In the beginning of that summer I made a solemn vow to myself that I would live heedless of the days to come. So passed three months of freedom of activity that seemed to go on forever. I secured a job painting for a local petroleum businessman. My assignments were varied and included jobs painting some of his gas stations and mini-markets as well as spending many hours in the hot sun perched 40 feet above the ground painting remote crannies of his old barn.

I believe he liked me and didn't seem to mind that my hair was long and my clothes were the same ones worn yesterday. I was rather dirty for a recent college graduate. The boss and I worked one day on the steps leading to his house. They were of old hewn stone, aged and discolored, but the mortar was still solid. They just needed to be sandblasted. He was a man that just ended up doing things for himself. Though I was on his payroll, when he was around on the day of a certain job, he just muscled in with the intent on showing how something was done, but soon the task was done as the workers looked on. So there I was holding a section of plywood to protect the house while he grabbed the sandblaster, aimed, and the dust swirled around the both of us.

"Stay down behind there!" he would shout if I even thought about trying to sneak a look.

"Oh no problem" I yelled above the noise, resigning myself to daydreams and looking at my shoes wondering how long it was going to be before my legs cramped up.

Then the job was done and he and I sat on the steps. They appeared now as they probably did when the house was built in 1850 something.

"1843" the boss blurted out.

"What's that sir?"

"The house was built in 1843." Our mutual trains of thought evidently and predictably going off in tandem.

"This house has seen the years. You don't get too many houses older than this one in this part of Pennsylvania. In fact, this very tract of land belonged to Richard Nixon's great uncle. He moved away years ago north of here and put Pennsylvania on the map as far as potatoes go. You studied history in school didn't you?"

"Yes I did..." My thoughts trailed off.

"I bet in all those years of studying history, they never mentioned Nixon's uncle on the potato farm."

"No they sure didn't."

He smiled and made a little uhumphf' sound. I wasn't sure if he was trying to make a point, but I gathered that it was rather funny the way I was taught at college. Right out of a standardized' (how I remembered that word giving the book such authority) text, the professors poured over great civilizations and empires. Of course this was done to give students an idea of what the hell happened on this planet so far as we know. Never did I have a course in Pennsylvania history. After all, history occurs first to the individual and then radiates outward. It makes sense to start with a state history, no rather a county history...but still further even a municipal history, and then work outward and back into far reaches of time.

The boss stood up from the stairs. "I'm going to go get us some beer. Be right back."

I waited on the stairs for him to return. The end of the working day approached and the sun was angled in the late afternoon sky. It was unusually hot that day and the beer would taste good. The boss came around the corner hedge, handed me an empty glass, and filled it from a pitcher. So there I was getting paid for sipping beers with the boss and looking out over gorgeous land. Then we talked business.

"I'm going to start having you work with Whitewash tomorrow" he said.

"Awh that's fine. I used to paint fences with that stuff when I was a kid."

He laughed. "Sorry Peter. That's not a type of paint. It's this guy, Whitewash Bob. He's been working for me a couple of years. Paints mostly and he's damn proud of it. Somehow we started calling him Whitewash."

The whole concept of this Whitewash guy seemed to add bizarre skew to it all. Somehow I knew it would be interesting. The boss and I finished out that day sitting on the steps covered in sandblasting dust. The only clean spot on our persons was where the beer touched our lips. Out in the distance, where the fields met the woods, the deer were coming out to nibble on sweet, green alfalfa.