And yet relation appears, / A small relation expanding like the shade / Of a cloud on sand, a shape on the side of a hill.
—Wallace Stevens, “Connoisseur of Chaos”
Jill Kinmont Boothe was a U.S. champion skier when she graced the cover of Sports Illustrated in 1955. The issue was still on the newsstands when she crashed during a race. A broken neck paralyzed her. She died February 9, 2012, at 75. Her life became a role model for the tenacious pursuit of altered dreams.
She learned to use her neck and shoulder muscles to write and paint, studied German and English at UCLA, and was a teacher for three decades. In 1975 she was the subject of a film, “The Other Side of the Mountain.” Everyone confronts obstacles, though most not as daunting as Boothe’s. Some, like her, overcome them. Many more do not. Those that do are a privilege to know. A crew of painters — house painters — showed me.
Courage. Not on the ski slopes. At home.
***
Home ownership is trench warfare against decay. The house always wins. After 16 years of benign neglect, ours was looking shabby. The to-do list grew longer — torn screens, cracked cement, broken appliances. Peeling gutters were the last straw. It was time to paint, patch, punch up the place.
Our experience with contractors ran the gamut from talented to terrifying. On one end were the unemployed history graduates who parlayed building skills learned from their fathers into an unexpected career. At the other end was the seemingly friendly giant who tore up our yard in a landscaping project and then disappeared. The place looked like an enormous burial ground for voracious mutant rodents for months. We figured our batting average was a little under 50 percent for good work, on time, and within budget.
***
The peeling gutters evolved into an expansive project — outside, inside, doors, trim — everything nailed down got painted. A rotating three-man, sometimes four-man crew was on site for a month. Their English language skills ranged from little to none. The company, Final Coat Painting, advertised “professional application and finishes.” The owner spent several hours studying the house. “We’ll spend the first week getting ready,” he said. “Washing, sanding, filling cracks, masking.” I interviewed four companies. He was the only one who talked as much about preparation as painting. I had learned through many failed projects and mediocre school lessons preparation makes the difference — in art, in teaching, in everything. They got the job.
Dressed in white, the men arrived on time, worked hard, treated their tools with respect, tidied up every night. They cleaned their brushes as carefully as I cleaned mine. Rooms were dismantled. Reassembled. Plastic covered everything. The place looked like a rock concert aftermath. Light fixtures drooped, furniture huddled together, windows disguised. I was fascinated.
***
Rick, the English-speaking foreman, was in his mid-20s. He was a good manager and a talented painter. Every morning he huddled with the crew like a basketball coach before a game — giving directions, solving problems, answering questions. “I didn’t really like school,” he said. “I like painting. Painting cars, actually. But houses are interesting too.” I knew public school let Rick down. He succeeded in spite of it. No excuses. Determined. Focused. He didn’t fit the “delayed adulthood” phenomenon sociologists write about. I admired him.
I sometimes ate lunch with the crew. Sitting on tall paint cans in the garage, we looked like diners in search of a table. They were people for whom daily life was an obstacle course. Loneliness. Discrimination. Language. Loss. They came from Mexico City, Guadalajara, El Salvador. Different places. Different cultures. In many ways strangers to one another.
The “fourth man,” Luis, was different. He didn’t always come, creating chaos as the others scrambled to do his work and their own. He complained — about the wife he married when she was 15, his four kids, his landlord, his welfare checks. He bragged about his flat screen TV, his pool table, his painting skill, his truck. I discovered he couldn’t read. Worse, he didn’t want to learn. His breaks were longer. His work was slower. The crew chose different music every day. He didn’t like any of it. Soon after the project ended, he was fired.
The painters sometimes paused to watch me work at my paint table. I watched them too. They were artists on a big canvas. Up and down. Back and forth. Large sweeping strokes. Small delicate ones. We encouraged each other. I asked their advice about colors — for the house, for the china projects. At the edge of poverty, they refused to give up. Despite the long hours and backbreaking work, they were cheerful — kidding each other about food, soccer, weekend plans.
***
On the Friday before Mother’s Day the crew was teasing Sal, a serious bespectacled father of two who concentrated on detail work — inside window frames, corners, hard-to-reach places. He didn’t have a gift for his wife. The others either weren’t married or had shopped.
Sal admired the painted china. He studied the plates in the wooden hutch as he gently took apart the dining room. In the middle of the long table was a three-tiered porcelain serving tray. Painted red geraniums and fan-shaped ruffled leaves wound around a gold center pole.
I paint geraniums because they remind me of Mother, who had a bank of them at the back of their Chula Vista property. She liked to sit on the patio and admire the cheerful colors in the warm southern California sun. “What a perfect gift for Sal,” I thought. Something for his wife on Mother’s Day — in memory of my own.
“Do you think your wife would like the centerpiece?” I gestured.
Eyes twinkling behind his glasses, a smile lit his face.
“Then it’s yours,” I said.
It was the crew’s final day. We didn’t speak the same language in words. We understood each other in paint. The trucks pulled away, hands waving out the windows like a parade passing. The transformed house the only clue they had been there.
***
The International Porcelain Artists and Teachers publish a magazine six times a year. Evaluating the composition of a series of projects last spring they concluded, “Conflict adds interest. Too much conflict causes chaos.”
That is as true for living as it is for painting. The conflicts that dogged the house painters’ lives could have created sullen, unproductive, despondent people. It didn’t. All but one adapted, adjusted, accepted the challenge of beginning anew.
Kinmont Boothe said in a 1967 interview, “To get mad doesn’t get you anywhere. You sort of look for what’s good that’s left.” The house painters voiced the same sentiments, in a combination of languages, gestures, and smiles.
The men are gone now. Time stole them away. Every day I see them in their finished work. I hear them. Laughing. Talking. Sizing up next steps. Moving ladders. Hanging from the chimney. Kneeling in the corners.
I miss them. I wonder if they miss me. I hope so.
