I frequently paint the smell of a summer night on an old baseball field in Brookmont,Maryland. In the greens, I paint the smell of cut clover, the sweet honeysuckle, the spicy boxwoods, the cascading hops gone wild in the trees. In the purples, I paint the tickle of the first firefly to land on my hand that night. In the pinks, I paint the sound of my sneaker toes dragging in the gravelled alley leading to the field. In the blues, I paint the elation of freedom when my mother finally said I could leave the politeness of the sitting room and race my brother Paul and sister Claire down where the field shimmered in light and dark.
That night is 50 years gone. Who gives a rat’s rear end? It lives in the green paint.