Battleship Gray
Growing
up in a Pennsylvania country neighborhood,
we
grandchildren had free reign of Pappap’s house.
He’d
leave it unlocked when he was out and about
helping
one of the neighbors, hunting for deer or rabbits,
or off
to Johnstown visiting his lady friend.
There’d
be a bowl of circus peanuts on the dining room table.
Occasionally
there’d be a note to say to call all the kids
to
share a watermelon or a half gallon of sherbet.
We
often went into his workshop in the basement
to get supplies
to make things like doll furniture, games,
or
props for a play we practiced but never put on.
But all
of the privilege didn’t come without cost.
Pappap
had his grandchildren mow the lawn, dust the house
and paint
whatever needed painted battleship gray.
Battleship
gray porches, picnic tables and cupboards.
God
made some beautiful and wonderful things gray:
Grandparents’
hair.
Silver
for teapots.
A
seagulls wing.
A whale
leaping in the ocean.
Clouds preparing
for a storm.
The
moon on a dusky evening.
A
smiling dolphin, a wise elephant.
Cute koalas,
kookaburras or donkey foals.
But I
swore off battleship gray.
If you came
into my house today you’ll see blues, greens,
purples,
turquoise, creams and whites. But battleship gray?
No way!
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