Simply Mo

A fresh coat of paint transforms plain vanilla into rainbow sherbet. The color on my walls identifies the qualities and quirks of my character. If life is my stage, then the walls in my house are my set.  The change in appearance that colorful paint brings can seem an illusion and in some houses deception. The clever use of color can transport you to another place and time.

Entering the house for the first time they were met by the stale musty smells permeating their nostrils. All they could think about was the massive amount of work that lay ahead of them. As they sized up the rooms and determined the amount of natural light flowing in from the outside world, they had a vision. Nothing that a fresh coat of paint can’t fix.

Somewhere during the next few weeks, between the late nights of sanding, stripping, scraping, ripping, eating pizza, and inhaling Taco Bell they were able to see the light at the end of the split level tunnel. It was the gazillion gallons of primer that allowed them to begin creating their own stage set.

Plain vanilla was quickly becoming a dingy faded memory. The caramel toffee makes you feel like sunshine was poured out onto the hardwood floors, freeing the wood planks from under the deteriorating foam rubber and the 1960′s carpet. Ivory grape illuminates the kitchen, perhaps bringing life to it for the first time. Paired with the ebony on the cabinets this kitchen is happening! Sunburst orange captures the vibrant lifestyle of the master suite. Across the hall, happy camper green makes you want to do just that, move on in and set up camp.

Their first home was evolving from “Oh my gosh this is going to be a lot of work,” to “this feels clean, fresh, new, and most of all, complete.”  I love paint, so I was like a little kid in a candy store witnessing my nephew and his fiance’ begin their life together in their first home. The good things in life are truly worth the extra effort sometimes. Just imagine if these walls could talk!

What’s in your closet? Wait don’t answer that question. DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR! I mean don’t open that door unless you are ready! Ready for what you say? I mean ready to deal with what lies beyond that door. That’s right, what lies on the floor, is draped on the vacuum, is hanging over the extra table leaves, is cascading from the bar that is holding up the 27 coats that you never wear. Let’s see, the neon Obermeyer jacket from 1983 (“but I looked hot it in then”). Or there’s the True Grit red leather that zips diagonally that I will never wear, but needed at some brand fetish stage.

We all own our share of polar fleece vests and jackets. In New Zealand they have Swanndri and Fiordlander instead. Yes, those are hanging there also along with my husband Dean’s Outback Trading duster, which I have never seen him wear in person. There’s the hand-me-down long wool coat, that when I lived in the mountains would be a staple with the Sorels in the back of the old Land Cruiser that we used to drive. I’ve never seen people who carry provisions in the back of the car anywhere but the mountains. I used to say that my kids and I could survive a week in the car. There were three little pairs of sorels, at least six extra pairs of mittens and gloves, hats, headbands, dry socks, clean underpants, extra jackets, a box of Cherrios, granola bars, bottled water, and Fruit Leather. This stuff stayed in the Toyota Land Cruiser and there was more in the diaper bag that also went everywhere with us.

Mountain living required you to own an SUV, for getting around in the snow and to haul all the extra kid paraphernalia. Once the cell phone was invented, we no longer had to carry a week’s worth of provisions, just a day’s worth.

The above flash back is a result of opening that closet door. I meant it when I said, “do not open that door” unless you are prepared to deal with what lies on the other side. There is so much more to clutter, junk, and old coats. There is a rich tapestry of days gone by, memories of young children laughing, and faces of old friends unfolding out of the closet and behind the door. I haven’t decided to call this new found 3 foot by 4 foot space a memory box or a time capsule. Time warp may be a better term. You see it isn’t the belongings that we carry around with us when we move 5 times, but it is the people and the memories that are connected to the “stuff” that we are carring around.

I have discovered a compact pear shaped structure about the size of my fist to store these memories in. I sort of feel like Dorothy and the red shoes. I have had this little compact carrying device with me the whole time. The human heart provides the power needed for life. Some think we keep the memories in our heads not our hearts, but without the power supply of the heart the brain would be mush. Whether you have impecabley organized closets or Fibber McGee closets there is still your own tapestry woven with your memories. I think we all have a Fibber closet somewhere. It may be a shoebox way back in the shadows of the closet, a foot locker from another life, a rubbermaid under the bed, an attic filled with boxes, an old barn with trunks full of precious stuff, or that walk in room you call a closet. Just open the door with caution and an open heart, only you know what truly lies beyond that door.

Man’s feelings are always purest and most glowing in the hour of meeting and farewell. ~ Jean Paul Ritcher

Two decades and six years ago I waited 40 weeks to meet you for the first time.  You were right on time, no delays, no detours, just the pure, glowing, honest first impression.  It’s that pure glowing encounter that keeps us coming back for more. It makes us wait up all hours of the night for the back door to latch, or the proverbial text message that I am home safe and sound. I have sat up all night taking temperatures, administering meds, and just holding hands letting you know that we haven’t left your side.

This history allows me to calmly, without tears watch you maneuver through the metal detector and repack your carry on bag. You flash me that pure sincere smile as you head toward your gate. I choke back the tears taking a deep breath and before I can even start to feel sad, a total stranger walks past and says hello. I start to count the hellos and goodbyes just leaving the airport. The couple coming in as I am leaving, the man in the pickup truck next to my Element, and last but not least the lady in the parking booth. What is that song?  Oh yea, The Beatles, “You say goodbye and I say hello hello hello.” This is my first hello into the blog world.

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