of work related experiences and the lessons I have learned from them.

Give Me a Break ( Hazards on the job)

When a painting contractor sets up his business and applies for Worker's Compensation, or disability insurance, or accident insurance, he is often surprised at the rate bracket that he finds himself in. I suppose this is due to the fact that painters are often working from ladders or scaffolding. Anytime a worker is off the ground, he is subject to gravity and not surprisingly, many painters have fallen and injured themselves.
In order to prevent climbing up and down the ladder too often, a painter will have a tool called an extension pole. This is a metal or fibreglass telescopic pole that fastens to the end of his roller cage and in effect extends his reach by as much as 20 feet. And herein lies the problem. When the front end of the pole comes down to enable the roller to be loaded in the paint tray, the back end of the pole goes up and on occasion has touched high tension power lines. The resulting electrocution tends to raise the insurance rates for all painters, not just the newly scorched one.
This is the problem with the categories that one is fitted into. There is no consideration of the fact some of us do not even have a metal extension pole. In their industry, a painter = extension pole = electrocution = high rates for all painters.
In spite of the absence of a pole, I have managed to inflict pain and injury on myself a few times over the years. However, I have never made an insurance claim.
My first painful fall actually was a painting accident before I became a painter. My father was a house builder and he asked me to paint a portion of one of his houses that was too high for him. He was afraid of heights. But so was I. It must be genetic. But I was younger, and was eager to please, so up I climbed and before I knew it, down I fell. The planking and the supports were haphazardly thrown together and someone called it a scaffold. The supports were in soft soil and the whole situation was an accident waiting to happen.
I had a good scare, and there is something about young men that prevents them from getting injured too easily. It is the opposite of what old men have that cause injuries so easily. But if I thought that fall was frightening, I had a worse one in store. Or at least a potential fall.
I was at the end of a fully extended 24 ft. aluminium extension ladder, painting the trim boards on the gable end of a house. The roof was tar and gravel so the flashing on the edge of the roof was galvanized metal. So picture a metal ladder, fully extended, leaning on a sloped metal surface, with the legs of the ladder placed in soft dirt. Now, add to the mix, a stiff breeze, and a painter reaching as far to the side as possible to prevent moving the ladder too often. I felt the ladder starting to slide and the coppery taste of adrenaline filled my mouth and throat. With a brush in one hand and a pail of paint in the other, I had no hands left with which to grab the roof line to stop the sliding. I dropped the brush and pail, reached up and away from the direction of the fall and grabbed the metal edge of the roof. The ladder was being beckoned by gravity and continued for a short while on its downward journey and it was only my right foot hooked onto one of the rungs that prevented it falling all the way to the
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ground. Now I am hanging from the edge of the roof, one leg dangling, and the other one gingerly coaxing the ladder back into an upright position. Just when I thought my arms would give out, I managed to put my weight back on the ladder and I weakly climbed down to the good solid earth.
I remember not even bothering to clean up the paint spill and the brush, but got in my vehicle and slowly drove home. I was good for nothing for the rest of the day.
I recall only one other time when I had to quit for the day because of fear and a weakness that spread through my body like a drug.
I was painting the exterior of a row house and was on a small roof which protected a bank of electrical meters. It was the power inlet for 10 housing units in a large complex of senior's housing. I had to reach around a bundle of electrical cables and I had noticed that the connections were all protected by many strands of electrical tape. I was going to stay well back in any event. There was one small area left to get at and I had to stretch and crane my shoulder and neck to reach it. I lightly brushed one of the high voltage cables and a mild buzzing and a warm numbing feeling ran through my cheek and down my neck. I dropped the paint brush because I had no control of my hand. As I did that, I automatically withdrew my face from the vicinity of the cable and the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. But my body felt weak and tired and actually I could not even climb down from the roof for about ten minutes. I checked out the cable where my cheek had touched the backside and there was some raw cable exposed where the electrical tape had come loose. Had I made full contact, I would have been one of those toasted painters, and I don't even own a metal extension pole.
The only sudden injury I ever suffered on the job happened when I was hanging wallpaper. The customer saw that she had ordered too much wallpaper and asked if I could paper the front entry closet for her. No problem. It had a built in shelf unit and was a little hard to work around. Needless to say, I could not fit my step ladder into the small space so I stood on a 5 gallon pail, which fit nicely in the doorway of the closet. The pail was on carpet, and was slightly narrower on the bottom than the top and while trying to reach the far corners of the closet ceiling, my centre of gravity positioned itself in such a way as to tilt the pail. I felt it going over so I thought,” No problem, I will just step down."
