Teresa Frisch, RN, Reiki Master / Teacher 3.31.09

Revised tlf 5.29.09
My 1940 Cape Cod still has the original pair of matching bow windows, complete with tin awnings facing the street in front of the house. One on each side of the door, they are the focal point of the house and create that first ambient, cottage-like impression so classically characteristic of Cape Cods. Ten feet across and forty panes each, I loved those windows but I wasn’t looking forward to being perched on a ladder for the hours that I anticipated that it would take to repaint them.

Showcasing the front of the house, they were works of art. The architect had specifically built the 3D effect with trim that pulled the eye into their design, and it was that offset trim that begged to be defined with subtle shades of color. I couldn’t just paint them white. Those windows had personality and I wasn’t going to be able to rest until I did right by them and the person who designed them.

The house also faces west and there is no shade on the south half of the house or lawn. The summer sun was brutal and it rapidly became apparent that I needed to strategize. Divided in half, the south side of house, that window and portion of the lawn was completely exposed to the elements. The north half had the benefit of a shade tree. Dew clung to those eighty panes until the sun made it over the roof at noon, but once it did and they were dry, they were too hot to touch. I learned the hard way that the only good time for painting was late afternoon bordering on evening. Before five the paint didn’t just dry, it sizzled. After seven, the shaded north window began collecting evening dew and tiny winged creatures would come calling.

Gradually, The Plan evolved: every evening, five o’clock sharp, start on the north window, move to the south window, avoid the heat, beat the dew, dodge the gnats, and maximize the fading light. It was an experience and the neighborhood began to watch the saga. Some folks became my cheerleaders.

My front lawn is barely larger than a postage stamp. When I started, the turf was green and thick and luxurious but then August arrived in all its glory. It wasn’t long until my lawn turned brown and crispy and desperately needed rain. I wished that it would but I didn’t want the windows to get wet. If I watered it then I risked watering the new paint. Worried, I kept painting. The sooner I finished the better.

Then one week a curious thing happened. Not once, but twice. Six o’clock and halfway through my allotted paint time, distant rumbles of thunder behind me threatened to ruin The Plan. Looking up and west, huge dark clouds were rising over the rooftops on the opposite side of the street. Minutes passed while ominous warnings filled my ears and the air turned palpable. My two inch paintbrush and I pushed our luck, gambling that the paint would dry on the still-warm wood. Dragging the ladder and juggling the pail and brush, I escaped into the house just ahead of the rain.

The thunderheads were moving directly over my house, west to east. I watched in stunned amazement as a deluge of quarter-sized drops splashed straight down. The sun shone as splatters gave way to mist and mist rose into steam. First the street, then the sidewalk, then the lawn and in two minutes it was over. The steamy asphalt and grass were glaring proof that neither of my neighbors got one drop of that liquid sunshine, but my crispy lawn did.

I wish now that I would have grabbed a camera but instead I grabbed a roll of paper towels. Back out I went, preparing to wick any moisture away from the new paint. Blinking against the glare bouncing back at me, I stared. One drop. Eighty panes and only one drop hit a newly painted surface.

The possibility of quantum entanglement doesn’t sound so far-fetched to me.