I have probably forgotten more than the average person will ever have the chance to know about painting.
These thoughts came to me just a couple of yesterdays ago when I found myself removing the lid of a paint can, in readiness of painting a bunch of bedraggled, collapsible bird cages that needed to be brightened up just a little.
I was actually getting some of my show bantams ready for showing at one of the local fall fairs and, wanting to get them less stressed to the style of show cage that they will be displayed in at the fairgrounds, I decided to brighten up the bruised, battered, but of the same style, old rusting wire cages that I had salvaged from somewhere, someplace, sometime. I would place them in these cages for a couple of days just prior to showing.
The moment I picked up the flat-ended screwdriver to pry the lid off the can, memories of years long bygone came tumbling back into my mind. I was in commercial real estate at the time and found myself in the position of managing not many numbers short of a thousand low-rental apartments.
Because of continued multiple maintenance, I found myself within the grasping position of taking over a young upstart cleaning company that had just gone bankrupt. Which I did.
The package contained a new LTD Ford station wagon, which amply fit my butt, a Ford panel truck for maintenance equipment, a small amount of equipment, some office furniture, one secretary/receptionist capable of bookkeeping and two anxious painters.
The older of the two had stood behind a paint store counter, consuming much of the third decade. There was little that he didn’t know about paint. He had learned much from listening to the mistakes of others but had eventually tired of standing behind the counter.
When I asked them what their expectations were, they suggested that top painters, at the time, got $3 per hour. Their lower jaws obviously dropped considerably when I suggested that I had no intention of paying $3, but they snapped in unison back into place with a broad accompanying grin when I told them that I would sign cheques for $4 an hour.
Then I added, “With flexible hours, you are your own boss, sink or swim, take it or leave it.” They, all three, Norm, John and, last but not least, Paula, swam with me for seven years hand-running thereafter.
I was in the mindset at the time of not asking anyone to do what I myself would not, and being in a university town, it was not unusual to find a tenant move out on a Saturday morning and a new tenant clamouring to move in the following Sunday afternoon. Economics at that time dictated that they not be kept waiting, so it was not unusual for me to help them as they quickly cleaned and repainted an apartment, weekend or not.
It was during times such as this that I was soon to learn the drips and dribbles of a can of paint, a roll of tape, a brush and a roller.
Subtle suggestions, gentle chides, and outright laughter at some of my mistakes gave me a high-priced, no- cost education of the painting industry that was second to none.
I often thank the Whomever up above for the seven years that we enjoyed working together.
And yes, it’s true, I’ve probably forgotten more than you’ll ever know about painting.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105