My brother Marc and I earned gold stars over Labor Day weekend, because we went out to my mom's to scrape and paint her garage. It was a big job. It took hours. Holy crap, it was a friggin' labor camp out there! Except when Don Bain from next door brought us two cold brewskis. Well it was the Lord's Day and he was obviously loving his neighbor as he loves himself. Marc stood on a scaffold to get the high places (scary!) and I climbed up and down a step ladder. It was very warm and majorly windy. I am still finding flecks of paint in my hair. But I am no longer scraping paint in my dreams.
The door in this picture has nothing to do with my mom's garage. I just happen to like the way old wood looks when it's stripped of its paint. When you can see the grain again, see its true texture, it's as if the wood breathes a sigh of relief. Like it gets to be itself again.
Until you slap on that new coat of paint.