Falling to the right meant I had to step to the right and just where my foot should land, due to my speed and trajectory, was a tray of wallpaper glue. To avoid the glue tray, I positioned my foot to come a little too close to my pail and as I landed, I felt myself going over. I could not brace myself with my other foot as it would also then land in the glue. I should have opted for a sticky foot. I crashed to the floor and landed on my right shoulder and I distinctly heard a loud pop. I picked myself up, glad I did not have to clean up a glue spill and continued working, feeling quite sore in the shoulder but thinking I could work through the pain. About 20 minutes later, the
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shoulder was seized up tight and hurting worse than anything I could remember. I do not recall cleaning up or finishing the job although I must have at some time, but I do remember being off work for several weeks and for many years after, feeling the effects of a dislocated shoulder. I worked for that customer again many years later and she had no recollection of the incident. Of course, it was not her shoulder that hurt.
There are of course, many smaller and almost daily hazards on the job. For instance, when hanging wallpaper, there is always a razor sharp knife at hand. The cuts and slashes on various parts of my body are too numerous to recall. Because the knives are so sharp, I would usually not be aware of another cut until I noticed the blood, on the wallpaper, on my clothes, on the floor, or dripping off the end of my sliced finger. A first aid kit was a standard supply in my tool kit.
Another common occurrence while hanging wallpaper was electrical shock. The water in the wallpaper was an excellent conductor around switches and electrical outlets. I sometimes would feel a buzzing on the wall quite a ways away from the source of power. Cutting the paper around the switches always presented a hazard when my knife would protrude too far into the box and make contact with a hot wire. Those were good jolts and would usually knock the knife right out of my hand. Somehow, knowing it would not kill me, made it less of a threat so I would never turn the power off.
Only once did I injure someone else on the job. It was a wallpaper job and all was going well, only hours more to go and the paper would all be hung. I always wore pants with multiple pockets to hold all the tools I needed. My 4 inch broad knife was in my back pocket where I always keep it, handle down. It is the same knife I had been using for many years and the edge was worn to razor sharpness. I would hold the edge of the knife against the wallpaper in the corner where it met the ceiling or door frame and run the cutting blade down it, using it as a perfect guide. I was in a narrow hallway and I was crouched down, placing the piece of wet wallpaper against the baseboard when one of the small boys who lived in the house came running down the hall. I was blocking the way to his room and he was in a hurry to get something so he shouted "Don't move." and proceeded to jump over my hunched figure.
I thought nothing of it until I saw him crouched down in his room, seeming to be in a bit of distress. He began to moan and I asked what the trouble was. He was holding his leg and would not let go. He began to cry and I was getting very concerned as I gently pried his hands away from his knee. You can imagine my shock and amazement when the damage was revealed. His leg had been laid open just below the knee and the skin was gaping open, revealing the pure white of bone. I immediately knew how it had happened and marvelled at the fact that there was no blood. It was a clean cut and had somehow missed all the arteries. I called for his mother as I carried him to the bathroom, grabbed a clean towel and soaked it in cold water. I pressed the wet towel gently against the gash and by this time the blood was beginning to show. His mother arrived, and very calmly took a look, asked me to carry him to her van, and followed me out of the house. I held him on my lap as she drove to the hospital. She was a career emergency room nurse and her calmness reassured me greatly. By the time we arrived at the emergency ward, the towel was soaked with red. He was cared for immediately and twenty stitches later, we were back home. When we arrived back at the house, I thought of something to break the tension. I rolled up my right pant leg and showed the boy a long scar in exactly the same place his would be. He was fascinated but I assured him that his scar would not be as big and wormy as mine. His stitches were very fine and the doctor did a wonderful stitching job. When I was exactly his age, I was running through the bushes with my friends when I stumbled and fell. It was only minutes later that I realized something was amiss. My foot was squishing in my shoe and when I looked down, saw my pant leg soaked in blood. I ran home and my mother rushed me to the hospital which was directly behind our house. My cut had severed an artery and was quite serious. The doctor was not so careful about the stitches and left me with a large souvenir. I retraced my steps the next day and found the source of my cut. A jagged bottom end of a broken beer bottle.
Whenever we look at our scars, we will always think of each other.
