The Little Red Paint Can

I’m on the Bruce Peninsula in Ontario.  I’m here to write.  A friend has allowed me the use of her beautiful cottage overlooking Lake Huron.  I wanted a place free of the distractions of home.  Are there distractions here?  YES!  Among them are … the water, the trees, the sky, the birds and the chipmunk that arrives at the same time every evening to await his daily ration of peanuts.  I just wish he wouldn’t jump on my leg to get my attention.  Now THAT’S distracting.

Let us not forget sunset.  It’s a ‘must see’ every evening.  How many places are there in the world that one can watch a great orange ball of fire slowly sink into a vast body of water?  When Kaenoa, my seven-year-old grandson heard from his mother a few nights ago that I was watching the sunset on Lake Huron he asked, “What channel is that on?”  This would be the same grandson who asked when I was reading him a bedtime story, "Can we pause this, Gramma?  I have to go to the bathroom.  The electronic age is upon us.   

We discovered the moon does the same thing.  It also is a spectacular sight but one that takes a little more ambition to observe.  It happens in the middle of the night.  It was this insomniac’s bonus.  I awakened my husband, Michael, out of a deep sleep to see this wonder.  We crept down to the gazebo to enjoy the spectacle, but, as the timing seems to differ each night, this may remain a once-in-a-life-time event.  So glad we savoured the moment when the silvery moon turns to orange and makes a magnificent descent into the once moonlit water. 

There is another something that beckons to me.  My friend has a wonderful sense with her décor.  Her space beautifully represents places in the world she has seen.  There is a ‘paddy hat’ from her time in China, some brightly painted items from Poland and another hat that looks rather Turkish.  These special items are among a beautiful array of treasures.

 Then, I spot, atop an antique chest a tin can, the kind that once held food.  It has been painted red.  Sitting straight up out of the coloured can is the brown handle of a paint brush.  The bristle end is stuck in a solid mass of dried red paint.  It seems out of place at first but, it draws me in.  Why do I feel tears well when I look at this old can?  I have no idea where and why it evokes so much emotion.

It’s much like when I listen to Maria Callas sing La Mamma Morta.  It’s on the soundtrack from the movie Philadelphia.  Each and every time it plays I well up in tears that come from deep within.  My daughter, Emma, said to me when she witnessed this phenomenon, “But, Mum!  You don’t even know what the words are.  She’s singing in another language.”  I know!  Don’t ask me why, but it does it to me every time.

Now, I find the same thing happening with this curious little can.  I’m continually drawn to it and when I look at it, I well up with emotion.  If only it could talk, I know it has a story and I’d have some answers.  What could it be?  It doesn’t seem to fit and yet, I think, this could be the most important item in the room.  Beside the can is a picture of a white-haired man in a red, plaid jacket.  Lake Huron sparkles behind him.  This, I’m pretty certain, is my friend’s father.  He built this cottage. 

There is not a speck of red paint anywhere in Lady Slipper Cottage.  This must be from times gone by.  I want the story.  I’ll see my friend when we travel to China in November.  Can you guess what my burning questions might be about?  

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