Walking in the Light

Growing up in my household, I was the one with the appreciation for beautiful things. I would like to say that this was the result of some divine favor, that out of all my family members God looked upon me and chose me to be the one to appreciate the beauty of life and art and creation. But if I’m going to be honest with myself, it’s probably more a result of my inherent laziness than any kind of providence.
My parents used to make us work in the yard all the time, picking up sticks. If there is anything more mundane and torturous than picking up a thousand little sticks outside in the heat of Louisiana summer, I have not experienced it. And they made my brother and me perform this task literally every weekend. Of course, it never occurred to me that if I had just picked up all the sticks the first time around, we wouldn’t have to do it so often, but I was too busy moaning about how unfair my life was to think past the moment. All I knew was how infuriating it was that I walked around, wilted and sweating, bending over like a slave to pick up twigs while my ran drove around on the lawn mower, his hair blown back in the wind, pointing and laughing at me in my misery.
And there was literally no reason why these sticks needed to be collected. Though my father insisted that these tiny little sticks would ruin the blade on the lawn mower, I knew better. I was lazy, but I was not stupid. The lawn mower could easily have plowed right over them with relative ease. I tried to think of other reasons why he would want a thousand little twigs. Surely he didn’t want a fire; after all, the heat index was roughly 110 degrees on any given day in the summer. Perhaps he wanted to build a tiny little log cabin for gnomes.
In any case, I would find just about any reason I could to avoid doing this job, or to abandon it in the middle. And in the late afternoon, that reason was frequently the sky.
“What the hell are you doing? I still see sticks on the ground”
“I’m looking at the sky, dad. Look how pretty it is”
“Yeah, it’s gorgeous. Now go pick up the sticks. What are you gonna do if I roll over one with the lawnmower and it spits it up into my eyes and blinds me, huh? Is that what you want?”
Even at a young age I knew this was unlikely. The physics of it all just didn’t add up. Regardless, I would sigh, take one last longing look at my only source of procrastination, take another look at the miniature forest of twigs on our lawn, and promptly go inside to get a glass of water and watch TV.
As I said, it is to these experiences that I attribute my love for beautiful things as I was growing up. It seems understandable; in my young days, I compared the beauty of a sky or a living room with air condition to the relative ugliness of a Saturday spent picking up sticks, and I focused my attention on those things. It’s the same basic concept when it comes to art. Anyone who likes to look at beautiful things does so because they’re better to look at then the ugly ones.
My whole word was rocked, though, when art, ugliness, and my father all collided.
There’s nothing that will instill pretention in a child quite as effectively as being in college. This is especially true if that child’s parents could boast a High School Diploma as their highest level of education. If I was snooty before I went off to university, it was nothing compared to the air of superiority I held after having attended for a few years. I came home one Friday evening to grace my parents with a weekend of my presence. It was always good for them, I figured, to spend some time around me and take advantage of the opportunity to absorb some of the culture to which I had been exposed for the last several years.
But when I walked in, I dropped my laundry hamper in horror at the sight I saw before me. There, in the hallway, was the most hideous “painting” I had ever seen in my life, and my father right beside it, beaming like a proud new parent.
“Do you like it? I know you’re all into paintings and stuff”
Clearly I did not like it. Clearly I would not like it. This thing hanging on the wall – even now I cannot find the words to describe it.
It was a faux painting printed on canvas, but even the cheapness of it wasn’t the turn off. If it had been a cheap printing of swans or gentlemen or ballerinas, that would be fine, if a little tacky. This image was not a montage of ballerinas. This image was a montage of fictional gangsters.
There was Marlon Brando, his cotton-stuffed cheeks identifying him as Vito Corleone. On the lower left, several unidentified mobsters held a gun up to a screaming man’s forehead, grinning perversely. Scarface was represented at the top, introducing the viewer to his little friend. And there, dead center, was Tony Soprano, clad in a Hawaiian shirt and smiling affectionately at a severed head in a bowling ball bag.
It was truly the most horrifying image I’ve ever seen.
My mother, for her part, handled it with all the grace of little Ralphie’s mother when her husband uncovered that leg lamp. That leg lamp was hideous. This painting was worse. But when I started with a “what the-“ she abruptly pursed her lips and shook her head. Apparently, she had accepted this mark of insanity, at least for the moment.
Through the years that painting has been one of my dad’s prized possessions. Whenever someone new comes in the house he inevitably steers them past the family portraits, past the trophies of our accomplishments, past his wife and children, even, and brings them to this “painting”.
“Ain’t she a beaut?” he says. “See here, there’s Tony Soprano. Remember when they cut that bastard’s head off?” And his guest will smile and nod uncomfortably and start paying close attention to my dad’s accent and any mention of family members or connections.
The rest of us, whenever we had company, did our best to shield them from the monstrosity in the hallway.
Since those days, a lot has happened. I’ve graduated from college and gotten a job. My dad had a heart attack and survived. We’ve painted the walls, replaced the furniture. But this painting remains in its original spot, hanging grotesquely for everyone to fear and avoid. Mom and I talk about taking it down, replacing it with something else, but we never do. Dad doesn’t really pay attention to it anymore, no longer describes it proudly to any mailmen or salesmen who come to our door, but it’s somehow, in a way none of us can quite describe, become a part of him. It’s as much a part of our home now as he is.
I have a feeling that when my parents pass away and it’s time to divide the estate, my brother and I won’t be fighting over the china or the property divisions or my parents assets. No, none of those things. In my imagination I foresee my brother and I fighting over who gets to keep that horrible, accursed painting to display it proudly in their living room and trap unsuspecting guests. “See this guy? Tony Soprano. Remember when he cut that guy’s head off”?