Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

Take a wet car. Add some red paint and a need for flowers. Now all you need is some suspicious citizenry, and ta-da! Mass panic!

Let me begin by explaining that we are having work done to our house. You see, the builder chose to cut a few corners. For example, he decided that waterproofing the subterranean basement was entirely unnecessary. After all, the future homeowners may have such a flair for decorating that they capitalize on those seeping walls and the bumper crop of mildew sure to come. “This quaint Appalachian cabin exudes peace via its lovely indoor waterfall, nestled amid lush foliage.”

OK, so the problem wasn’t quite that bad, but we still needed to have the exterior walls excavated and waterproofed from the outside. And while our very capable contractor had forewarned me of the mess, I was nevertheless unprepared for the mountain of red clay piled next to our house when I arrived home two days ago. And as I clambered out of the car, staring open mouthed at what used to be my yard, I completely forgot to roll up the car windows.  

And later that day, as the rain poured out of the sky, I still had no thought besides, “Wow, look at all that rain on the mountain of red dirt in my yard.”

I stood staring at the car, willing the windows to be invisible instead of obviously down. Maybe those water droplets standing on the steering wheel were an optical illusion? But when I opened the door and felt the car seats, and heard an audible squelch . . . well, I knew this was no optical illusion.

“Mom! My seat is wet!”

This was from my daughter, who had climbed into the back seat. The back of her shorts was soaking wet, and the shock of coldness on her bum had brought her straight up onto her feet. Her mud-caked sneakers pressed down into the soggy grey upholstery.

“Ack! Nina! Get your shoes off the car seat!”

She obeyed immediately, which brought her wet backside splashing down into her now muddy seat.

“Yea!”  My three-year-old son, watching his sister, jumped into his own personal puddle masquerading as a car seat.

We went back inside for a change of clothes and a load of old towels to sit on. Then I took my daughter to her piano lesson and my son to his morning play date.  As I drove, I noticed a painting my son had made in Sunday School. Thank goodness it was centrally located on the back seat, near where my purse now rested. His masterpiece had been spared.

I arrived at Lowes to purchase a hanging basket of flowers for our neighbors, who have been wonderful about not only the noise of construction but also letting us park in their driveway. As I wandered through the garden department, I realized I was drawing a lot of stares. I was in old shorts and a t-shirt, but I didn’t think I looked that bad. Still, folks were keeping their distance. I tried smiling, and people averted their eyes uncomfortably. What was going on?

I shrugged as I took my flowers to the register. Then I lifted up my purse to get out my credit card.

Holy cow. What looked like blood was smeared all over my purse. I looked closer. Red poster paint. My son’s masterpiece was spared a direct hit from the rain, but all the moisture in the car had made the paint run, and when I put my purse back there, the mess got even messier. The upshot of it was that I looked like I was toting around a bag of freshly used implements of torture.

“Ha-ha,” I said, forcing a laugh to the horrified cashier. “I seem to have paint all over my bag.” Her eyes were trained on the gore of my purse. “I have children,” I added conspiratorially.

Her voice hitched as she said, “Ten dollars and fourteen cents.”

I tried again. “Really. It’s paint.” She shrank back. I followed up with, “Kids, huh?” and another “Ha-ha.”

“Cr-cr-credit or debit?” The poor girl. She was obviously wondering why the plant loving serial killer got in line at her register.

My next hour’s activities involved a lot of cleaning products. As for the girl at Lowes, I can only assume that she was too overcome to remember my license tag number. I can find no other explanation for the lack of police cars around our muddy yard.