My brother had just begun walking. My guess is that I was 3 and he was a little tag-a-long 15 month old. It was a summer morning. My mother walked us around back to play. She went inside to rest and spend time with my sister. Quickly bored, I led my brother on a journey around the back of the building. I spied an open door to the workmans storage room. Of course, that became my destination. We went into the room and there were shelves full on assorted “stuff” and a workbench. Under the workbench, I saw a few cans of paint and a few large brushes soaking in solvent.
Eureka!!!! Now we had something to do. I had my brother lug a can full of paint and I grabbed the largest brush I could hold. Off we went to paint.
Even at 3, I had figured out it was better to work hidden than out in the open. The buildings had some crawl spaces beneath them. We crawled in, supplies in hand. Opened the can of paint and discovered it was a lovely cadmium orange color. I dipped that big old brush in the can and began to apply a nice even coat to the inside of the basement windows. One after another became an opaque orange square as we moved along.
I think it was between buildings two and three that we encountered a perplexed resident. We must have been a sight. Two little guys in white (now stained orange here and there) t-shirts, blue shorts and worn out black U.S. Keds looking for all the world to see like lost waifs. Apparently, the neighbor became a rat and summoned the maintenance man.
He was not perplexed. He was damn angry. He fumed and fussed and threatened. He stomped his feet and snatched the paintbrush from my hand and the near empty paint bucket from my brother. We could have run, but flight or fight skills had not been acquired yet. So we just stood there absorbing the chastisement.
He then marched us back home to face the familial music. My mother, Old German beer in hand, greeted us on the front steps. She told the maintenance man she would handle it and sent him on his way. It was 1949 and during the day, white women ruled the world.
Don’t recall the punishment. I do remember the absolute joy of applying pigment and changing the way light came through those windows. At 3, I had the pigment passion.