She really is a very nice person.
Our own town barber who plies her trade in the very shop where my father cut hair for many years, esteemed Selectwoman and serious tree lover Jodi Bauer was on the phone.
I have been expecting the call. About this time every year, she calls to ask if the missus and I and other local artists will be willing to judge a poster contest. Mattapoisett is a Tree City USA member, and one of the activities designed to encourage awareness of the environment and our precious resources is an art contest for fifth graders. We are always happy to help.
This time, the tables have been turned. The kids will still create posters, but the judges will, too, be judged by the kids. Oh boy!
When Jodi explained this new wrinkle to us over the speaker phone, a deafening silence fell on our conversation. My wife stared at me. I stared at her. Do we really want to do this? After all, we are professional artists. It’s true we’re retired, and it has been years since either of us has designed anything. I now paint portraits and she, once a graphic designer, is now a photographer. This could be embarrassing.
What if we say no, will Jodi convince her cohorts on the Select Board to instruct the Highway Department to not plow our street? Will she pressure the Assessors to raise our taxes? Did I mention she is very persuasive?
After some thought, we asked if we could think about it. Like a lightning bolt splitting a massive tree in a storm, a thunderous “No!” came crackling over the phone line. How do you say no to someone who wields a sharp pair of scissors in close proximity to my ears? The van Gogh look is not for me. So, of course, we agreed.
Now the pressure begins. What if we fail to produce something “professional” looking? What if the young saplings judging us think our work stinks? Our reputations as “real” artists are ruined.
Worse, what if my wife wins and I don’t? I’ll never hear the end of it. I can see it now, every Thanksgiving with the family gathered around the festive table, turkey sitting proud by the mashed potatoes and stuffing, as she passes the gravy, she barks how she beat me to a pulp in an art competition.
Heaven forbid, what if I win? Fifty-three years of wedded bliss down the drain. My bride remembers everything. If she tripped over a shoe I left on the floor 40 years ago, she remembers. If I left a dirty dish on the kitchen counter in 1978, she remembers. This would be hanging over my head forever.
Oh, the shame of losing. Will I have to give up painting and turn to writing full time (be careful what you wish for dear reader)? Here I sit, my hair falling out, worrying about a little poster contest, while my bride is calmly staring at her computer researching trees.
Am I overthinking this? Do you think? Get on with it, Dick!
Stay tuned for the results of this epic mind battle.
Editor’s note: Mattapoisett resident Dick Morgado is an artist and retired newspaper columnist whose musings are, after some years, back in The Wanderer under the subtitle “Thoughts on ….” Morgado’s opinions have also appeared for many years in daily newspapers around Boston.
By Dick Morgado