Off the Grid: The Generational Painter

As an adult spending time with our parents, we are always somehow still children. While we have often quietly (or less quietly in adolescence) revolted against this with our choice of music, piercings, partners, pants or politics, we eventually just concede.

As consolation to this lost battle for independence, we grow up to be like them. Though we seldom admit this.

I grew up with a paint brush in hand. And a draw knife, hatchet, tape measure, a wheelbarrow used to mix concrete, sealant for hearth stones, and chore lists on yellow legal pads. To this day, this is how my father designs buildings or sends me poems. It is also what I write on in my medical clinic, as if no other paper would do.

I few years ago, I was painting my new doors. I’d taped off the door knob and was happily cutting in around it with a paintbrush when my dad walked by, paused.

“You could take that doorknob off,” he said.

Being an autonomous grownup who bought her own house and would paint the door just as she darn well pleased, I replied, “This is working fine.”

Fifteen seconds later, a screwdriver tumbled past me on the floor.

“Take off the doorknob,” he said as he walked by again.

Don’t dip the brush too far. Scrape it on the can like this. Here’s how to lay drop cloths. Slow down when rolling. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Don’t set the paint right there, you’re going to trip on it! Here, let me show you. Flip over the tape cassette. (Side B: Eurythmics.)

So when this week an overwhelmed friend told me he needed to paint his nursery, I chimed in like an eager Good Samaritan and expert.

“I’ll paint it for you,” I said. “I grew up painting.”

Thanks to my parents’ choices in life, I grew up doing a lot of things. Regardless of my depth of knowledge, I at least have the misled confidence to dive into most tasks at hand and fake it until I break it.

Upon arriving with my bin of painting tools, because I will only paint with brushes I trust for straight lines, I showed them how to lay drop cloths so we wouldn’t trip on them. Then I tossed a screwdriver at him and said, “Pull those outlet covers.”

Most important, I screwed up my nose at his choice of paint colors.

“Really, eh? Olive green and sky blue? Well, I guess that’ll be kinda wild. Probably good for the kid.”

We were not but the first coat of cutting in before I demanded a latte and some Pink Floyd and I suddenly realized what had happened.

I had become my father.

Minutes later, while wondering if that meant I could now paint lines as straight as his, I stepped in a tray of paint. It had already poured all over the canvas tarp in a spreading lake of milky green that now squished up between my toes. I immediately began informing my ad hoc painting crew of the importance of work systems.

This must be done while sipping coffee in an information-authoritative stance. This is essential to manifesting respect from workers. Feet should be placed hip-width, one thumb tucked in a pocket, the other gripping a mug while the general expression should remain sage and contemplative while dispensing wisdom. If done right, there’s no difference between learning from a master like da Vinci, or a mom who just blazed out of a PTA meeting.

After several hours of training my new interns – when painting upside down, use this tool to clean paint off the trim like so, pull the tape before everything dries – they were very nearly ready to grow up themselves.

“Thank you so much for teaching us how to paint,” they said as they schemed all the new painting projects they would undertake on their own, as if color and brush-cleaning technique had liberated their lives.

And it’s true. Every time we learn a new thing, we liberate ourselves a little, which may even be more valuable than establishing perceived autonomy from our parents. It’s almost like … they knew what they were doing. I’m just thankful we learned to such a great soundtrack.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com.