The Old Woman

The old woman lived alone in a shack with her cats, ’til she died.  Her critters, who knows what happened to them? For several years I drove past the dilapidated old house twice a day. In the winter, you could see a path up to the house and a car in the drive. I watched as the roof began to cave in. The windows were covered in layers of plastic. In the summer, the weeds and brush slowly consumed the yard into a wasteland of old junk and thistles.

I also passed an old man who would walk the road each morning at eight AM. Sometimes I would stop for a chat and our friendship grew into a casual trust. When I asked about the “old shack” and who lived there, I was given information about the spinster who lived alone with her cats.

“Compassion” asked me to bring her some food. I did. My wife sitting in the truck, I knocked on the door. Fearful, the old woman would not even open it a crack. With a, “have a good day,” I set the bags of groceries on the porch. I left feeling a bit discouraged. What a sad thing to slowly die alone in poverty. I noticed late that winter: no tracks to the house, no car. And a tree had fallen across the driveway. The life of the frail cat woman had ended. It was a cloudy gray day.

Several springs later,  the nosiness of my personality brought me once again down the county road past the old house. But this time I stopped to take a look around. My grandmother, back in her day, would go bottle picking early in the spring, and I was about to do the same.

It was a dump for sure. Old tin cans, junk, junk, and more junk. But as I continued to dig, I found a few treasures. Soon curiosity begged me to go look in the house. Flashlight in hand, I entered.

The spooky dark rooms gave me the creeps. The hair on the back of my neck, full alert. With each creak of the floor, I discovered the old woman’s history:  Old medical books on a shelf; dirt, grime, and cat feces; the smell of mold in the air;  critters scratching into hideaways in the walls. Upstairs, daylight beams peeked through the holes in the roof. I salvaged several things on that day: a few bottles for the sake of my Grandmother’s memory; an old enamel bedpan; and two solid, heavy, grime-covered freestanding cabinets. Jackpot!

I know, I know. Stealing is a sin. But I don’t think the old lady will haunt me from the grave. Besides, the thief hanging next to Jesus on the cross is now in heaven. I repent, but I still have the cabinets.

My favorite stands just under five feet tall and four feet wide. It’s a good 12- inches deep, with crown molding around the top. Step #1 of the restoration was a trip to my workshop. I pressure washed the piece with hot water and blew off the excess. Once it dried, I donned my respirator and started scraping off the loose layers of paint and crud. Yellow, white, turquoise, red, some were latex and others were oil. I assume some layers contained lead.

Now for the dirty part. Flip the switch of  the exhaust fan and grab the sander. 120 grit paper and soon the air is filled with paint dust and whatever else covered the beauty behind the remaining dirt. This technique  shows all the layers of the paint at the same time. It’s a one of a kind testament to someone’s historic color palette. With no more slivers and no more dirt, I took the next step. The application of sealer and clear coat, protect and preserve the masterpiece.

The death of the old woman is now restored in a piece of history that would have rotted away. It is now in my office used for a book case. Each time I look at the cabinet, I am reminded of walking up the drive with a bag of food, cats scattering in every direction, and the frailty of life she had.

RIP