Our moonlighting house painter was exhausted by the time he finished squeezing the work he did for us into his dwindling free time. It took him three months while he dovetailed painting our house with the increasing demands of his primary job and dodged inconveniently timed rainstorms.
But in the end, he left behind this unsightly pile of used paint buckets grumpily grumbling to my husband, “If you make me take these, I’ll have to charge you for the dump fee.” I was not happy when I discovered this mess and the story of his parting words.
But irritated as we were, we quickly figured out that we could add those buckets to a stash of broken useless stuff we’d been assembling for our own trip to the dump — one of the two free loads we get to discard each year.
And tonight. Tonight, given the appalling triumph of institutionalized mean-spiritedness against the weakest among us we have just witnessed, I must start building the counter-revolution by forgiving our house painter.
In the end no harm was done, buddy. You are a really good painter and our house looks wonderful.