Of Pumpkins, Paintings, and the Virgin Mary

Everything was going just fine, until I spilled pumpkins all over the sidewalk.

I’m sorry. I know I haven’t written very much lately and there are all sorts of topics much more worth your time. It’s just that,  with the stress of fixing the car and relief of getting it back, combined with the November time change and the stress of this breakneck news cycle, I’m having a bout of exhaustion and writer’s block. I’m trying to get back to writing now. I’ll be back to my usual rabble rousing about politics in just a bit. But this is all I’ve got today. I had a funny mishap and spilled pumpkins all over the sidewalk.

This happened because of my art class. Art is one of the classes I’ve been teaching elementary schoolers at the church outreach lately. Sometimes we sculpt with play clay and sometimes we make collages out of scrapbook paper, but today was a painting day. I wanted to teach them how to paint a still life.

I’d asked in the neighborhood Buy Nothing group if people could give me their old pumpkins instead of throwing them out after Halloween.

I ended up with a whole bunch, which I kept in the trunk of the car so I wouldn’t forget them for class. For several days, the pumpkins stayed in the trunk with the spare tire. Every so often I’d brake too quickly, and the pumpkins would rumble around in the trunk, and I’d worry that there was something wrong with the new engine, and then I would remember the pumpkins.

I teach art two days a week. My classroom is on the second floor of the beautiful old building, across the atrium from the sewing room. I managed to get the pumpkins all up the staircase by making several trips: two round ones a bit larger than a pie pumpkin, and one pie pumpkin that was shaped like an ellipse. A warty striped pumpkin in bright orange and deep green, with a bump on the bottom that made it hard to put on the table. An armload of small spherical pumpkins with hardly any grooves in the flesh. My last acorn squash I grew in the garden this year.  I arranged these in the middle of the art table, along with my thrift store fruit bowl that looks like real porcelain, heaped up with different colored apples. I added my dollar store glass vase and some silk flowers, and a little plastic statue of the Virgin Mary to the display.

I poured paint for eight people, but it was a sunny day outside, so only four children came to art class instead of playing with kickballs in the field. I showed the children some prints of Cezanne and Van Gogh as an example, and told them to try and paint a picture of the objects on the table. I passed out the paper and palettes, I praised and gave suggestions for half an hour. That was a perfect class. I stored the pumpkins in the corner of the room for next time.

The second day of classes was a little more hectic. I poured paint for eight people– but when I opened the door to the art room, I found a throng of sixteen children, all cooped up in the church on a rainy day when they couldn’t blow off steam by playing outside. The other volunteer assistants helped me grab extra folding chairs and pour more paint. We ended up clearing out the church’s supply of washable tempera and taking most of their disposable glasses for rinse cups, because each child was so excited at the idea of painting that they wanted to make several pictures. Some of them carefully painted one or more objects from the display in front of them. One little girl painted a single pristine red apple, with shadow and texture that did remind me of the Cezanne, and a white bar code sticker dotted on the side. Some of the children ignored the display entirely and painted rainbows and stick figures. One boy misunderstood the assignment and tried to paint ON a pumpkin. I sprinted back and forth helping out until the class was over, and then I had to collect all their paintings to lay out to dry. Some of the children asked to take an apple home as a treat, which I graciously granted. Two little boys asked to keep a small pumpkin, and they got it. I spent quite some time washing brushes in the art sink.

After that I was tired, so I tried to pack the remaining pumpkins in a cardboard box to carry to the car with me so I wouldn’t have to take so many trips. I threw the plastic statue of the Virgin Mary in there as well at the last minute. Thankfully, I didn’t add my glass vase or porcelain bowl.

I got all the way down the stairs before disaster struck.

I pushed the door open with my box, which meant that I couldn’t see my feet. I forgot about that very last half step, off the old stone threshold onto the sidewalk. My foot went down at a funny angle, twisting that ankle that always twists when I’m clumsy. I landed on my rear end. The box of pumpkins tore open as its contents went rolling out onto the ground in all directions. Later, the other volunteers  told me they heard my shriek from upstairs, but thought it was a car squealing by in all the rain, which is why they hadn’t come running.

I don’t think the nice old lady who was walking by just then understood that I was laughing instead of crying. I am so clumsy, if I didn’t laugh at my messes, I’d be crying every day.

The lady cautioned me to not get up too fast and not start worrying about the pumpkins. She rushed up to help me– when she leaned over, I saw that she was a pleasant-looking Black woman about fifteen years older than I am, in glasses and a sensible sweater. She seemed used to dealing with clumsy people. She helped me up with a strong hand.

My ankle was hurt, but not badly. I said I’d get my car and drive right up to the sidewalk to get the pumpkins. She stacked them in the box for me while I limped over to the parking lot. When I got back she’d neatly cleaned up my mess, and set the Virgin Mary on the top of the pile– a little worse for wear with a chunk missing from the plastic halo.

If I think of the Virgin Mary as a pretty young woman with a halo, I’m still terrified of her, from all the spiritual abuse. But if I think of her as a friendly older lady in a sensible sweater, with a strong hand for helping people up, we get along.

This is just to say that life is hard, but I’m getting better.

And I’ll be back to writing more often before long.