It has been a while since my last post, but the project is proceeding. However, it is difficult to demonstrate. Let me explain: the external presentation of our bodies is pretty much just skin and hair. But beneath this externality is a bunch of stuff. Organs like the heart and lungs and pancreas and spleen, all on 24/7 duty, fill the abdominal cavity. The brain and tongue and epiglottis and eyeballs are crammed into our head. Our limbs are loaded with muscles and ligaments and bones and tendons and arteries. And so it is with the wranch house. Not much change on the outside, but a whole lot going on inside!
We were challenged by the white oak cabinets in the kitchen and living area. We wanted to keep a natural look but stains and washes and bleaches left the wood too shiny or yellow or whitewashed. At our milliner’s suggestion, we visited Kasey near Waco. He is a master painter. He is the guy you call if you just spent five million dollars on a house and you want it painted to look exactly like that picture in Architectural Digest. We told Kasey our challenge. He brought out a five gallon bucket of clear fluid and poured a pickle jar half full. Then he took a paint mixing stick and started swirling it in a can of white primer. He mixed and stirred and told stories about staining ornate antique furniture from Japan, the picky old woman who could not be pleased and other stories. Then he pulled the stick out of the paint can, scraped off most of the excess paint, and stirred what was left into the pickle jar. Then he realized he had the wrong 5 gallon bucket. He got another bucket and another pickle jar and started stirring and telling stories again. Paula scratched out her notes and started over.
Long story short: He delivered exactly what Paula was looking for! We had Angel (pictured above) with us and he nodded approvingly. He gave me the look: Yeah, I can do that. The process will be a work of art, not craftsmanship. Each surface will be like an original painting. Luckily, most of our cabinets are paint-grade!
When I was about 10 years old, living in the northern part of Peru, I ran away from home. At least, that is what it seemed like to my parents and all the people in the search party. Actually, I was on my way to Lima to help the poor people. I had carefully packed my microscope, my most prized possession, which would certainly come in handy. I don’t recall what else I packed, but there must have been a change of clothes and maybe a snack. I might have overlooked taking a sleeping bag. I persuaded my friend Doug Varland to come with me. I would need help taking care of all the poor in Lima. And I could be wrong, but I don’t think Doug packed anything he could not stuff into his pockets. We hiked from where we lived down the steep hillside to the beach and proceeded south along the Pacific Ocean, negotiating the occasional rocky outcrops that jutted into the waves.
After four or five hours of hiking, I remember the sun starting to get quite low on the horizon. That was about the time Doug started hearing the wolves.
As I began searching for a place to stop for the night, hopefully well protected from the wolves, I thought I heard someone call my name. And sure enough, just as the sun began its dip behind the ocean, a fellow who worked with my Dad came up to me and told us to follow him. What he believed was a rescue was actually an interruption of my journey. Yet, in some mysterious way, I was not too upset.
Later, at home again, my father blamed himself for my escapade. I was running away from him, he told my mother. I could not explain to him that there was certainly no way it was his fault. It was just that the poor people needed help and I felt obliged to go. I did not have the vocabulary to explain that I was following an inner impulse, without fear or questioning. Even now, I have a hard time understanding what drove my ten year old self to leave home. But that longing to help those less fortunate still stirs somewhere inside of me.
JP Ranch 