Painting the porch ceiling interrupted

One of Washington's more memorable characters is the late John Logan, former Washington jeweler. John's serious, even stern appearance belied the impish personality that lay beneath. No one was exempt from its manifestations, not John's school friends, his business associates, nor his neighbors.

One leisurely, warm Saturday morning John and his wife Rhea sat a little longer at their breakfast table because of John's fascination with the painstaking way in which their neighbor lady was preparing to paint the ceiling of her back porch.

With extreme care, she assembled drop cloths, paint rags, gloves, brushes, paint cans, stepladder, screwdrivers, and every manner of accessory remotely necessary to such a project.

John and Rhea watched all the preparations with mild interest, but John's attention quickened as the neighbor finally ceased her squirrel-like scurryings, pried the lid off the paint can, poured a little paint into a small bucket, and cautiously began to mount the precisely placed ladder. Before she had raised herself to the first step, the loud ringing of her telephone resounded through her open window.

The lady carefully placed the dripping brush into a pie pan, which had been a part of her meticulous preparation, drew off her gloves and moved quickly through her house to the front room and the phone. Just as she lifted the phone, a click on the line and a buzz let her know that the party had hung up.

The neighbor strode through her house to the back porch, pulled on her canvas gloves, picked up the brush and the protecting pan, moved to the ladder and ascended it. Just as she raised the brush over her head, her phone rang again. Again she stepped off the ladder, set down the brush and pan, pulled off the gloves and, more briskly this time, headed for the front of her house. Meantime the phone shrilled its urgent call.

As she lifted the headpiece, another click, another buzz. Lips compressed and shoulders set, the lady marched back to her work.

She again went through the glove, pan, brush, ladder ritual, and had actually made one swipe of white paint across the colored ceiling, when, yes, there it came again! The phone!

The dauntless lady rushed down the ladder, slammed down the paint pan and ran through her house, picked up the phone, only to hear ? "Bzzzzzzz!" Too late again. This time she stood by the phone for as long as she estimated it would have taken her to return to the porch, pick up her work, hear the ring and return to the phone. Silence. More silence, broken only by a few angry mutterings issuing from the lady.

This time she walked more slowly back to her work, and pushed open the door onto her porch, only to see John Logan standing on the back porch of his own house, smiling. She darted a questioning, doubtful look at him.

Still smiling, John asked, "Neighbor, why in the world won't you answer your phone?"

Editor?s note: This event probably wouldn?t be repeated today. The woman who was painting her porch ceiling could have put a cell phone in a pocket and answered the phone while still on her ladder.