The Rural Ethicist: Coloring the New Year

By Katharine Adams

January/February 2026

Welcome, 2026! Once again, we’ve come full circle: new year, new set of plans. Sometimes, that means breathing new life into old projects to try again (raising my hand). A new year brings a new perspective for the die-hard, fixer-upper dreamers among us.

I want to dust off my knitting needles this year and park my caboose beside my friend Wendy, to spin up textured wearables out of thin strands of air—but first, I’m thinking to get reacquainted with my seasoned, darlin’ old paint brushes.

While a fledgling painter, I had untied the cord of the fitted, wax-paper cover to reveal my sturdy new brush. Then, I made the folly error of attempting to toss the cover in the trash. Luckily, an eagle-eyed teammate stepped in to recommend I keep that cover—for it is meant, like a bespoke jacket, to shape and smooth its subject.

Back when we were puppies and a gallon of Benjamin Moore cost under $25, somebody on our team outdid themself by wielding a wide, 3” straight brush to detail window muntins—instead of the typical, narrow-angle brush. (Calling all painters: if you know, you know.) It was catchy and we tried to follow suit, with varying success.

I still enjoy painting, although I seldom make the time. It is a satisfying endeavor to blend soft brush marks along with the wood grain, or run a bead along an edge, in a hawkish state of concentration (while hoping not to mess up). It is kind of a sweet torment. With a dampened old scrap of jersey, you can coax a wavering edge to appear more crisp.

At one time, I cruised junk shops for clunky furniture to refinish into a swan, just the way my Aunt Klarzie had filled her house. But her approach was traditional and refined; she’d not have indulged the “vintage/distressed” craze of the '90s, as her wayward niece had.

I keep a pair of identical, 1940s Mission Oak school chairs painted a pale, chartreuse green. The first charmer was found already painted, tucked away in Nana Tefft’s garage, way out in the agricultural belt of Corcoran, California; meanwhile, the other was bare oak, discovered in a dusty thrift, over 200 miles away. I set about painting the bare one to match the green original; once dry, I sanded a few “worn spots” as a wink to its well-used mate.

We’re proud to announce our tenure as hosts of a personal paint can museum. It consumes an entire length of shelves in our cellar, like 3D wallpaper. Some cans still hold liquid paint; many others, found desiccated.

While life keeps on moving, our paint display stands sentinel, ready to shake off a little rim rust and serve.

Not far away rests my paint chip vault, stowed within a hinged box. I’ve kept this container of paint chips for decades, lugging it straight across the country as if it were a safe containing financial records.

Opening the paint chip vault is a trip down memory lane. It contains many forgotten adventures. The company I keep is mostly the same, I notice, as I sit enchanted on the cellar floor to paw through a pile of remarkably preserved, old color chips.

I had stopped alongside a road to collect paint scraps off the ground, lying beneath a peeling fence. It was like winning the lottery. The paint scraps got taped roughshod to a piece of paper. In pencil, some impassioned eccentric scratched the note, “Faded green love from Monterey.”

Another set of chips reminds me of when I was trying to pick “just the right” butter yellow in 2006, to paint my then-baby-on-the-way’s room. When he was but a bellyful, I had gestured to my sister-in-law to see our straw-toned walls offset by muted red, milk paint shelves. She had looked about, beaming and nodding, well pleased … and I knew instantly we had picked just the right shade.

There are pale silvers and sages by Restoration Hardware, off-blacks by Farrow & Ball. Collections called Potters Clay and Precious Metals feature among the Martha Stewart offerings no longer in production. I still carry a torch for “Dusty Miller,” a muted gray-green I once used to paint plank walls in a tiny powder room.

Mixed in is a tattered list of stuff to procure from Yardbirds, a local hardware store in Santa Rosa. “Yosemite Sand” and “Putnam Ivory” were in a staged duel, each having four paint chip squares taped together, in an attempt to enlarge the area … only to discover the lines and shadows introduced interfered with the decision process.

I used a textured, earthy River Rock paint finish by Ralph Lauren in “Lichen Boulder” as a fake-out for stone kitchen countertops, after having endured 1950s brown-and-cream plaid Formica for long enough. I tried to cajole myself, “Aw, it’s vintage! It was inspired by the cowboy film era!” But self-talk only went so far. So one day, I ripped it all away, down to the plywood. The paint required walking on eggshells to maintain. It was a decent dupe, for a spell.

It was a unique era when designers like Lauren and Stewart contracted with various paint manufacturers. Maybe they just wanted to try something new that year?

May your new year be a canvas to fill with color and joy. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Rural Ethicist is a column about the culture of the daily mundane. It tolerates an occasional spider, values the bull in horse sense and seeks the gleaming, stainless steel wisdom beneath a film of cooking grease. Above all, it cherishes the gem of our shared existence: family. ruralethicstudio.com