By Cheri Rae
Our comfortable old bungalow gets a good number of welcome guests, many of whom bring simple gifts—flowers, a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread—as thoughtful reminders of their visits.
And then there are the unseen, unknown visitors, those who make their presence known in what they leave behind.
Just this week, the same graffiti “artist” who attacked Santa Barbara High School and my next-door neighbor’s historic sandstone wall with silver spray paint hit my property, too. Now that sturdy concrete wall—which has stood for nearly a century without anyone thinking it appropriate to spray initials on it—needs major clean-up, and the tagging can’t be removed without destroying the fine old finish of the wall.
We will get out the graffiti kit supplied by the city, and apply the strong solvent, which likely won’t work, and ultimately have to resort to painting at least a part of the wall that was built in 1912.
I guess we should just be grateful it wasn’t vandalized before now. But tagging in my neighborhood, and around town, has obviously multiplied in the last year or so.
We will spend our time, and likely our cash, to take care of this intrusion, just as we did this summer, when our garage door was completely graffitied over, twice in two days—requiring a full day’s work to paint over the mess it took some disrespectful narcissist just a few moments to make.
And just as our friends who own the corner market down the street had to spend $200 to paint out the graffiti that hit them—right after they’d spruced up the place with new awnings and a new paint job a couple of weeks ago.
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