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Blue Paint Spot

Selling my house meant that the basement would have to be cleaned. I remember thinking to myself at the time that such an accomplishment would be equivalent to Hercules cleaning the Augean Stables.

For nineteen years the basement had been the repository for a million and one items to be stored. Some of which I never looked at during those nineteen years. And then there was my tool bench. Covered with tools and bits of metal and jars full of nails and tacks and innumerable goodies that I knew I would need at some point in the future. Even if I had to view the future in the way that the universe sees progress. Then there were the treasures, memories and other “junk.”

I could put it all on one thirty yard dumpster. But I need all of it. Orr most of it. Some anyway. So I got to work packing boxes and crates and whatever I could use to hold these testaments to my past, present and future.

Sweeping the floor I noticed a spot of blue. Kind of a dark royal. It was paint. Marine paint that I had spilled while I was restoring a sailboat in the basement. I didn’t build it in there so in spite of the images that floated in my head of having to cut either the boat or the house in half to get the thing out, it fit nicely through the double door.

It was an older, classic style Moth racer. Designed for one person, it had a main and a jib and was sixteen feet long. My neighbor had recently moved from California and brought the boat with him. He hadn’t sailed it in years, and no intention of starting now. I think his wife talked him into getting rid of it. And lucky me, I got it. No cost, but I had to promise to restore it. Gladly!

The hull was intact, but had a lot of spidering cracks. The boom, tiller and part of the dagger board were teak. All in need of refinishing. The standing rigging was missing and the running rigging was rotten. It needed new pulleys. And paint.

Kind of a mess I realized when I got into it. What had I signed up for?! A deal is a seal and I knew it would be a lot of work, and fun. I rolled up my sleeves and got started.

The mast could stay outdoors, but everything else needed to come inside to be worked on. The basement. I brought in the boom, the rudder and tiller, and the dagger board. And then I set up a pair of sawhorses to rest the hull on. And then I headed to West Marine to shop for supplies. What’s on the list? Bondo, sandpaper, steel wool, metal polish, teak stain, lines for the running rigging, cable for het standing rigging, three colors of marine paint, and a special tool designed to crimp the cable to assure that it held the mast up properly. And a pirate pennant.

Six hours and three hundred dollars later I was back in the basement. Ready to restore. The teak was easy to sand down and refinish. I polished the brass bolts and wing nuts on the tiller. Stainless steel screw heads along the top of the hull were all polished up to a bright shine. And I polished up the thirty pound steel dagger board. Check. Check. Check. Now for the hull and standing rigging.

Classic car enthusiasts prefer original parts. And real metal. I was working with a fiberglass hull so I decided Bondo would be OK to fill cracks and scratches and dent and dings. It was all getting painted anyway.

Bondo. Sand. Bondo. Sand. When I was satisfied that the entire hull was as smooth as glass I was ready to paint. The hull would be royal blue. The deck a cream color. And the splash rail a bright red. And inside the cockpit I was planning on some sort of arrow design.

Since the hull was resting upright on the sawhorses I painted that first. Three coats. With a brush. And not a single brushstroke showing. Took a week.   Then I hit the splash rail with a couple of coats of red. Just a splash of color! Ha-ha.

Enlisting some help from my daughter, we very carefully flipped the hull over and set the deck side down on now padded sawhorses. No scratching!!!

And then the blue. Five coats of it. With a brush. Long strokes. And nary a brush mark. It looked brand new. Fabulous.

Flipped over again I taped of an arrow on the floor of the cockpit and painted it blue. Pointing forward. Thataway to the finish line!

It was ready to go back outside to have the mast set. New halyards port and starboard. And then a new forestay. That one had to be custom measured. Add the rudder, tiller, dagger board, and boom and viola!, we have a sailboat.

I had the sails. Once the battens were slipped into their pockets I could hoist the sails. And the pirate pennant. All in my backyard. I took lots of pictures. And then I sold it.

I had sanded, bonded, sanded more, stained and painted. And on the floor of the basement was that blob of blue paint I had spilled. It would stay there forever as a reminder to me of the sailboat I had reborn.

Of course the new owners of the house would have no idea what it was. And would probably never guess that a boat had been there. But I know. And now I’m looking for another boat to restore.

That’s part of my story. What’s yours?

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Pictures

There are a number of thoughts on the concept of time.  How does it progress?  What is the best way to measure time?  And why do we measure time at all?  On a cosmic scale, is the time we are able to comprehend, and measure, really of any significance?  Of course, we don’t typically live our lives on a cosmic scale.  We fit into all of that realm somewhere, but we live on a human scale.

I see time moving in a manner similar to a motion picture.  There are endless still shots, all strung together into a segment of time.  Perhaps just a moment, or perhaps a lifetime.  When we were kids we would make crude movies by drawing pictures on the pages of a book, each drawing just a little different from the last so that when you flipped through the pages it seemed like the image was in motion.  Capturing a moment in time may be like grabbing just one of those images.

I’ve restarted my photographic endeavors and I’m about to drive thirty miles to take a picture.  One shot.  One image of a subject that interests me.  I saw the basic image while driving down the road one day, but didn’t have the camera.  So, I have to go back.  Among photographers there are those who think that they create shots, which they indeed do by posing people and objects, and those who believe that they just capture an image that is already there for the taking.  More of an observer. I’m of the latter school of thought, just taking pictures of things that are there.  My creative skills come into play by how I analyse what I’ve captured.

My youngest child will soon be off to college and I’ve been taking pictuers of events surrounding that occassion.  Many small steps leading to a momentous event.  Life changing for all of us.  High school graduation.  College orientation.  The upcoming move-in day.  And the good byes.  It’s all unfolding in front of me and I’m trying to capture the time and events.  A young life, but filled with important milestones.  All worth saving.

That’s what I do as a personal history writer.  Instead of just photos, I use words to capture a moment.  A human moment or a cosmic moment.  Let me be your personal history writer so I can capture your moments for you to remember, and for future generations to appreciate as well.  www.personalhistorywriter.com

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