My daddy donned his one pair of overalls -they'd seen far better days but were perfect for the work to be done - a pair of ragged canvas shoes and hitched his way through the still damp grass to the side yard. He carried a paint brush in one hand, a can of Minwax whitewash in the other and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. He stopped whistling long enough to ask me if I wanted to help and I happily trailed after him, overjoyed at the prospect of being part of such a grown up chore.
Nana had thoroughly swept the steps free of dirt and spider webs and bits of overgrown grass and they were what my daddy called "prepped". I held the can of Minwax white stain with both hands while he dipped the brush, scraped off the excess and began applying the paint in short, even strokes. The splintery old wood seemed to inhale the white wash and I imagined I could hear it whispering "Thank you!" with every coat. It wasn't long before the whole porch was freshly wet and shining. The factory whistle blew promptly at noon and although my daddy wasn't as well known as the rest of the family - we arrived in late May and stayed almost to Labor Day while he was only there for one brief week each summer - each and every factory worker and fisherman waved or called to him as they passed.
Who is that? he would ask innocently as they trudged by and although I suspected he already knew, I would tell him their names and where they lived and he would nod and smile.
Nana brought us fish chowder and lobster salad for lunch - dinner, as it was called on the island, she reminded us - and we ate in the warm sunlight, washing it down with frosty bottles of pop. Daddy lit a Lucky Strike and leaned contentedly back against the flagpole with both dogs nuzzling comfortable at his side. Nana brought me a plastic pail and sent me to pick blackberries for supper, then pronounced the whitewash well done and gave me a shiny new quarter. My daddy laughed and not to be outdone, handed me a fifty cent piece and gave me a kiss on the forehead.
You can help me paint anytime, he said with a grin and a quick glance at his watch, Now let's clean up and go get ice cream.
We walked the quarter mile to Mr. Thibodeau's tiny little store, in truth, it was just a mud room he'd built on and never used so one summer, just to have something to do, he'd added a few shelves and a rough hewn counter and called it good. You couldn't buy much - cigarettes and snuff, little tins of aspirin, Jersey Milk chocolate bars, bobby pins and pop - but he did sell ginger ice cream and if he was having a good day, an island kid could get two scoops (and a wink) for the price of one. That day was a good day and my daddy and I both walked back home with double scoops.
When you're six and it's summer, some days are just like extra ice cream.
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