The last injury to mention is the one that happens to all people who do repetitive work all their lives. It is called injury, but it is really wear and tear. With me and many in my profession, it is the neck and shoulders. Working with hands above the head, and face looking upwards most of the time, takes its toll over the years. The knees also are susceptible from extensive bending, squatting, and crawling. But for me it has definitely been the neck that has worn out to the greatest degree. After 25 years, I finally came to the conclusion that I could no longer paint ceilings and I began contracting them out. It has meant losing a number of jobs along the way, however. Either the customer does not want to deal with more than one painter, or the ceiling component of the price is too expensive and my services for the rest of the job are turned down. I found myself, more than once, trying to talk a customer into the fact that his ceilings were not that bad and would probably last a few more years before they needed cleaning up.
Staying away from painting ceilings still meant that I had to paint crown mouldings, trim along the ceiling, and hang wallpaper borders along the ceilings. These activities were just as hard on my neck. I tried various comforts and remedies over the years but nothing really worked. When the cartilage is gone, it is gone. I used heat, cold, vibrators, massages, ointments, liniments, stretching exercises, chiropractic treatment, ultrasound treatments, special pillows, special mattresses and recently, reflexology. When one of the chiropractors I was seeing asked me how long it would take my hand to heal if I slammed it in the car door everyday, I knew I was in this thing for the long haul.
I went to a medical supply store one day to buy a neck brace. The clerk handed me one and asked me to try it on. My purpose for buying it was to provide a support for the back of my head when I looked upward. When I put it on, I put the notch, designed for the chin, at the back of my head and found it actually quite comfortable. The clerk told me I was wearing it backwards and when I explained why I was wearing it the way I was, she broke into hysterical laughter. She had never heard of anything so funny and had to run to the back of the store to tell the manger. It was apparent she had not gotten over it when she handed me change from a $20 bill for a $12 purchase. I counted it and it came to $22! After having been laughed at in such an ego bruising way, I almost walked out of the store with my bonus. I still wear the brace the odd time in the evening and I still wear it backwards.
I have learned that our youth passes quickly and with it the strength and agility most of us are born with. We must protect our bodies, not when they begin to wear out, but before the symptoms become apparent. That means good quality kneepads, hearing protection, safety equipment, and good risk management. It is called prevention, something most of us consider important only when it is too late.

Story Time

Here is another story from my experiences as a self employed trades person, from a collection called "Painting to Learn". Mrs. Bergen passed away a few years ago, but she will always live in my memory. She had no next of kin!

TIPS, AND OTHER FOUND MONEY
Asking for money is a distasteful task at the best of times, but in effect, that is what a contractor does every time he bids on a job and endeavours to curry the favour of the customer to the point where he will be chosen above all others. Knowing how much to ask for in exchange for fulfilling the desires of the homeowner is a challenging task because the homeowner has a preconceived idea of how much either the job is worth or how much he is willing to pay for the work being done. There always seems to be a fine line between what seems right and what seems to be too much. Estimating becomes an art as it moves beyond a simple formula of so much per square foot or so much per hour. Other factors come into play and soon it becomes a matter of gut feeling more than anything else.
The variables are unending and the challenge is to ask a lot of questions before arriving at the final price. A few of the ingredients in this recipe of success or failure are, gauging the economic strata to which the customer belongs, from whom did the customer get my name, according to the general appearance of the house what are the expectations in terms of desired level of perfection, and, the personality of the customer. Again, experience is an essential ingredient for integrating the variables into a desirable outcome for both parties. It is not a matter of getting what the market will bear. There is competition to consider but most importantly, there is the magic of word of mouth advertising which is the bread and butter of a good tradesman. If it were a matter of getting as much as I possibly could, I would have had many jobs where the profit margin would have been obscene. I would have come away from a job like that much richer and the customer, in their naivety, would not have known they could have had the job done for much less money. Where it catches up to you is when word gets around to their neighbours or family members, many of whom would be more knowledgeable about such things, and it comes to light that they have been taken advantage of. Then the negative side of that word of mouth advertising kicks in and is a more potent force than the positive side.
And so it was, as I received a call from Mrs. Bergen, that everything that I ever knew or learned about estimating was about to fly out the window.
