Reminiscence of Respirators


Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

I’ve just emerged from the cavern under the shop where I’ve been working perpetually on  a project that I am terribly excited to share.

However to not jinx it before it dries to perfection, we will return to that show and tell at a later date. Knock on sanded, varnished wood.

Speaking of varnished wood. Today, while napping, my dreams took me to a time, long long ago. Twas June. A time when the hat shop was empty, and gangs of respirators ran wild over rough grained wood. A time when paint peeled from walls, and finger prints were long worn from sand paper. Part of me aches in the heart for this time so sweet, full of mineral spirits and polyurathane. A time when my ladies and friends put on their worst and worked harder than any of us had before. We were all so dirty then, caked in paint, hair standing on end encouraged by inches of saw dust. And somehow through their respirators, I could see them smiling, or grimacing but who’s to know really. Mid dream I hear the clicking of heels, slam of a door and “I’m burnin’ up burnin’ up for your love”, Olivia must have arrived at the shop and nap time forfeits to Madonna…again. Goodbye respirators…for now.

Getting ready to cook dinner and I notice that along with a few dishes our kitchen here is also stocked with some fresh veggies, salt and pepper, hot sauce and…. ALL the olive oil from the house. Well great, but however will we cook at home, if all our oil is at the shop. Then I realize…as the schedule lies, never again will we be at our home at dinner time, and never again will we cook dinner there. Home, mere blocks from the shop. Home has come to be the name of that place we arrive at around 12 am, giggling full of coffee and withering delirious humor. 12:30 to sleep, 7, 8, 9 am to rise and leave, not to return until midnight again.

…a moth has been spotted, six heels are clamoring around snapping, clapping, grasping hands. Yet his wings escape. Luckily he dive bombs right into the trash can. Moths are our worst enemy. I must go knit, weave, steam, felt a butterfly net. Mail me some cedar chips if you will.

~ Paul

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