my grandpa used to buy the discount paint. the paint the hardware store puts on clearance in a mismatched heap. discontinued or abandoned. the discards, returns, bad ideas, second thoughts. the “oops” paint. the mistakes.
as a child, i found the freshly-painted items in his basement delightful. that deep orangey-red and that shade-somewhere-between-sea-green-and-turquoise. happy bold colors. and i still think the bright electric blue he painted everything in his bedroom (walls and trim) is the only time i’ve ever seen that incredible hue. before or since.
i’d always assumed it was because he could get this paint at a cheaper price (and i suspect that is indeed true). but i recently started wondering . . . could there have possibly been something else at play? something that went beyond merely saving money?
i’ve always felt sorry for the things i’ve thrown away. i used to make my mom rip each item in two before putting it in the garbage, just so it would “have a friend.” years later, long after i’d moved out of the house, she told me — to her chagrin and with mock annoyance — that she still performed the ritual. maybe it was because i’d trained her to do so. but maybe, just maybe, she’d finally caught onto the sad plight of their eventual journey. (yes, kind of ridiculous, but i had have a vivid imagination.)
even today i find it difficult to throw anything away. if it’s a special item, like a favorite lip balm or pretty product packaging, i thank it for its service while placing it carefully in the trash. sometimes i wait until a “friend” is ready to accompany it. (i know, a bit nutty.) sometimes i save it for future repurposing. having options makes me feel better about its short lifespan. it becomes a way to acknowledge what i have, and to appreciate that just a tad more.
but now . . . now i’m wondering. did my grandpa have similar feelings? did he feel as if he was somehow saving the outcasts, the misfits? did the garish mis-tinted paint become a symbol for that which is unloved or discounted? was he projecting feelings he felt-but-never-voiced onto those cans of paint? did giving them a second chance mean something deeper to him? did it remind him to be grateful for all he had? perhaps.
then again, maybe he was just saving a few bucks.