A Creative Ledger

A Creative Ledger

Chapter 1: Keeping Track

I looked to my hands, black, covered in tar, and took a heavy seat in the front of the truck. Another job done. Another tick off the list. The barrel of tar was still half full and would need to be lifted into the back of the trailer. Aside from that, we were ready to move on. I wiped my hands across my trousers, and opened the little black book, careful not to smudge the address we were headed to next.

In my rearview, I could see that all the brushes were once again in their place, sticking upright from the back of the trailer, set against the blue sky as if they were waiting for a large set of hands to sweep them up and paint over the sun and clouds, turning daylight into night. Meeting my eyes in the rearview, I thought, “Only one more job, and those hands would be allowed to do so. Then, they’d shoo me off to bed, making sure I took rest before Saturday.”

I can usually finish one job on Fridays if she keeps helping me. It’s a bit of extra money, and it’s an idea, so it’s worth the little bit of freedom it provides from my full time gig, and more importantly, freedom from a mind that keeps pounding on me to produce--my own mind, that is. She complains a lot, mostly about the heat, but I can tell that there’s a part of her that really enjoys it. She likes being around me, and she likes the responsibility of being the bookkeeper. Most of all, I think she enjoys doodling in its backend pages.

Back to her bookkeeping... Let’s see, my supplies are averaging $2,530 per driveway, including mileage and labor, that’s another $70, and average revenue is falling around $3,220, giving me a net profit of right around $620 per driveway. If I keep up a good review, clients will keep passing me along, and this could get rid of an okay chunk of the mortgage.

Chapter 2: Beautifully Done

A job well done? He would never admit it... His work was good, and he had business. The men appreciated him--never the women, though. They would come outside, shake his hand, and then, with hands on their hips, they’d just look at it. From my view, the job was done and it was time to move on--and that was it--but they always sat there for an extra ten, or even twenty minutes, talking and evaluating.

Me? The little girl sidekick? Hellooo!! I was ready to dive into my still half frozen water bottle... The sun pressed down so much harder when I wore these stupid pants and long sleeves. At least it meant that I didn’t have to put on as much sunscreen... but man, was it hot! He said the pants and sleeves would keep the tar from getting to my skin, that too much of it might be harmful. Sometimes it was hard to believe. The thought that tar on my skin could ever be worse than the heat of this gol darn sun, now that was comical!

The handshake was the signal. I’d run to the truck and slam myself into the passenger seat, grabbing the little black book that could usually be found on the driver’s seat. I kept my pencils in the glove box, skipped to the back pages, and spent their chat, and our drive to the next job, sketching scenery and drawing figures, creating stories that brought the world to life in a way that made it worth the heat.

Somehow, this book preserved our beginnings. For me, not just the drawings, but also, those first moments when my childlike mind started to develop things like patience, curiosity and intrigue. The cover survived tar, and the binding withstood contorted angles and strong grips over road bumps. It documented his success, kept me entertained, and eventually, became my launchpad, and more valuably, a reminder.

Chapter 3: Well Spent

Saturday meant we had three driveways to tar. Two needed to be done before 11:30am, lunch was a fast food joint, and then a break from the heat. When 4pm rolled around, it was time to finish one more, and then we were done for the day.

She helped me for two summers, almost every weekend, skipping a few here and there, and as she neared high school, I knew she wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. My little black book was still filling with addresses, her drawings slowed, and the empty pages in the middle were growing fewer. It wouldn’t be long before our work met. Business was picking up right when it was time to slow down.

Chapter 4: Imagine Beyond

Sitting next to him, while he spoke with the men, or while he drove, it was so easy to get lost in my drawings. He spoke with thought and concern, and he had such a soft focus. Observing him left me feeling like I was floating in waves, easy and never in trouble, yet aware of the fact that I had to keep my head above water.

That's when I created my best work, when they spoke to each other. He would be so immersed in conversation, long enough that I was able to draw him, and too distracted to be bothered by what I was doing. He was my muse for all of my work, whether he was in it or not. Sitting next to him is how I discovered myself, my talent and the beauty that existed inside my own mind.

