Sound, Rhythm, And Cadence Of A Small Town

Dip, dip, wipe, brush, brush, brush; the sound of paint being applied to a wall.  Shuffle, shuffle, tap, shuffle, shuffle, tap; the sound of an elderly man as he walks down the street.  Snap, snap, followed by the sound of wooden clothespins clicking to metal clotheslines as the weekly wash is hung out to dry..  These are the sounds and rhythm of a small town as it comes awake in the morning 

My great grandmother, Sara, lived next door when I was a child.  She was my first mentor and captivated me and my attention.  Stories of this independent, some would say headstrong, woman filled my childhood and my memories of her are still quite vivid.  A gravel driveway separated her home from mine and in that short distance I had daily contact with her as a child. A powerful presence in my first five years...

A favorite story that I was told by my parents was of the time she decided she needed to paint her house.  This happened before I was born but hearing it told I could picture it as if I had been there.

Sara began by enlisting my father to drive to the nearby city of Hannibal for paint and paint supplies.  She explained that her house needed a fresh coat of paint and she being of sound mind and strong body would do it.  Most people didn't argue with Sara when she had made her mind up.  So my dad did her bidding and returned with paint and brushes leaving them in the tool shed in her back yard.

Shortly after getting the paint Sara set out one morning to paint her one story house.  A driveway separated her house from ours, and on the other side a tall privet hedge separated her house from her neighbor, Mr. Johnson.  Now Mr. Johnson had a stroke a few years earlier and he had a difficult time speaking - except for swear words.  

So on a fine spring morning Sara set out to paint her house.  She set a ladder in place, took a bucket of paint and a paint brush and climbed up the side of her house.  It was as neighbor women, including my mom, carried their freshly done laundry to their clotheslines; flowers were in bloom, vegetable plants were growing in the many gardens, and all was right in their world.

Sara set up a cadence of dip, dip her brush in the paint can, wipe the excess on the side of the can, and brush, brush, brush her strokes along the side of her house.  Dip, dip, wipe, brush, brush, brush was her rhythm.  To this was the gentle background sounds of snap, snap, click, click, click of fresh laundry being hung out.  So the rhythm was dip, dip, wipe, brush, brush, brush - playing to the background sounds of snap, snap, click, click, click.  A peaceful reassuring sound. 
  
Mr. Johnson, Sara's next door neighbor, had finished his breakfast and donning his hat and taking his cane he set out for his morning walk.  He opened his front door and carefully stepped onto his front porch, breathing deeply in the fresh sun shine morning air.  As he crossed his porch and began his walk he set up his own rhythm of shuffle, shuffle, tap, shuffle, shuffle tap.  It blended perfectly with the sound of dip, dip, wipe, brush, brush, brush, and snap, snap, click, click, click.  The world was in harmony as Sara painted her house, the neighborhood women hung out their laundry, and Mr. Johnson began his walk.

Mr. Johnson reached the main sidewalk and turning right he began to slowly move toward Sara's house.  Shuffle, shuffle tap was now accompanied by dip, dip, wipe, brush, brush, brush.  As Mr. Johnson past the tall privet hedge along the side of his house Sara, my great grandmother, stood in his full view on a ladder slowly painting her house.  

Mr. Johnson stopped, removed his hat, wiped his brow and said in a loud, clear voice, "I'll be damned".  Now Sara was hard of hearing and could not distinguish his words as she turned to look at him. Mr. Johnson in a much louder and well articulated voice repeated, "I'll be damned".  He was not heard by Sara but all the neighbor women hanging out their laundry to dry clearly heard what he said.  Sara still could not hear his words so she put her paint brush down, cupped her hand behind her ear and said, "ehh", and Mr. Johnson repeated, I"ll be damned".

This exchange of "I'll be damned", and "ehh" continued for several minutes.  I never did learn which one gave up first, but Mr. Johnson went on with his walk and Sara continued to paint her house.  She may never have realized that he was paying her the ultimate compliment before he walked on and she returned to painting. The rhythm of that small town was interrupted for a moment, but as the day grew stronger the rhythm sound, and cadence returned; dip, dip, wipe, brush, brush, brush; snap, snap, click, click, click; shuffle shuffle, tap, shuffle shuffle, tap.  And so it is in the life of a small rural town; it is the sound, rhythm, and cadence of life living itself....