Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita):
feelin' groovy [print] (1967)

Signed: l.r.: Corita
(not assigned): Printed text reads: DO NOT ENTER / WRONG WAY / The tailspin / Going into a tailspain in those days meant curtains. No matter how hard you pulled back on the stick the nose of the plane wouldn't come up. Spinning round, headed for a target of earth, the whine of death in the wing struts, instinct made you try to pull out of it that way, by force, and for years aviators spiraled down and crashed. Who could have dreamed that the solution to this dreaded aeronautical problem was so simple? Every student flier learns this nowadays: you move the joystick in the direction of the spin and like a miracle the plane stops turning and you are in control again to pull the nose up out of the dive. In panic we want to push the stick away from the spin, wrestle the plane out of it, but the trick is, as in everything, to go with the turning willingly, rather than fight, give in, go with it, and that way come out of your tailspin whole. Edward Field / SLOW DOWN YOU MOVE TOO FAST Simon + Garfunkel

"Most good work ends with something other than a bang …"

The concrete work Whimpered when it ended. There were no ticker-tape parades, no marching bands. No heavenly hosts singing through the firmament. It was almost a non-event. Three remaining crew members worked the walls to a smooth finish. All the pomp and circumstance involved in the BIG pour was absent. I set three cold beers into the ice chest and pointed the survivors in their direction. The next thing I knew, they were pulling away from the curb. Pablo, the concrete contractor, called a while later to say he'd return the following morning to see how the last coat dried. I told him I wanted a walk-around so we could appreciate the work before I wrote him a check. There are odds and ends to finish and a more thorough cleaning of the area, but Jesse, our structural contractor hired to prop up and level the porch roof, will make his mess, and he's next on the agenda; this ending only a way station on the way toward final completion weeks or months hence.

Sports competitions materially misrepresent how contests work. In sports, much drama accompanies the final innings and the final plays. In real-life projects, the final act often gets lost in rounding. The drama, if any drama's ever involved, tends to show up when meeting some mid-stream milestone. These frequently seem so surrounded by complications that they're only minimally celebrated. The end, if, indeed, any ending ever occurs, usually happens when few are watching. They might most often be accompanied by barely audible Whimpering and be said to have been Whimpered rather than finished. Pablo promised to return to pick up the remaining pieces once the final concrete coat securely cures and Jesse's finished adding his messes to the general confusion construction projects always spawn. We have not yet decided who gets to reinstall my garden gate.

People stopped as they strolled by the place yesterday while the remaining crew completed their finishing touches. They made supportive noises, appreciating the dramatic difference the new porch pillars produced. Even without the corner posts in place, the house looks remarkably different. I'm still trying to imprint on the fact that this is our home now. It still looks a tad too mausoleum-y for me to see it as our home. It still needs considerable dressing up. The foundation's finished. Now begins the effort to construct a fresh face and personality for the place. In time, the prominent concrete work should properly become essentially invisible, displaced by clever carpentry and a long-lost symmetry. We have lived in a crooked house for over two decades, one that El Greco might have designed in his prime. It should properly take some time for us to ease into living in harmony with gravity rather than opposing it. We had been defying gravity for so long that it wasn't all that funny anymore.

In time, all this effort should properly fade into background. I warmly anticipate sitting on my front porch again, slightly hidden behind the solid piers and pillars. I will be almost invisible then, observed only by the most observant, for I will sit in the shadows and hope not to be seen. We have not built this new face to be noticed, but quite the opposite. I want no spotlights illuminating this accomplishment, but perhaps a little moonlight casting some shadows. In the real world, almost nothing ever becomes a genuine wonder of the world. Most accomplishments prove to be modest and do not spark very much celebration. Often, the gratitude comes from the simple cessation of struggle, the withdrawal of workers, and the job site closing down. The return to ordinary times needs no celebration. It's a time of answered prayers, not returning heroes. It's enough to expect not to write any more enormous checks for a while. It will be plenty to finally reclaim the driveway for our vehicles. Most good work ends with something other than a bang, Whimpered.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz