Overcoming Guilt

I am, as most people know, about one wheel short of a semi-trailer rig. Take, for example, the concept of guilt. Oddly, I don’t feel guilty about having told some lesser being off, using swear words in at least four languages. No, in fact, I brag about such antics with Philosophy Club members who meet, from time to time, at E.J’s on the corner of 6^th and Center streets in my beloved city of Little Rock. They tend to guffaw at my antics and that makes me smile.

On the other hand, I feel guilty when I pick a turnip green, shredding its life in my fingers. I might add that such guilt only lasts until said plant, along with a crowd of its brothers and sisters, has been thoroughly washed, seasoned, boiled until it is tender and tasty, and served with other victims of planticide: juicy corn kernels made into a thick wholesome bread and accompanied by buttermilk.  Guilt only extends so far in my world, or so I'd like to believe.

Why bring this up? The latest guilt-laden escapade of mine involves a small wooden table. We, my wife and I, obtained it like most of the hundred thousand or so objects we own. People con us into taking them, she buys them at flea markets, people leave them to us, she picks them up from piles of discarded trash, she swaps her pal Nick Nicholson something for them, we inherit them, or people leave them at our doorstep, ring the doorbell, and run away.

Anyway, I have, after hours of sanding and stripping, reduced this table to near its natural state. This effort revealed that the top comprises a number of woods of different shades, textures, colors, and grain. Was this arrangement deliberate? We would have to travel back a hundred years, find an artisan, and beg for the truth. To hell with that.

What I want to do is paint it and use it as a “splash of color” in a lonely corner of a bathroom in our Lonoke house. The color I’ve chosen is Pantone Color Institute’s color of the year, “Living Coral. That places me among the elite cadre of tasteful aficionados who cherish the dernier cri. Look:

So, why the guilt? Am I killing the soul of this antique table by converting it to a “splash of color?” After all, when it was first utilized, there was no such thing as color in poor rural homes, only drab furniture on the floor, and newspapers pasted on the walls and ceilings.

Am I demeaning history?

It gets worse. Taking Herself to Lowes to seek out the Color of the Year, I found the closest thing I could and suggested it.

“No.”

“What?”

“Here.” She pointed.

Now, raw courage came into play. At the risk of divorce at best and a session with “Mr. Louisville” at worst, I managed, in as strong a voice as I could manage, on the floor of Lowes, “My precious. I love you like Jesus loves a sinner. And if a hand grenade bounced down the aisle, I would jump atop it to save you.”

“But?”

“But, Navy Blue is not ‘a splash of color.’”

It still stands in limbo. Anonymous suggestions would be welcomed.