She was a plain but very pleasant lady, in her early seventies, living on her own, having recently been widowed. She had been a housekeeper for almost all her life and married late, at age 65, for the first time. She had been frugal with her earnings and knew how to save money so she always had the means in later life to do what she wanted to do. Her husband, who was a widower and a retired longshoreman, had been a wealthy person, having made some wise investments and was on a lucrative union pension in his old age. Five years of marriage was all he lasted and when he passed away, he left everything to his wife, Mrs. Bergen. Her late husband had been ill for a year or so and her house, spotless and looking immaculate to the novice, in her estimation, needed a thorough paint job to bring it back to the pre-marriage condition to which she was accustomed. She gave me the impression that although Mr. Bergen had been a fine gentleman, men in general were to be observed from a distance, and not harboured under the same roof because of their unclean habits. Having said that, she assured me that I was probably not one of them and that my wife, being young, and I being trainable, probably had already taught me proper bathroom etiquette, the kind which greatly reduced the intensity and distastefulness of the job of cleaning the bathroom. Desiring to get on her good side and therefore get the paint job, I concurred.
She told me what required painting and also how it was to be done and then made me a cup of coffee as I sat down at her kitchen table to do the figures. I was distracted because she wanted to tell me about her neighbour who had just returned from South Dakota where she had been taking care of her late brothers estate. This is what she told me.
The neighbour, Mrs. Simmons, had an elderly brother who had recently passed away and she and her brother's 2 sons went to the old homestead to clean out the house and prepare it for resale. Her brother had been a bit of a recluse after his wife had died early in their marriage, shortly after the 2 boys entered school. He farmed a piece of land that had been passed down to him from his pioneering parents and now it was going to be sold so that the sons could finalize the estate and get on with their lives. The father had ignored his sons in their growing years and they had reciprocated. Now they were going through their father's things and were finding nothing of great value. They wondered out loud how he could have lived in such squalor and what he had done with the money he had earned. There were no bank records or statements to be found. In the end, the three of them decided to burn most of the household furnishings and salvage as little as possible, as it appeared to have little or no worth.
They started a fire in the front yard and proceeded to haul old newspapers, shelving, furniture, and clothes, to the pile. An old overstuffed easy chair was tossed on the fire and when the matching sofa was hauled out to join it's mate, something curious was discovered. The fabric on the chair was burning and curling away, only to reveal a stack of dollar bills underneath, as they also began to be consumed by the flames. With a shout, one of the sons grabbed a rake and frantically pulled the burning chair away from the burn pile and snuffed the flames, almost with bare hands. As it was later revealed, the chair contained nearly $10,000.00 in varying denominations of bills. Needless to say, that incident inspired a vigorous search of the house, including the walls, floors, and ceilings. Besides more money being found in the sofa, the largest other find was in a secret safe beneath the floorboards of the pantry. There, much to everyone's delight and great surprise, were 4 old-fashioned dairy cream cans with lids sealed, revealing contents of over $85,000.00.
Now, when Mrs. Bergen excitedly related this story to me, I should have clued in as to why the story so resonated with her. But I had only met her an hour ago and little did I realize that I would get to know her much better over the next 10 years. I eventually finished working the figures into what I considered a fair estimate and presented the numbers to her. She looked right into me with a bit of a squint and I could see the wheels turning. Here it comes, I thought. A frugal old lady who wants to negotiate the price downwards. She didn't get to where she got to by being free and easy with her money. But I would stand my ground. The price is fair and I would dare any other painter to come in and do it for anything less.
And then she spoke.
"After careful consideration, I have decided that this job I want you to do is worth more than that. You can do the work if you agree to taking an extra $100.00."
I was speechless. This was new territory for me. I asked her to repeat what she had just said. She did. I stammered something about the work not being that extensive but she was adamant. I had no choice but to agree to her demands.
Over the next 10 years, we became friends and on a yearly basis she would have me in to do another bit of papering or painting, more because she was lonely than because her house needed more work. And each time we went through the same routine. I gave her a price, she negotiated me up, and then the most interesting part, she would go to her underwear drawer and from her great huge pile of bills, she would count out the cash and didn't mind a bit that I had seen it all. She would count out the money and then, rolled up as thin as pencil, she would tuck another $20 bill into my shirt pocket and tell me to take my wife out for dinner.

Life is full of surprises, mostly because life is full of people. Never put people in a box. They will surprise you. I also learned from Mrs. Bergen that some people are so lonely, they will buy a few hours of human interaction. We who are not so lonely have to realize that these people exist and we must seek them out and be there for them. This is not an isolated case for me as it relates to the loneliness of the elderly. I have come to enjoy their company and in the process it has been gratifying to know that I have fulfilled one of their most basic of needs, not painting their house, but relieving their lonely existence, if only for a little while.

