A New Coat of Paint

      It was early autumn and things had slowed down on the farm. To keep our young hands out of mischief, the boss got creative and improvised chores. On this particular morning, Tony, the owners’ son, and I were saddled with painting the loafing barn. Being an almost all metal building, the only paintable surfaces were the wooden eves projecting from under the roof about twelve feet up. Enjoying pleasant temperatures with the sun occasionally peeking through the clouds, we laid out our plan of attack: each of us would take opposite ends of one side of the barn and work toward the middle. So, with a spring in our step, we got started.

      With reckless abandon, our young arms slung paint onto the eves as our shirttails flapped in the breeze. Perched at the top of the ladders like birds on a weather vane, we gained a whole new perspective of the cattle pen. Our new outlook stimulated thoughtful conversation at first, but soon deteriorated into mindless chatter. We talked of cows, cars, classes, teachers, and probably girls. Inevitably, corny jokes emerged, making for a chirpy devil-may-care atmosphere.

      An hour later we were about twenty feet away from each other and close to finishing the first side. We moved our ladders and began our assent to the next summit. As I dipped my brush into the bucket I heard Tony laugh and call out “Shoot! I left my brush down there.” He propped his bucket between the top rung of the ladder and the roof line and began climbing down. I shouted “Wait! I’ll get it and hand it up to you.” - I needed to reposition my ladder anyway. - But my words fell on deaf ears as he continued his descent.

      I glanced over at his bucket and then down to him. As he reached the bottom rung, he bent over to grab the deserted brush. With one foot on the lowest rung and the other on the ground, I noticed his ladder wiggle slightly. But before I could utter a sound it happened.

      Haphazardly placed, his paint bucket slipped from its perch and began its short free fall toward the ground. As it came down Tony rose to a standing position and turned his gaze in my direction (apparently responding to my unconscious gasp). The now upside-down bucket landed squarely on his head! As if by design, it positioned itself snugly about his ears like a crown. It couldn’t have fit better if he’d searched every hatter’s haberdashery in the county! He stood there stunned. I was speechless.

      To my amazement, not one drop of paint was lost. But that soon changed. Reacting to the bucket’s loving embrace, he dropped the brush and, with both hands, grabbed the sides of the inverted container. I shouted “Don’t . . . !” but it was too late. In sheer panic, he launched the pail straight up and all the paint gushed out. From head to heels, he was coated!

      Disgusted, he quietly turned and sauntered off across the road in the direction of the house. I watched as he wandered out of sight, and then returned to the project. But I was perplexed. Considering the various elements of the whole incident, “How did that bucket ever fit so conveniently on his head? I mean, what are the odds?” and “What does it take to remove that enamel paint?”

      About an hour or so later I found out . . . sort of. As I finished up the last side of the barn, a humbled and slightly blanched-looking Tony wandered around the corner. What little I did wheedle out of him comprised of a can of gasoline, a scrub brush, an outdoor bath in a makeshift tub, and the consoling words of a loving mother.

      After all these years, I’ve never forgotten that look on his face with the paint bucket firmly lodged on his head. Nor have I ever mentioned the incident to him or his Dad. Still, the recollection brings an impish grin to my face like a guilty pleasure.

By Michael L. Alumbaugh © November 2016