Adam and I have been painting our upstairs bathroom for the past week.

Normally it doesn’t take us a week to paint a wall and a half, plus two window wells. But we’ve been doing it bit by bit, night by night, one coat then another, some trim here, some trim there, as we have time.

We also bought some paint last week for our upstairs hallway. I guess that’s the next project once the bathroom is finally finished.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad as I’ve been painting.

As I wash the brushes in running water after each time we paint I hear dad’s voice in my head asking, ‘Is it running clear?’ (Or in other words, ‘Is the paint all out of the brush?’). It was the inevitable question he would always ask after rinsing paint brushes.

My dad was a painter. Before I was born he owned a company, Crown Painting. A short lived company, but he owned it nontheless.

I grew up painting with my dad. I remember one night as a kid when we, my dad, brothers and I, were painting a room at the rectory at the Catholic church my dad worked at. We painted and painted and when we were done, if memory serves me correct, we stopped off at White Castle afterward for a late night snack of sliders, fries and shakes.

My dad liked to finish projects…then. If he had the time he would just work until it was done (Hence the late night painting and White Castle run. He was hungry, I’m sure, and us kids didn’t mind a bedtime snack).

And he also did the big no-no of painting in the rain. Not one to waste time, he had a job to get done and get it done he did, no matter if it was rainy or sunny. He was a worker for sure.

I highly doubt he would have taken a week to paint a bathroom. But I am not my dad, and I am working slowly and enjoying it. Mostly enjoying the memories of my dad as they pop up as I’m working.

Adam and I went to my brother’s house last Saturday to hang out. Part of our painting has been high, so my arm, neck and shoulders have been super sore and tight (Yes, we do have a ladder, but I am not that tall even standing on a stepstool). At my brother’s I mentioned that we had been painting and that I was sore. My brother was like, ‘Ugh, I hate painting’.

I understand his sentiment. It is work. There’s prep work involved too…sanding, priming as needed, filling holes, taping, moving furniture, etc, before the actual painting. And generally there’s two coats involved, even if you do get the primer/paint combo, so you have to wait for the first coat to dry. It’s work.

I take after my dad in the fact that I am a painter. In the last two years I’ve painted our living room, two long shelves for our bedroom, a small bedside table, a hall table, a chair, cabinets for my creative workspace and an outside table for our back porch.

On my list to paint: Front stairwell, one room in our bedroom and back stairwell, upstairs hallway, two bookcases and quite possibly the tv/multipurpose room (This room is dark. Dark grey. I’m thinking of leaving one wall the dark grey and lightening up the other walls. I say possibly because this room is big and there’s a lot of wall space to cover. Plus my husband likes the fact that it’s dark, even though I don’t. An accent wall is a compromise).

So I take after my dad. Apparently my brother doesn’t and that’s ok. He even went so far to say that he didn’t have one single good memory of painting with my dad. Lots of memories, yes. Good ones? No.

I also understand this sentiment. My dad was a worker, as I’ve mentioned. Let’s get it done, let’s do it right, ‘Let’s all work together to get the job done’. And dad was a perfectionist. I won’t sugarcoat the fact that working for my dad was hard. I want to say that it was fun working with him (Simply because I want to honor him since he is not here), but the honest-to-goodness truth is that many times, often times, it just wasn’t. So painting with him could be difficult too. Growing up we learned how to paint and paint well, we learned how to work and work well, but being taught by a perfectionist wasn’t easy. Especially on the hearts of my siblings and I.

Contrary to my brother’s bad memories of painting with dad, I do have some good ones. There’s the White Castle one which I like because it’s just such my dad that it makes me smile. Then, many years later, when I moved into a new apartment, my dad painted my stairwell and hall. This was around the time he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s and I know he struggled to paint, but paint he did. It was his ways of showing his love to me.

In the same apartment, not long after I moved in, dad helped me paint my kitchen one Sunday afternoon, complete with painting the ceiling (Even though he didn’t want to. I did though, and I won out and for the six years I lived there I was happy I made that decision and thankful dad went along with it!). We had some good conversation as we painted. Quality, togetherness, father/daughter time that I treasure.

One evening, a few months before dad passed away, I helped him paint a room in his house. One of my brothers had just moved out and the room needed repainting, and dad needed help, so I did. He paid me (And gave me a little bonus), although he didn’t have to. Dad only wanted to do one coat. My guess is because he didn’t really want to paint it at all, he was tired, it was a lot of work, but ever my dad, it needed to be done so he did it. When we got to the inside of the closet, though, it was too much for him, and I finished it while he laid down. Painting away, seeing my dad, who had always been so strong, lying on the bed because he was worn out, I was scared. Scared that dad would leave us, worried that he wasn’t doing so good. But I pushed my fears aside and kept on painting.

A couple months later dad did pass away. I am glad that I made time that evening to have one last time painting with dad. Quality, togetherness, father/daughter time. I am very thankful for all the memories I have painting with him. Both the good and bad. As Adam and I finish painting our bathroom tonight and wash out our brushes I will hear dad’s voice in my head ask, ‘Is it running clear?’