Antiques and Pets

Painted Animals
I really did not want to be there. I had been watching the weather forecast for days, and finally, a perfect day was in the making. A perfect day in my books is a day which, in every way, is ideal for a game of golf. The temperature in the 17 to 22 degree range, a slight breeze from the south west, partially cloudy, in other words, a perfect day. There was a slight problem, however. I was a husband, and a father of two small children, and my sense of duty and responsibility was overwhelming my desire to play golf.
So I found myself pulling up to a beautiful old stately home on a cul-de-sac in a quiet part of town, mentally preparing myself for a day of self-sacrifice and hard work. I worked alone in those early years and because I had warned the little old lady the day before that I would be arriving in the early hours of the morning, I found myself enjoying the peace and quiet and beauty of a summer morning in June. By the time my equipment was set up and I was ready to actually do some serious painting, I realized, with the increasing temperature, that it was actually going to be a very warm day once the sun rose well above the horizon. I had enough experience to know that painting in direct sunlight on a warm day was forbidden in the painters bible. The most important verses of this bible are written on the labels of every can so I hoisted the can of exterior gloss alkyd enamel and double checked the instructions. Yes, I would have to paint on the shady side of the house all day.
Being a person who has an aversion to heat, I did not mind the prospect of working in shade all day, however, there is one problem with this strategy. One side of the house is always in direct sunlight, the south side. So, to avoid the commandment of 'no painting in direct sunlight', which is another way of saying 'do not paint on hot surfaces', I thought I would start painting on the south side of the house before the sun rose too high and heated the surface. All was going well, and a few hours later I was moving my equipment around to a shady spot, and none too soon because it was going to be a warm day. By this time, the elderly lady who lived in the house was up and around and as her routine dictated, she let her dog out for his morning stroll around the yard.
Not being a dog lover, but one who only tolerates pets, I tried to ignore the beast, and only noticed that it was a large but squat blood-hound type animal with drooling jowls and weepy eyes. Being an elderly beast and probably wracked with rheumatism, it headed straight for a sunny spot on the front lawn. I continued with my work and soon became totally oblivious to the dog and all else around me except my brush and roller.
At mid-morning, I was approached by the lady and was asked if I would like a cup of coffee. I rarely turn down an offer like that, not so much because I like coffee, but because I relish the chance to a have a break from my work and perhaps get to know the customer a bit. One of the pure joys of my work is the interaction with people. Besides, it is good business to be personable with a customer because a happy customer is always the best advertising that there is. The real bonus in this coffee break was the opportunity to see the inside of the house. It was a stately home, spacious and well laid out, but what really caught my attention was her furniture. I have seen many antiques in my day, and have never really appreciated what I called 'just old furniture'. Her antiques , on the other hand, were exquisite. She told me how many of the pieces had been brought over from Scotland and had been in the family for many generations. They were in perfect condition and in their day were undoubtedly the very best that money could buy.
Back to work, and now I was thinking of painting and thinking of antiques and who would get them when she died, because I gathered from our conversation that she had no family. The day was indeed warming up and the paint, in spite of the fact it was oil paint, was drying quickly.
That was when I first heard it! I was not at all sure what the sound was nor from where it was coming. At first I thought a child was in distress, but soon dismissed that idea when the pitch and volume exceeded that of a child. By now I could tell that the commotion was coming from the south side of the house and I quickly climbed down off my ladder and ran to that end of the house so I could peer around the corner. The sight that greeted me was both humorous and frightening.
The warmth of the sun on the front lawn was all but cancelled out by the early morning dew on the grass so the old hound had found a new place in the sun. He had gone and flopped himself down on the warm asphalt driveway on the warm side of the house but had leaned up against the fresh paint on the siding. Now, hours later, the paint had dried and he was firmly imbedded in the new paint job. Struggling to get to his feet and meeting with absolutely no success, the fear in his eyes told a pitiful story. I rushed over to console and perhaps free him, but I too met with absolutely no success. I gently tugged and pulled but only succeeded in pulling hair out by the roots and inflaming the skin around the painted area of his hide. My mind was racing. After all, this was the lady's only family and I was killing him. Who would get the antiques?
