Free Dancing on the Edge by Han Nolan Page A

“You painted it, remember? I’ll move the van when you’ve fixed the porch floor. It’s so steep a person needs a seat belt on her chair just to keep from rocking herself into someone else’s yard. And you’re a carpenter. It’s an embarrassment.”
    Grandaddy Opal jumped up from his chair and slammed inside. Gigi rocked even harder. “Good,” she said, her rocking chair slipping toward the steps. “Finally some peace around here.”
    But Grandaddy Opal came back. He crept up behind Gigi with a piece of rope and before she could say “Dad-blast-it!” he had her tied to the chair.
    â€œHey, what do you think you’re doing here?” Gigi said, twisting and fussing with the rope.
    â€œYour seat belt,” he said.
    â€œThis isn’t a seat belt!”
    â€œIs too.” He jerked her chair back and forth, holding on to the back of it by the knobs. “See, you ain’t flying into anyone’s yard now, are you?”
    â€œYou untie me!”
    â€œBut you wanted a seat belt.”
    â€œAnd I’m saying this isn’t a seat belt.”
    â€œWhat did you expect?” Grandaddy Opal chuckled, glancing at me. “Custom designed, with stars and crystal balls and tarot cards painted all over it?”
    â€œYes,” Gigi said, finally getting the rope turned around so she could untie herself. “And a seat belt with a horse’s behind painted on yours!”
    And that’s when Grandaddy Opal’s new career came to life. He painted seat belts. He made up a brochure and we stuck one in every newspaper I delivered. He put one up at the Piggly Wiggly, and Gigi set one in the windows of the gift shop and Ansel’s Pub. I stuck one up in the gas station and even on the bulletin board at the church where I took my dancing lessons. Susan, my dance instructor, became Grandaddy Opal’s first customer. He painted a copy of a Degas statue he had seen in one of the books in his bedroom. It was a ballet dancer standing with her feet slightly turned out, dressed in a full skirt and a long braid running down her back with a real ribbon tied on the end. Grandaddy Opal painted her side view. The girl had a dreaming, faraway look, so Grandaddy Opal painted above it the words “To DANCE —To DREAM .” Susan was so pleased she showed everyone, even the kids in my dance classes.
    I had hoped they would see it and want to be my partner when we had to perform combinations across the dance floor. I wanted them to see I had changed, I had a real job—I delivered newspapers—and I had people who took care of me, one who made me breakfast and worked at a gift shop and one who made me dinner and painted seat belts. I didn’t dance wild anymore. I even bought a pretty pair of purple leg warmers and had started to grow my hair so I could wear ribbons like the other girls in the class. I felt proud and important, but the kids hadn’t changed. They liked the seat belt, but not the seat belt painter’s granddaughter.
    After his success with Susan’s car, other people started asking Grandaddy Opal to paint their seat belts. They would drop their cars off in our driveway and he’d sit all day inside the car drinking gallons of sweet tea and painting every seat belt special. Grandaddy Opal painted tennis racquets and golf clubs and footballs and baseballs. He painted flowers and ocean scenes and slogans. Especially popular were the team slogans and religious ones like JESUS SAVES and THE LORD IS My COPILOT . Some were funny and some were lines from poems, and some were just people’s names painted really fancy.
    Whenever I could, I sat out in the driveway with him and watched him paint. It was the only chance I had anymore to spend time with him. Once when I went out there, he was painting a sailboat under the slogan I’ D R ATHER B E S AILING , and he said to me, “Ain’t it a