Jesus and Turpentine: Tales from a Cathedral Painter

𝙅𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙚: 𝙏𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖 𝘾𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧

   It was 1980. I was 17 years old, and there I was, high up in the middle of Ogdensburg’s Notre Dame Cathedral, perched precariously between heaven and earth—closer to God and closer to death than I’d ever been. Not that I was on some divine pilgrimage, mind you. No, this was a far more terrestrial journey—a summer spent sweating bullets, testing my nerves, and learning that just because you are working on God's house does not mean you are immortal.   

I was painting the Notre Dame cathedral in the 'burg; 𝘮𝘺 church. The whole thing. Every wall, every nook, every cranny of that soaring, sacred space. If you were in the congregation back then, you probably remember the transformation: a maze of scaffolding climbing to the heavens, the pews swallowed by drop cloths, and every corner stacked with paint buckets, brushes, rollers, and enough spackle to patch the always cracked city sidewalks. It wasn’t just a renovation—it was a full-blown construction site masquerading as holy ground.   

And naturally, as the robust, slightly clueless 17-year-old, I was the chosen one—the sacrificial lamb for all things dangerous and backbreaking on site. The painting contractor, an old-timer from Boston named John Hobin, wasn’t about to do it. Hobin, 70-something, was a tall, wiry guy whose Boston accent dripped like chowder off a ladle, especially evident when he would talk about about turpentine, or "Tuuurrrrps" as he would say, drawing it out longer than a teenage kiss.  He ran a tight ship, barking orders like he was commanding a fleet instead of a painting crew.    

Then there was the father-and-sons painting team out of Chateaugay. The old man was a friendly, but no-nosense fella, also in his 70s - if not older,  and perpetually chewing a wad of tobacco so big you thought he had a very lage abcess on this gum. His sons? Laurel and Hardy come to life—one lanky, the other round, both bumbling.         

Naturally, none of them wanted anything to do with contructing 60-foot towers of shaky steel. That honor fell to me, the eager young buck too dumb (and proud) to say no.   

Building the scaffolding was an art form—or maybe just a death wish in slow motion. You’d start with two vertical end pieces, held together by X-braces that never seemed to want to cooperate. A plank went on top, then you’d climb up, haul more pieces up by rope, and repeat the process—higher and higher, teetering on a plank that felt like it might snap under your weight at any second. I fancied myself a virtual Karl Wallenda in training as I went back and forth, attaching vertical piece upon vertical piece. By the time we reached the ceiling, the whole structure swayed with every movement. Fifty or sixty feet doesn’t sound like much until you’re looking down from it, wondering if your obituary will mention how you died in a cathedral, building your own gallows, your body crumpled on the hard oak pews like a 𝘉𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 bar thrown onto gravel.   

Hobin, for all his crusty charm, was a maestro with paint. He had this system for mixing colors, dipping his finger into one reference bucket and slapping it into another, adding tint, blending again and again, like some kind of alchemist until it was just right. He taught me the process—or tried to. When he caught me slapping paint onto a wall like I was Tom Sawyer whitewashing a fence, he snatched the brush out of my hand and showed me how it was 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 done. The thing is, he did exactly what I had been doing, frustrating me to the point of tears, but if you teared up in front of Hobin, you might as well have handed in your man card on the spot.   

One day, while I was balanced on my lofty perch, the monsignor wandered through. Feeling particularly bold—or delirious from the fumes—I yelled, “HEY, FATHER!” He looked up, startled, and hollered back, “HEY, WHAT?” I shouted, “I HOPE THIS ISN’T AS CLOSE TO HEAVEN AS I’M GONNA GET!” He waved me off with a chuckle and promised I’d be fine. Salvation, certified and notarized.   

I even got up close and personal with Jesus. Not metaphorically—literally. There’s a massive Jesus painted in gold leaf on the wall behind the altar, and I found myself painting around Him like some kind of divine makeup artist. How many people can say they’ve touched up the Son of God with a paintbrush? Not many, I’d wager.   

Those were the days when the rectory was a bustling hive of priests, all looked after by a housekeeper who cooked their meals, did their laundry, and kept everything in order. On Sundays, right after the service, Hilda Eaton, a rotund older woman, would be hawking the 𝘈𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘸𝘴 outside the church entry, my mother usually nabbing a copy. It was a world unto itself, and for one summer, I made a real contribution to it—teetering on scaffolding, covered in paint, and wondering if I was building a better cathedral or just testing the limits of divine protection. Either way, it was a summer I’d never forget.