In another life, I studied oil painting. I miss that. I’d like to think, though it’s probably not true, that if I had the room (painting in oils takes up space, and requires that no one cares much what happens to the floor, really) I’d still be painting. Living in a series of 13 apartments over 20+ years where messing about with oil and turpentine can cost a hefty deposit one can’t afford when changing dwelling places frequently (renting a studio space has been right out budget-wise) is not conducive to being in the habit of painting in oils, and so I haven’t been.
Which is really neither here nor there, except for the occasional pang. Which this jumble of spatulas caused me to feel yesterday afternoon. Yesterday morning several volunteers and I served cake and punch, and distributed new books to the bright-eyed Kindergarteners at the school for which I coordinate a tutoring program. The Kindergarteners (all 101 of them) were transformed into 1st grade-level readers before our eyes this year, and we celebrated their Moving Up with them in the school’s cafeteria Monday morning. We brought the cake (and the spatulas, clean), cut and served it, and cleaned up after. It was a happy and chaotic celebration. And the frosting, brightly colored and pale buttercream, left the spatulas looking like something with which a painter might have mixed oils for years and years. I brought them home to clean before storing them away for next year.
Congratulations, 1st graders! Don’t forget to read this summer!