And so it starts. Accidentally, almost.
I was contemplating buying this 24-foot aluminum darling, a 1958 Streamline. The interior had been painted several times, and in some sections all the layers of paint had loosened–including the original paint, and so I stood inside the Streamline, peeling paint off and revealing the shiny, virgin aluminum beneath. The quiet activity gave me something peacefully productive to do while I thought about my life.
It was a fine way to revel in what would be the reality of having this trailer. Standing amidst the mess that the trailer is right now, and just feeling it. Pondering what it would take to get it back into usable condition, what it would be like to spend a lot of time in it.
I peeled a lot of paint.
The floor became quite littered with hunks of the Streamline’s past−the original mint green (big in the 50s), a mundane ivory that grayed with age (and cigarette smoking?), and the most recent colors, a pair of garish blue, the same blues my mother used to paint my sister’s bedroom in 1972.
Now and again through the day I went inside the trailer and peeled more paint, thinking about what I want in my life, especially, what I want right now.
Not so much what I want in my future, but what I want, in a very immediate sense. What is soothing and sustaining me these days, what seems to suit me the best.
And not that I was ignoring “the future”, because taking on this Streamline would not be a short-term project, and would challenge my abilities and tendencies.
Later in the day, I discovered my brother inside the trailer, experimenting with paint removal chemicals and techniques. One thing led to another, and next thing I knew I was standing inside the Streamline, sipping on some iced tea, while my brother towed the trailer over closer to his pressure washer. Then, my sister and her husband stopped by to grab a couple of finish nails for something they were repairing, and suddenly there’s a “work party” in progress, experimenting with all manner of paint removal techniques and chemicals.
And there I was, in a moment much like the one at the edge of a swimming pool, when the body is bent for the dive and the weight has shifted, and there is no turning back—the plunge ensues.
And it was clear that if I didn’t quickly call “halt” and stop my family’s hands, this trailer and my plans for it would move forward with a force outside myself.
I let the work proceed.
