In the pink

by Sally Jack
Staff Writer
Since this is to be the last paper issue of the San Juan Record, I couldn’t resist sharing this story, because if my dad had not been so engrossed in reading the San Juan Record, things might not have played out the way they did once upon a time, long, long ago....
It was near Halloween when my brother became obsessed with the idea of getting the ‘steely’ or metal ball out of an empty can of spray paint. If he could only find a way to get it out of the can, it would be the crowning item in his marble collection.
But he had a perplexing problem: exactly how does one go about getting a steely out of a can that isn’t meant to be opened?
He puzzled on it for two or three days and finally decided that since dads know everything, he’d ask Daddy how to open that spray can.
Dad was relaxing in his easy chair reading the San Juan Record; he vaguely heard the words “open” and “can” and murmured, “Use a can-opener, what else?”
Delighted with this information, Lynn went to bed with a head full of plans and a time to carry them out. Tomorrow was going to be a big day!
Early the next morning, equipped with can-opener and paint can, steel ball still rattling inside, Lynn settled into the side driveway and prepared to operate.
It was a lovely autumn day, and I was as excited as he was. I simply had to be in on the unveiling of the coveted steely, but as Lynn did not want any dumb little sister messing things up, I was to watch from the nearby tire swing.
Boy ol’ howdy! It’s downright astonishing how much spray paint can come out of an ‘empty’ can! It spewed out of that punctured tin in a volcano of pink fury, covering his surprised face, hair, hands, and clothes in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to leave me out of the fun, the can sent a last dying spurt of spray in my direction, turning my nearest sneaker solid pink and spattering me from head to toe with spots until it looked like I had a curious form of measles.
When he could breathe again, my brother shouted, “Sally, run into the house and get me a rag, quick!”
I dashed into the house. “Mom! Lynn needs a rag, QUICK!” I said in a shrill voice.
Mom was on her knees with her head inside a kitchen cupboard, scrubbing the shelves, so she did not see her pink polka-dotted daughter — or the gravity of the situation.
“Here,” she said, handing me a roll of paper towels without taking her head out of the cupboard.
I ran it out to my pink brother and he tried to wipe off some of the paint, but the paper only stuck to his face and made things worse.
He sent me in again, this time emphasizing that it had to be a rag.
“Mom, it has to be a rag!” I wailed. She told me where to find one and I quickly ran it out to Lynn, who used it without much success.
Just then our truck-driving daddy drove up and climbed out of the diesel. Lynn ran up to him to ask for help. By this time the paint had begun to dry and was beginning to pinch and hurt, pulling his face so tight he could only let out a miserable, “Huooo Ooooo.”
Daddy thought Lynn was only playing and replied “That’s a great Halloween costume, Lynn,” and began to unload the truck.
Now in tears I fled into the house and told Mama that I needed a wet rag for Lynn. This time, Mom asked why on earth did Lynn need all those rags?
Like the paint, the story came out in a torrent of words and Mom said, “Hells-bells!!” and I knew what I said was important, because Mama only used that expression on the very rarest of occasions!
She ran out the door, where we found Lynn running around holding his face and moaning. I don’t remember how they got the paint off his skin after that, but I remember Mom sending both of us up to our aunt’s house to show her Lynn’s pink eyelashes and newly dyed hair, my spotted hair, glasses, and pink shoe, and — Ta-Dah! — The Steely!
And that’s how I happen to know that the San Juan Record is good at delivering news; but even better than that, if you’re lucky like me, the SJR newspaper will even help you to see the world through rose-colored glasses.