Introduction

Introduction

While I was born in 1951, sometimes I feel like I was born in 1914. My father told me so many stories about growing up in Philadelphia, and occasionally even about his family, that I feel some sense of at least one person's life in those years before I was born. While my mother, of course, wanted a child, I'm not sure that my father did. I think there was a part of it all that scared him, so they waited quite a while to have me. I hope I was "a relief" to my father, and I think I worked hard to be a good son. Looking back, especially at those few older pictures I have of my father, I think the very best part of his life was the first half - back when things were simple, he had good friends, and the burdens of adulthood were not yet upon him. Looking back, I feel like the best part of my life was the first half, largely due to my parents. It was a time when life was simple, controllable, and when I was actually organized! I'm sure my father found many good things in his entire life, as do I, but I believe we had this in common - that there is nothing better than growing up in Philadelphia. So, do not find the title of my new blog in any way depressing, my friends, its just a perspective that I've found interesting to investigate.

I'll start by writing about my family. I realize we are nothing special, but as we've learned from millions of pages of memoirs written and published, there can be much to be learned from those who came before us.

As I get past some family stories, this blog may be of interest to anyone who grew up in the Delaware Valley/Philadelphia/Delaware County in the 1950's and 60's, or to anyone married/partnered to one (if you are, there is much you need to understand before the two of you can communicate!).

Please check out my book, Saturday Night at Sarah Joy's. All proceeds go to the Hurricane Sandy NJ Relief Fund. Information is available at: saturdaynightatsarahjoys.blogspot.com.

Thank you!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The Art of Housepainting


Some of my earliest memories include watching the hands of my father as he painted around the house.  Occasionally he would explain some things to me, but mostly he was happy that I was watching what he did - and I still remember all that he taught me. My father was a very good painter.  I've watched "professionals" slap paint on with a brush, and roll or spray large sections, looking completely bored through it all.  Not so with my father.  He almost always used a brush.  If he was painting the dining room, it was a good time to "get to know the walls and trim".  Every square inch was personally inspected by him, every centimeter got his attention, as he worked.  Sometimes he'd find a nail hole from a picture we used to have hanging, that he forgot about, and would take the time to fill it, before painting over it.  Maybe there was a paint chip that came off; he would sand over it so that little spot would look good again.  He taught me not to just put paint on something, but to really "work the paint in".  I've found that I go through more paint than others, and my job always last longer.  Painting wasn't a chore, it was something that he enjoyed - he took pride in his work.  Usually, he would use a round brush - not a flat brush - round.  Their official name is an oval sash brush.  These brushes held lots of paint, and were very versatile.  Of course, this was back when paint brushes were not throw-aways (and weren't made with a sponge).  After you painted, you'd get the turpentine, or the paint thinner, or maybe even some gasoline if you had nothing else, clean the brush, possibly even soak it for a few days to get most of the paint off, then wrap it in a paper towel so that it could slowly dry and be supple and soft for the next job, even if that was a few years later.  When he had really big jobs, like one summer when he was on strike from Westinghouse and got the job painting the inside of an entire elementary school (Pusey Avenue School), of course he used a roller - there was no other way to cover that much area in a reasonable amount of time.  But you'd frequently see him going over parts of the wall with a brush, once he finished with the roller, just smoothing spots out, making sure it was all up to his standards. 


Whenever I paint, it gives me a moment with my Dad again.  Light and heavy strokes, dabs, twists of the brush, I watched him work, learned his tricks, and learned how to paint just like him.  This was also a time when people didn't tape off a room before they started painting.  He didn't need tape on the trim when painting the wall, he would paint the wall without getting paint on the trim! People trivialize the process - you got a brush, you got the paint, there you go.  But there were people who painted to create something of quality, that would last, in an act that was satisfying, relaxing and enjoyable.  Quality of workmanship - sometimes it seems like a lost concept.  I never appreciated it at the time.  Kids are like that.

© 2012 John Allison
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