Paint thinner! The answer was paint thinner. I rushed to my truck and quickly retrieved the can of solvent and began to splash it between the house and the animal. You would think I might have known, through my own experience, that solvent on irritated skin burns unbearably. I realized too late that this was adding insult to injury but the damage had been done. The howling and yelping reached a crescendo that even an old partially deaf woman could not help but notice and no sooner had I gone into panic mode when there she was, shuffling around the corner with a look on her face that I will never forget. Who can blame her? This painter, whom she had met only recently and had just been invited into her house for a little hospitality, was standing over her dog with a jug of solvent and pouring it over him. The poor beast was struggling to get on its legs but this...this...monster was holding it down so he could continue doing his foul deed.
Needless to say, she soon correctly assessed the situation and together we began working toward a solution, having to shout at each other to be heard above the wails of the panic stricken pooch. 'Get the scissors' I intoned, and she quickly retreated into her house, returning seconds later with a large pair of pinking shears. After several minutes of snipping and cutting, the animal finally struggled to his feet and took off like a dog half his age to the confines of his doghouse on the back patio. I assured the lady her dog would be all right, and no, we should not try to remove any more paint from his coat. As it was, the black and tan colouring now had a new dimension to it both in colour and texture. The house too had a new dimension to it, at least in that one spot.
I spent the next few minutes restoring the crime site with a piece of 80 grit sandpaper and a fresh coat of paint.
There have been occasions too numerous to mention when pets have had a brush with my wet paint or should I say, have been a brush with my wet paint. Cats are particularly a problem both because of their curiosity and because of their propensity to rub up against things. Wet door frames are a particular problem because a cat or dog will never walk through the center of the doorway but always relieve their itch, or whatever they do, by rubbing their sides on the door jamb when passing through. I discover the misdeed not so often by seeing the racing stripes down the sides of the animals but more so by detecting the hair stuck to the fresh paint. These messes in my work can only be repaired many hours later, when the paint has completely dried.
For some reason, asking the customer to lock up the pet for the day does not work. 'Oh, he'll be o.k.' or 'my bubbles doesn't like to be cooped up' means that I will be chasing the fur balls away from my work all day.
The finest pure bristle paint brushes are made from natural bristles, such as pig, squirrel, and camel. It is ironic that animal hairs put it on, but we dare not get it on the animal’s hair.
In life, we often prepare meticulously for all eventualities but in the end, not all is in our control. How do we handle these minor glitches in our everyday activities? We can go with the flow or we can fret and fuss and wring our hands and let it ruin our day. Keeping a sense of humour, will, in the end, be the best course of action. Next time you have to 'get out the paint thinner' keep a smile on your face.

Another chapter from "Painting to Learn"

Here is another chapter from my collection of work life experiences. Last time, I broke it into segments, but it is a little confusing because the last post should be read first. This time, the whole story is in one post, top to bottom, as it should be. Don't be intimidated by the length, it is not that long. :-) I wrote this in 2001


Family Ties
When I became a grandfather, I began to be enveloped by a profound sense of family legacy. This was quite different from the realization of fatherhood and parenting that overwhelmed me when our first child was born. I began to think of the influence of past generations and how the traditions and behaviors of our forefathers had such a direct bearing on the shape and texture of our present generation. How did this come about and how could I influence the direction that our little family would take as a result of things that I would do as a father and now as a grandfather.
My first grandson had just been born and I was pondering these issues when I had the timely opportunity to work for an elderly couple that not only told me, but modeled to me, a very important lesson. I was not really expecting anything profound to come out of a simple two day job, redecorating a kitchen/family room with new wallpaper. The couple were the parents of a young family down the street and around the corner who had recommended me. The elderly gentleman had always done his own work but recently had to go on kidney dialysis and was not feeling up to fulfilling his wife's wishes for a new look in the kitchen.
I found them quite pleasant and down-to-earth people and knew I would enjoy my short time with them. Mid-afternoon came and there were suddenly 2 adolescent boys at the door and they just walked right in. I was a little taken by surprise until I recognized them as the 2 boys from down the street and around the corner. These were the grandsons who obviously felt comfortable enough with Grandpa and Grandma that they could just walk right in on them. They were immediately welcomed and Grandma, seeming to have sensed that they would be there exactly at that time, got out 2 large glasses of milk and a plate of home made chocolate chip cookies. I knew the boys would enjoy these because I had sampled them earlier that morning with the coffee break that was so graciously provided for me.
