Midwest Memo
Splatter
by Alan Shultz

I'm quite fond of a certain couple, a minister and his wife. I got to know them over a real estate deal a while back. Not long ago I toured the newly remodeled edifice they now call their church home.

We walked the building together, four floors including a little nursery tucked up at the top. When we descended down to the basement level, the minister beamed as though St. Peter was going to make an unannounced appearance. Instead, it was the basement floor over which the minister could barely contain his enthusiasm.

A volunteer from the congregation was the agent of transformation for what had once been a tired, dull, red floor with wear marks and flaking paint. The new floor was a shiny gray with a whirlwind of little confetti looking pieces in a multitude of bright cheerful colors. The effect was bright and zesty, a visual without plan or order but instead, with motion and energy.

The minister told me the painting process uses a splatter technique towards the end when the confetti is applied. That's when the painter must take a leap of faith that, without plan or template, the color can be tossed and splattered about with a pleasing appearance when it comes to rest. No "do overs" are allowed here.

I like symmetry. I like matching ends and even corners and finding the center and balance. The splatter method sounded risky to me. A painter with no plan, no ruler, instead, a bucket of color tossed to the wind like me salting the sidewalk to get rid of the ice.

Yet there it was before us, splatter in the most artful presentation possible. There on the basement floor it seemed a little like one of the faithful captured a bit of the wonder of the universe. For without plan and without template, color and energy and the wonder of random had been captured for all those walking upon to enjoy.

Isn't it odd that a walk in the basement can teach hints of the wonder of creation?

Alone

Our friends, Jean and John, have a swimming pool out in their back yard. They've had this pool for almost 30 years. It has been the source of many a story. I remember many years back when they woke in the middle of the night to noises in their back yard. A harmless group of teens had found their way into the yard and they were having an impromptu swim. Imagine!

These days a sole duck has taken up residence in the pool. Jean describes how this fellow defends his turf when other ducks come to visit. He's been doing this for a couple years now.

The duck lets the owners have their time in the pool, lets them maintain it, too. He goes off in the wooded corners of the yard to keep out of their way.

I wonder about this fellow's aloneness. What makes him want this solitary existence, defending a little bit of turf intended for purposes other than him.

White bread

I have a business deal going

these days with a lady whose

last name is Whitebread- one word.

I've not asked Mrs. Whitebread the history behind her name. It's certainly one of those names easy to remember.

Other than Mrs. Whitebread, I don't run into white bread very often. We are a wheat and whole grain kind of family and the white bread doesn't make it to our table.

Recently we got the taste for barbeque and I ventured off to a place called Porky's on old Rt 12. Except for the pink pig painted on the side of the building, the folks at Porky's don't spend a lot of money on fancy. That's true on the inside, as well as the outside of the place. But they do know barbeque as the smell surrounding the building amply testifies.

My wife and I lugged two beach chairs and our two pork sandwiches down to the beach that evening. The sun was low in the sky and the clouds were mountains of fluff piled one upon the other. A prettier picture one could not imagine.

My wife laughed aloud as we unwrapped our Porky sandwiches to find them on simple white bread. Then the sun slid down into the lake and we feasted like royalty with Mother Nature at our beck and call. White bread never tasted so good.