Squash and Spray Paint /

Ahhh, the rattle of a brand new can of spray paint.  Like the chirping of mating birds in the spring, that sound holds the promise that the world is waking up, that I’m about to color my world with the push of a tiny button.    

No surface is safe.  No rusted lawn furniture, no cracked ceramic pot, no faded fence post.  Definitely no colorless knick-knacks, bric-a-bracs, whatnots, doodads or thingamajigs.    

With names like red pepper gloss, fairytale pink, expresso, and twilight at my disposal, how can I resist my natural urge to brighten things up quick and easy? 

I’d like to think I inherited my deftness with a spray paint can from my dad.  Daddy shook the can until the ball stopped rattling; the sign the paint was sufficiently mixed, before he ever thought about pushing the button. Seemed like that shaking lasted a long time when I was a kid watching him paint his lunchbox.   I’d be lying if I told you I had as much patience. 

This spring, I elevated my spray painting to a new level.  I decided to paint the badly sun-faded roof of my car.  It wasn’t an easy decision. I’d already checked out an array of body shops in town—from the “econo” shops to the places with Jaguars and Mercedes in their bays.  I mean there had to be some reason the body shops wanted to charge hundreds and hundreds of dollars for just some spray paint. 

Sure, I know the shops have a more efficient way of applying eight thousand coats, something called a “spray gun”, but the result is still the same, right?  I couldn’t justify the cost no matter how hard I tried.

So one evening when there was nothing good on TV, I just did it. Under cover of darkness, in the garage, with the door pulled down tight.   At least until I was nearly overcome with fumes.  

First, I coated the roof with dark gray primer.  Then for four nights, I rattled the ball and did my best to evenly apply thin coats of fresh paint to the roof of my car.  Back and forth and forth and back about oh, eight thousand times.  With every layer, I expected to see the new car red I was hoping for.  I settled for “ a lot better than it was”.

I mean “hand-painted” has a purer ring to it, don’t you think?  Maybe I’m a redneck, or a tightwad, or just practical. 

Hey, at least I didn’t paint it in the parking lot of the auto parts store.  Not this time anyway. 

Instant gratification.  Unlike what I do with conjuring up words to fill my blank computer screen, where the gratification is slow, painful and sometimes doesn’t come at all, the expulsion of paint from a can never disappoints.

And then there’s squash. No, not the game played with rackets and a small ball in an enclosed court. But the vegetable gourd squash.  Yellow crookneck, yellow straight neck, butter blossom, butternut acorn.  I got dizzy from spinning the seed carousel at Big Lots, trying to decide, not really knowing why I choose one over the other.   I found the perfect sunny spot for a couple of rows.  The dirt looked dark and rich, but then I’ve not seen much dirt I didn’t like. 

Tiny green sprouts are peaking out as I write these words.  Every evening I go out and see how much they’ve grown.  I’m already worrying about my little sprouts, hoping a big rain won’t come and wash them away before their roots grow long enough to anchor them to the ground. 

And I’m already thinking about the joy of slicing a freshly plucked shiny yellow squash with a long sharp knife.  It’s not unlike the joy of that first press of the button on a full can of “Emerald Isle” green. 

©2005