Unfinished

When I entered high school my father bought me an unfinished desk.

"Paint or stain?" he asked.

Paint or stain—my mother reminded my father to put down layers of newspapers under the desk. Even contemplating this activity in a three room Bronx apartment required a logistic plan.

"No fumes in the kitchen and please don't paint it in the living room."

My parents slept on a pullout bed in the living room— their bed was disguised with throw pillows during waking hours. I shared the bedroom with my grandmother, my parent's bureau, a stand-alone closet, and now the unfinished desk.

"How about blue-green glossy paint?"

I started to collect newspapers—ours, and the papers belonging to apartment 2B and 2A.

"Don't forget to open all the windows," Mrs. Rubin, apartment 2A, warned me when she handed over a stack of the daily papers.

"The smell isn't good for you—addle your brain."
I wanted to inform Mrs. Rubin that sometimes the aromas slipping under her door were indications of toxic combinations being brewed for dinner.

With a stack of papers spread out under the desk, a paint can of blue-green glossy oil based paint, brushes, smocks and my father's instructions— we began. My father, the son of a housepainter, instructed me on the dipping and handling of a brush.

"We don't want to leave streak marks or worse yet pools of paint."

When the desk was finished my father inspected the sides, top and legs and said, "Beautiful job."

No streak marks, no spots of oak showing, no pooling of paint. The simple three-drawer desk morphed into a shiny pulsating blue-green centerpiece of the room. The afternoon sun bounced off its surface leaving ping-pong bright spots in front of my eyes.

After two weeks I confessed to my mother that I hated the color. "It's distracting."

My father thought that the best thing to do was scrape down the paint and stain the desk a shade of brown. He bought some scrapers and a recommended chemical: Apply, wait, and see how easy the paint scrapes away.

I collected newspapers. Mrs. Rubin foresaw dire consequences for our newest endeavor. My mother reiterated her warning about taking care. Now my grandfather never did any scraping. In his type of apartment house painting you simply added more layers to the older paint. I imagined rooms, over time, shrinking from paint inroads. This was my father's first foray into the world of scraping and staining. No hints this time.

We started early in the morning and followed the directions on the side of the bottle. Apply. Wait. Scrape. Nothing slid off without enormous pressure. And it didn't come off in "strips". Each inch was won at the expense of hardscrabble toil.

After four hours my desk bore a mottled blue-green veneer with patches of oak peering through the color. Small scraps of color piled up on the front page of the NewYork Times.

We attacked the desk with fervor the following day. My mother suggested we take an air break every half-hour. Even with all the windows open the smell penetrated itself into the pores of the room.

Mr. Riley of apt 2B came to look at our handiwork.
"Sand it down," he said. Mr. Rubin worked in a hardware store so we took his advice—he even gave us some sandpaper.

We never did get the color all off, but some areas were color free and some areas looked antiqued or burnished, and the sandpaper took away the glowing finish.

The desk, never finished, always a story a few pages away from an ending. I adorned one side with photos, the Bill of Rights, a Chinese dragon, and assorted literary quotations.

The year my father died we talked about many things—mostly history and books. Occasionally we shared hopes and aspirations for our sports teams. My father wasn't someone who spoke too much about feelings.

"Remember the desk," he said.
"I remember how the two of us worked so hard." I said.
"You were never disappointed in that half finished desk."

"Every time I sat down and looked at the desktop I recalled how we laughed about the promises on the bottle. It was the Handyman's Lydia Pinkham balm for stripping paint."

"Remember," my father said, "how I taught you to paint without streaks just the way my father taught me."

" I recall how Mrs. Rubin said she'd call the super of the building if we didn't keep the front door closed."

"Remember, " my father said, "how beautiful it looked when we sanded it down. A one of a kind."


********************

How many projects started, but not finished?
What does it really mean "to finish" something?
Does it mean closure, completion, or a task accomplished?
"Finish what you begin."
"Sure, sometimes.”
“Other times you need to know when to stop before you continue down an ill chosen path."
"Don't begin something if you don't intend to finish it."
“Maybe we need to ask different questions and come up with another set of one liners.”

"How will what I start and don't finish affect others?"
"If I don't finish this will I lose part of myself?"

"Have I counted the cost before beginning? The cost that has no monetary value, but perhaps in some cases that may also come into play."

"What does it mean when a life is littered with incompletions? "

"What does it mean when completions are accomplished without looking at how blind adherence to finishing something is at the expense of something else?"

"Are these questions merely excuses to wipe away those things not finished?"

********************

Do you think the Sagrada Famila, Roman Catholic Cathedral in Barcelona, will ever be finished? Construction started in 1882.

"Officially the magnificent building will be finished in 2026. One hundred years after Gaudi, the original architect, died."

When finished the cathedral will hold 13,000 people. Up to this point the Sagrada Famila has never been used for a religious observance, but you can go inside and climb the stairs to a museum.

********************

"Can anything be sadder than work unfinished? Yes, work never begun."
-- Christina Rossetti