Working in the same room, I could not help but observe and listen to the proceedings. I was immediately impressed with the fact that these boys really cared for their grandparents and that the grandparents were very interested in all that the boys had to say. I sensed a genuine loving and caring relationship and was surprised because I had rarely seen this before in the thousands of homes I had worked in. Later, when the boys left, I couldn't help but start a conversation regarding what I just witnessed. The grandfather was quite willing to talk about it and share a few lessons with me that he had learned.
I discovered that these two boys would never go to their own home directly from school, but everyday would first go to Grandpa and Grandma's. Had they been latch-key kids, I would have understood, but their own mother was a stay at home mom and was always there for her kids. I had never sensed any strain in their household so the boys were not delaying their trip home for any ulterior motive, but simply because they loved their grandparents so much that they wanted to spend some time each day with them.
This surprised me because I had never experienced this and I always thought that the generation gap would be so great that all you could expect from a Grandparent/Grandchild relationship would be a little kindness and lots of respect. Needless to say, I asked how this precious bond had been developed over the years and told him how I was getting a fresh new start as a Grandfather and I wanted to do things right. He thought for a while and then told me how easy and how difficult it was. Knowing what to do was the easy part. Doing it was the hard part.
It started with simply being interested in everything that they do. Really listen when they talk to you. Don't judge their comments or their actions. Don't let anything distract you when you spend time with them. Tell them that you love them. Encourage them. Go to their soccer games, even in the rain. And always have cookies and milk on hand.
We have all heard that before, have we not? But I began to think about each one of those things and I now realize just how difficult each one of those points is to carry through. As my grandson grows and develops, I try to do all of those things but there are times when my own selfishness gets in the way. Yes, it is easy to say that I have more important things to do than to sit down and read a story, or play Snakes and Ladders. The work in my office beckons, but there is a little boy who wants my time and attention and if I am serious about that relationship that I coveted, then I should be able to postpone the important things in life to concentrate on the really important things in life. In my travels through people's homes over the years, I have seen every refrigerator magnet ever made and the one that comes to mind now is one I saw just very recently. It said "Never sacrifice the future on the altar of the immediate."
I must now tell a story about the opposite end of the spectrum. It is something that so impacted me that I have never forgotten it and it plays in my mind like it happened yesterday, even though it was in the early years.
Again, it was for an elderly couple and I was in their suite for a number of days. I enjoyed hearing the man's experiences and found them quite amazing because he was a WW I vet and related to me stories of the trench warfare and mustard gas and all the horrible things that I had only read about. The last day I was there, he was sitting in his easy chair, reading the newspaper and she was in the kitchen busily preparing lunch for him. The phone rang. I was right there and hearing only one side of the conversation, I could never have guessed what the call was all about.
" Oh."
Pause.
" Oh, that is very interesting. Thank-you so much for calling. Bye now."
Like me, her husband was only mildly interested, and could not guess what it was all about. So he inquired.
" It was the Florida State Highway Patrol. They called to say that our daughter was killed in a motor vehicle accident last night."
My heart skipped a beat and I froze. I turned to him to see his reaction and have never been more shocked and amazed in my whole life. He never even put his paper down or paused his scanning down the page. He said in a very calm and almost detached way," Is that right? That's very interesting."
Thinking that at any moment the reality would hit home and he would have a different reaction, I kept silent and tried to work out in my mind what I would say to them. To my utter amazement, they both just carried on with what they were doing.
I finally was able to blurt out a few words and said how sorry I was and if they wanted to be alone for a while and did they want me to pack up my tools and finish another day. At that point, he put his paper down and addressed me. He assured me it was OK to keep on working. It didn't matter that she was dead because they had not seen her in 30 years and had no intention of ever seeing her again. He simply said that there had been a falling out many years ago and there just wasn't anything there between them any longer.
I could only stand there and stare at the two of them. Never had I ever imagined that a father and daughter, or a mother and daughter could ever become so estranged as to come to something like this. I finished the job in stunned silence and at the end of the day bid my farewell and left. Stepping out into the fresh air was like waking up from a bad dream. Did I really just have that experience?
Since that time, I have come to realize that situation I have just described is not all that uncommon. I have since met many people who have not seen parents or children or siblings for most of their lives, and say that they really don't care. I don't really believe them, but I do believe that they have woven such a web of pride and unforgiveness that they do not know how to extricate themselves. What a contrast to the couple who spend quality time with their grandsons everyday.
We build or destroy relationships one comment at a time, one act at a time, one thought at time. The harvest we reap in the end, will depend entirely on the seeds that have been sown from the beginning.