Remembering A Wall

From what I recall, the pine wall in the living room of my childhood home engaged my attention for hours and hours. I can still see the amber streaks of varnish, the rough dark knots and the veins and flowing grain in the pine, a swirling study of natural geometry, thick and thin lines--something, I was told, that revealed the amount of rainfall each year, big notions about history and time and weather for such a small boy. The wall had a finish that was flat and smooth and shiny and not at all like most formerly living things.

Against the pine wall was a couch, which was my place to lounge on my stomach and watch TV and, during commercials, run my hand against the wall and explore the surface, smooth and a little sticky of varnish. I remember my mom and my dad (who died when I was eight), each in their own chair, and my brothers, though the memory is so flickering and faint now that I'm just not sure about details. It seems that I can see the wall more clearly than anything else.

I'm glad that Cheryl suggested this project and that she shares my fondness for wood (if not with the same level of enthusiasm). Some friends of ours have a charming house that is completely paneled, walls and ceilings, in pine. Very cool and comfortable, but not for everyone, I suppose.

And since we have pine furniture in the guest room, with its big picture windows overlooking the ponds in the back yard, the overall effect should be pretty nice. I've never paneled a ceiling before so this will be interesting. More on the details later...

And now something to remind myself not to get overly sentimental here (in the future). WTF, right?