I complained about the work, and I wore those complaints like a straight-jacket, keeping in the feelings that I didn't know how to express. What I didn’t know how to share was that I was proud of him, and humbled by him as well. The son of a farmer, and now, a full-time, working father who had a side business, building his own creation alongside his family. It was overwhelming, and I often wondered if entrepreneurial passion was his inspiration, or if it was purely for the extra money--I couldn’t blame him for either. Stepping away that third summer was… hard. I would miss our time together--another feeling I didn't quite know how to express. It was difficult to admire--or even understand--the man’s work ethic while becoming a woman. My clarity wouldn’t set in until years later.

Chapter 5: Turn the Page

Without her, business wasn’t sustainable. I couldn’t do as many jobs, we were both getting older and I grew sad without her company--it wasn’t worth it anymore. I knew I had to call it, and that meant giving up the feeling of freedom that this work had given me. It had only been three summers, but she had grown so much in such a short time. Now she was preoccupied with her mother and her plans for highschool. Thankfully, she wouldn’t be phased by the change.

Chapter 6: Room for More

He said he was going to stop that summer, that he wanted more time to attend my school events--I was going to be a freshman, and being in the school drama club and on the dance team were my top priorities. I was glad. He looked exhausted after he came home. Mom said that he enjoyed doing it and that we didn’t need the extra money. It was hard to believe that someone enjoyed doing something that made him so tired.

Why was he still blacktopping driveways without me?

Chapter 7: Unexpected Opportunities

The guy was generous. I ran into him in the grocery store parking lot after grabbing something to drink between jobs. When I came out, there he was, standing by my truck. He said he could offer me $20,000 for the lot (a truck and trailer that couldn’t be sold, the remaining tar and tools, and the list of clients I had served over the past three years), right then and there, easy as that--it was more than generous. Everything was paid for on my end. My project, or business, as she liked to call it… made me some extra cash over the years, and now, it was turning out to be an okay time investment. We shook on it.

We met a week later, and within moments, the truck and trailer were his. I said goodbye to the brushes and memories that went along with them, and handed over the keys. He drove away, pleased to be acquiring his competition, and me feeling no remorse. I wasn’t attatched to an idea that came into fruition, but just couldn’t flourish by my own hand. It wasn’t tar that I was passionate about… it was innovation and invention, thoughtfulness and creation. Perhaps I would come up with a new idea down the road? And just as I thought it... he was back. The truck was once again in my driveway.

He rolled down his window and handed me a book. Said, he thought I might want to keep it. It was small, black, with some tar on the outside. It still held its binding and all the pages were intact. I thanked him, not remembering what it was right away. Then he was gone. I still had my $20,000, and now, a book and a new idea.

Chapter 8: Clean Slate

We grew apart after he sold his business. There just wasn’t much time. High school was busy, and it was hard to recreate those moments when we were driving around together--we didn’t have as much to connect on.

I was about to graduate, and I knew that college would only put more distance between us. Beyond that, I worried that my choice of degree programs would only make matters worse. I decided to pursue a Fine Arts program, unsure of how my father, a blue collar working man, would receive such a decision. When he got home from work, I told him that I planned to enter into a Fine Arts program to pursue a career drawing. He left the room.

He turned his back, only to emerge with a dirty, old, little black book, and told me, “Janelle, I’ve been waiting years to give this to you. Do you remember when we used to blacktop together? Well, a man bought the business from me, and I’d like to give you what he gave me, to support you and your work.”

Chapter 9: Bookends

With a $20,0000 grant from my father, I was overwhelmed by the help and support he so generously offered me, all so I was able to pursue my passion: my work.

The little black book was where our creations began. It was how my father and I found a connection. It was proof of our common ground and the endurance we had when we worked together. It was time well spent, a symbol of our love. And most valuably, it represents the time we were able to spend with each other, growing up, navigating the unknown and figuring it out together. Now the book sits, preserved, at the center of an art exhibit as an ode to our working hands. It’s a reminder to us to recognize all of the beautiful in between moments, and how those beautiful moments, together, also make up our lives. It was time well documented and time well spent.