Painting the closet

It is maybe January 3rd, 1989 and the next day I will move out of my parents home and into my own apartment. I have a box of kitchenware, not exactly out of the Crate and Barrel catalog, more like from the lost and forgotten catalog. My dad tells me the closet is ready to paint. Having me paint my parents' bedroom closet has been a mild obsession with for my father over the past month. Now was the moment. I was ambivalent to the whole thing, so I just went upstairs, took his direction, and started while he left the room.

It was sometime later that I realized he wanted me to have some kind of practical adult, practical man skills. To be the kind of man he admired; one that could fix anything from a car's exhaust to the bathroom's plumbing. The greatest sin would be to pay someone to do these things. Of course, I could do none of these things. Well, I could do one. I could change a car's tire. I could repair, mount and balance it to thanks to three years smelling fumes working at a gas station. That tire change skill building had been what my dad used with two of my older brothers but he had to get creative with me; hence the closet.

My parents' closet was cleared out for the painting. I wasn't quite the natual painter. Thick in one spot, thin in another, gap here, lines there. But it was ok work in its own way, at least at first. And it wasn't exactly a show closet. My dad would come up and give me some "tips".  I think mostly about making the paint last. He wasn't a natual teacher and I wasn't a natual student. I want to say it took me four hours to finish if I finished at all. The fumes got to me and I was high, dizzy high, not high in a fun way. My mom questioning my dad on what the whole point of the painting was. What was the point? I mentioned it earlier - to be the kind of man he admired. But it was more than that. Or less than that. To be the kind of man he wasn't embarrassed by. Or, if I am being generous maybe he wanted to teach me a life lesson that many years later I would write about with admiration. Well, I'm writing about it.

Now my son, Aidan, is about to head off to college after an unplanned gap year. He is moving out of his childhood home at 19. Is there a skill I wish to impart on him? A closet to paint? A tire to change? An embarrassment to be avoided? The things I think of are more like frustrations. He doesn't clean up after himself. He doesn't manage his money. His tendency to spin a story to the edge of manipulation. So, I settle on integrity. Integrity not in the holier than thou self-impression. Integrity in the sense of being grounded, being honest with oneself and those around you. Integrity that acts as a north star; so that when he is lost, he will find his way. Integrity so that when he forms his tribe he will form it with good people; people who live with integrity themselves and share his values. All this and the ability to make his goddamn bed and sort the trash.

The day after I painted my parents' closest, I loaded my 1969 dodge dart with all my possessions including the lost and forgotten kitchenware. I drove the forty miles to my own apartment and unpacked. It didn't take long. I went to the supermarket and bought groceries for the week like a good grownup. For my celebratory first night I got a frozen pizza. Cooked it. When the timer went off, I realized I didn't have oven mitts. I managed; as will Aidan.