Wall Painting and the Great Sugar Dive

Some people are born with innate talents that no amount of parental guidance can eradicate. Muralists are one such breed. I have no doubt muralists have been driving their parents crazy since the onset of civilization. It’s easy for me to picture an ancient hominid family gathering their paltry belongings in a desperate attempt to flee their cave before rising flood waters drown them. Papa is already out the door, searching for high ground. Aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews are hard on his heel. Meanwhile, at the back of the cave is Mamma Lucy, tugging on her child’s leather wrappings while the artist of the clan grunts “I’m not finished!” and then chisels the last three legs of the pictogram that my sister will pay $3,300 to see some 33,000 years later. Why is this image so fresh in my mind? Because I gave birth to one such cave painter. Possibly two. I should have recognized the signs when my Darling Daughter used her marking pens to completely cover the roof and sides of her doll houses with hieroglyphics. However, since I covered my own baby doll heads in much the same way, I thought she just liked to fill in the gaps. Then she began practicing on her bedroom walls. This resulted in some disciplinary action and tears of resentment. Foolish me, I thought she’d learned her lesson, but no. We entered an era of draw, be discovered, get scolded, watch artwork disappear under a cover of wall paint, and repeat. This went on until she decided to give up (temporarily) on her own walls and start tackling her Aunt’s. I think she was maybe three years old by this time. Now, before we go any farther, I should point out that she actually did earn money in later years to paint all sorts of pictures on outside walls. She can honestly add “Muralist” to her resume of talents. Here’s her formula for training: First, as mentioned, cover every toy with crayon and marker pen drawings. Next, segue to bedroom walls, a habit that was discouraged at home. Step three is to grab cousin’s crayon box and when Auntie isn’t looking, create a four-foot tall mural in Auntie and Uncle’s hallway. Auntie was no more pleased than was mother. Darling Daughter received a firmly delivered reprimand and promised she would never repeat this travesty. Aunty and Uncle bought paint, eradicated the mural, and thought it was a lesson learned. Silly people. The next time she was left with Aunty while Mommy was off at school, Daughter’s mind went blank and forgot all about the previous conversation and decided the hallway needed another mural. Aunty was stunned. How could this possibly happen yet again after making the error of her ways so clear to her younger niece the muralist? (Older niece the muralist was living elsewhere, painting other people’s walls.) She snatched the painting tools from her niece’s hands, gave her a good scolding, and went off somewhere busying herself until Mommy showed up to get an earful. I haven’t mentioned that Aunty had two sons, have I, and one of them was just slightly older than Darling Daughter? The older son and Mommy’s artist were inseparable except for the times when he got busy with thinking and she went in search of a crayon. On this day of mural number two, Mommy arrived on time and was escorted to the hallway to view the latest objet d’art. Then the two ladies went in search of their Darlings, who happened to be playing in the boys’ bedroom. It was a charming bedroom and the best part was the brand new royal blue circular shag rug, a cherished and hard won piece of decor that had cost Aunty and Uncle every spare nickel and dime they could scrape together from their family allowance. The rug brightened the space and picked up the colors of the bedspreads. Blue, you know, because, you know, boys. We took one look inside and then I, Mommy, turned and fled the house to keep Aunty from hearing my uncontrollable gales of laughter and thereby save myself from being flogged to death. Meanwhile, Aunty stood rooted in time and space, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. Since wall painting was out, and Darling Son was bored with thinking, the two of them had gone to the kitchen pantry and pulled out two boxes of powdered sugar. They then emptied both boxes onto the blue shag rug, creating a perfect volcanic-shaped cone of softness. They’d been taking turns leaping off the bed and into the mound of sugary puff. At the moment we hove into view, Darling Son was poised atop his bed, ready to take the next leap while Darling Daughter sat in the middle of the volcano with her back to us, flinging handfuls of powdered sugar into the air in blissful glee. You can see where I’d have lost it, can’t you? I was thinking I’d never seen anything funnier while Aunty was thinking she’d never get her new rug clean and also maybe about how to get away with murder. I guess she made an impression on Darling Daughter because we think that was the last time she painted Aunty’s walls without permission. She returned home, waited until we moved to a new house, and began covering every inch of her new bedroom walls with 1970’s Op Art and hippy flowers. Also, she painted poems on all the door frames. By this time, Mommy was all worn out trying to suppress the burgeoning artist. She gave up and tried to think positively. After all, what difference did it really make whether the art was inside the frame or spilling onto the molding? As long as the ceiling remained untouched, everyone got along fine. At some point, Darling Daughter left home and my husband and I moved into her room after first hiring painters who were expert at covering wall art. Whatever traces of the Mod Squad poetry seeping through the door frames’ paint were permanently removed years later by Mommy’s own hands. Even later, another Aunty hired Darling Daughter to paint murals all over her backyard concrete walls. I think one or two segments remain to this day. And what about Mommy’s Darling Boy? I remember the shock of seeing indelible marker pen marks on his wall when he turned about ten. I chastised him and complained in incensed tones to his stepfather. “Darling Boy just drew comic book characters on his walls!” Stepfather surprised us all by shrugging and replying, “Why shouldn’t he? You let Darling Daughter paint on her walls.” Refusing to be defeated, I rounded upon Darling Boy and said, “Well, you’re going to have to wait until you turn twelve, because that’s how old she was when she painted her room!” Maybe he obeyed me; probably not; I can’t remember. All I recall is he got bored with markers and used spray cans instead. Spray cans of black paint. And he didn’t ignore the ceiling. He lived in a graffiti-lined dungeon until the Army took him, G-d bless them. Apparently, we’ve come a long way in dealing with vandalism involving cans of spray paint. The professionals who took a look at his room said, “No problem. We have special products to deal with this.” Take care of it they did. I’m sitting in that very room today. It was the first room Darling Daughter and I painted after hubby left for the green hills of East Texas. It’s a lovely shade of…what?…Beige? Off white? Light Brown? Ask her. She will remember. Now she has a new home to paint, only at this point in time there’s a crick in her neck that discourages long hours with a roller brush, so she pays other people to color her walls. She’s very particular though. There can’t be any smudges or irregular lines. Lord help the visiting next generation of Darlings who are incipient muralists. If that happens, I don’t want to be there. I’d have to run out the door to hide my gales of laughter to avoid being flogged.