Today, I spent the morning hours scraping, patching, sanding, and washing the front of the garage. Tomorrow, after it is thoroughly dry, I will apply the paint. Once I had finished washing down the walls, 'Clem flopped down on the now-cool pavement and had his siesta.
The front of the garage differs from the back in that is hasn't been blasted by the sun to the extent as the south-facing wall had been. It also has a vent which will require a bit more finesse with a brush.While 'Clem napped, I retreated to the cool interior of the house and waited for the sun to move from the back door where I would next move my operations.
The back door which leads into the kitchen faces east and takes the full brunt of the sun for hours each morning. When we first moved into our home the back door was french-style, top-to-bottom single panes of glass and rotting wood. It had baked and offered minimal thermal protection. Years ago we replaced it with a solid-core steel-clad door possessing dual-paned glass, but it still takes a beating from relentless el Sol. 
I taped, sanded, and removed the hardware (door knob, dead bolt, strike plate) and was well into my painting when I heard the sickening squeal of tires on pavement and the twisting of metal on metal.I dropped everything and sprinted down the street. The sight was chilling. No fewer than four vehicles strewn all over 7th Avenue. A woman was on the side of the road screaming hysterically, so I headed to her. A young man - her significant other - was already on the phone calling for help and her six-year-old son, uninjured, Thank God, was standing by her side. I knelt in front of her, told her I was trained in First Aid and asked if she would allow me to help.
There were no obvious external injuries but she was complaining of chest and stomach pain. She'd been wearing her seat belt and the airbag had deployed - the seat belt probably being responsible for the pain. There was nothing to do now but watch her and keep her still, comfort her as best I could, and wait for the paramedics to arrive. I held her hand and stroked her hair and spoke to her by name. She calmed some but when she closed her eyes I made her open them back up and look at me - I needed her to stay awake.
My neighbors, a nurse and a doctor, arrived and I relinquished my care. The police, fire department, paramedics, arrived and I melted into the background. When she was safely on a back board and being loaded into an ambulance, I walked back home. Only then did I realize I had gravel embedded in my knees, wore filthy socks without shoes, and was covered in paint.
I finished painting the door and trim. Now it was therapeutic. It wasn't enough to eradicate the images of broken glass, pools of radiator fluid, and a screaming woman - but it helped. And I tried to hold in my mind a picture of an unharmed six-year-old boy who smiled in spite of it all.
