I began the tedious job of painting the boys bedroom and bathroom this week.
Hiring a painter would have been a much easier route to the finish line; however, with two estimates over $600, Don and I determined we could spend that amount of money elsewhere and paint the room ourselves.
Drywall repair and spackling over nail holes came first. Albeit an arduous task, and one that I really didn't feel like doing, something unexpected happened.
Every hole, smudge, scratch or scrape in the drywall, issued a memory. Every tug on a nail, each piece of drywall crumble and every thumbtack to remove evoked feelings from the past and images indelibly printed in my mind.
This room has gone through some different decor styles and various kids but primarily it was Baker and Brennan's room -- through the years they shared it or claimed it as their own.
To say there is a lot of history in that room, would be unjust...
These are the kinds of walls that speak...
A lemon-sized hole behind the bedroom door is a reminder of how many times it was flung open until the door stopper popped off, exposed the wall to danger, until finally, it was thrust hard enough that the knob found is new resting place in the feta-like, crumbly drywall behind the door.
So many, many, many thumbtack holes...reminders of the throwback record albums Baker had used to decorate the wall... From ceiling to floor, he had covered almost every inch of his room with original records tucked in sleeves and pinned to the wall with just enough room to pull the album out and pop it on his record player. In my mind's echo I could hear the scratchy sound of the turntable spinning, and the throwback sound of music across the decades.
Across the room was a notch in the wall where we proudly hung our elementary-school-auction-won prize... a watercolor of Muhammad Ali, hands raised above his head...champion. Baker loved it.
Scanning the room, grey drywall anchors hung loosely, threads exposed, in spots where once shelves and a coat rack were fastened. Each dusty puncture a reminder that finding a stud in the wall is always the better options. Drywall screws aren't ever what they're chalked up to be...no match to wrestling, yelling, running, bed-bouncing, jumping and slam dunking boys.
Scrapes, scratches and dents marked every area where bunk beds had been moved, pressed a little too close to the wall, scooted from one end of the room to the other. Each mar a lasting reminder of where the beds had been, whether they were bunked or "debunked." Fingerprint smudges defining years of dirty hands drug down the length of walls... who needs a hand towel anyway?
An early painting of the Titans stadium, a personalized gift from Gramma Dee, hung triumphantly on the wall with evidence of Baker sitting in the stands, name on the back of his jersey.
Abbey Road had its own space of significance, painted particle board framed in black... Paul, Ringo, John and George eternally crossing the street...memorialized in more ways than one could count.
With every recollection, memory, each stroke of the paintbrush or swipe of the spackling knife, I remembered, reminisced... I felt, again, the love of a young mother for her little
boys.
The truth of what matters most washed over me even as I, ironically, cleaned, covered and mended visible evidence of the past.
Painting the room was still a chore, hard, but walk down memory lane was unexpected, joyful.
Each and every nick, crack, hole and scrape matter. Those dings and dents mattered differently those many years ago.... they were frustrating to a mom of 4 little ones trying too hard to keep things neat, presentable, clean...forgetting that houses are for living life and sparkling clean impressions were for magazines.
However, keeping those tender, wounded walls vulnerable and in plain site for almost 2 decades spoke to me and offered me time for mending.
As I patched and cleaned, I took a step back in time and remember my little boys who dirtied walls, left toothpaste globs in the sink and clothes on the floor... these little boys who are now men living and working in Brooklyn, taking care of themselves, cleaning their own rooms, washing their own clothes... but most of all two gentlemen who are kind, loving and compassionate and love their mama.