A Painter's Eye and Hands

(L-R) Rose and Mischele wrap up painting Yule Love It's pavilion
Before Cheryl agreed to paint for us, she ran her hand over the walls in the bedroom. It seemed she searched for our house’s heartbeat.
           Like an artist before her easel, Cheryl studied her subject and visualized the transformation from one color to another.  
She’d seen several in our domain. Red to gold. Gold to Federation blue. Cream to earthy green.
           Twenty years ago, Cheryl rag-rolled our stairway, hallway, and master bath. I can’t believe she submitted to such tedious work to achieve the wallpaper motif I desired.
           I prefer wallpaper to paint. When our three girls were young, I pasted rolls of floral designs to their bedroom walls. For several years, our two younger daughters shared a room with their Jenny Lind twin beds and yellow wallpaper with white polka dots. The room sustained its sunny disposition no matter the girls’ or mine.
           “Mom, wallpaper’s out of style,” my youngest declared when she grew up. The last to leave the nest, she painted her bedroom red. What did I say about hue and mood?
Cheryl promptly brushed two coats of warm gold over the red to create our guest room. I papered a band of white gardenias mid-wall.
Beyond all reasonable expectations, Cheryl offered to paint the interior of the vintage Coachman camper I inherited from a hunter. Again, Cheryl touched the entire interior before her rollers and brush produced my glamper dubbed “Happy.”
Winter past, I phoned Cheryl and said I’d like to convert our main floor from earth tones to pale blue, white, and gray.
“I’m sorry. I’d love to paint for you, but I’m retired,” she said.
Desperate, we hired a recommended painter. The duo didn’t come close to Cheryl’s mastery. Would I ever find another painter with eyes and hands like hers?
Last year my husband said, “I think we should have the pavilion painted. It’s looking rough.”
The project manager of household improvements, I didn’t fancy tracking down another Cheryl. But the bee buzzed in my bonnet.
One unsuspecting Sunday morning after church, Mischele, a licensed builder, engaged in conversation with my friend Patty and me.
“Do you paint pavilions?” I asked.
“I paint everything. That’s how I started my business,”Mischele replied.
“Do you have a business card?” Patty and I asked in unison.
Enthused, I passed the good news to my husband.
What a glad day when 1 Construction Gal parked her red truck in our driveway where I met her assistant Rose. Until rained out, they touched the cedar, talked and laughed while they set up scaffolding, repaired woodpecker holes, and rolled and rolled white paint.
Mischele, Iris, and Rose celebrate the painted pavilion

Congenial to completion, Mischele and Rose returned blooming window boxes to the pavilion’s west wall and the last of seven white trellises to a post.
           Her wedding ring and clothes splattered with paint, Mischele turned to the pavilion and asked, “What do you think?”
           “I think I’m going to miss you two. But we do have two bathrooms that sorely need your expert eye and hands.”
           “Oh!” replied Mischele, “that’s our specialty!”