ENTREPRENUERSHIP: AN EXERCISE FOR THE 1990S

I'm not waiting for the city officials to declare a Paint-up, Fix-up Week, if, indeed, they plan to. I'm literally "painting my wagon" ahead of time.

Years ago, Mama decided I needed a little red wagon in which to haul things roundabout the yard. She gave it for about my 50th birthday, I think, and I couldn't have been more pleased if I had been only six. Of all the outdoor equipment, I believe it has seen more duty than anything else around here. More than the pitchfork and machete.

This will be its third paint job. I choose a sunshiny day and make a big deal of the scrubbing, sanding and priming, all at my leisure, of course. Then on goes the reddest red paint I can find.

The blue jay at the top of the nearby oak tree flies lower and lower as if to see what I'm doing. He quarrels loudly all the way down the stair-stepping limbs, probably because I'm not painting the wagon blue-jay blue.

A neighbor's dog comes, too, wagging his tail in friendly approach. I have to clap my hands to make him retreat a safe-from-paint distance. Otherwise he might have a red tail or nose all summer.

If my wagon ever had a name I must have painted over it with my first painting. So now I'm occupying my mind, from time to time with a name to paint on its side. Important things ought to have a name, something more than just a mere generic appellation such as "Wagon."

I've thought of "Rosebud," the enigmatic last words of a literary character, but that was a sled and, for those who know the story, was associated with dying thoughts. My wagon is a "never-say-die" one, so I'll eventually think of something more appropriate.

I could put "Red Hauler," "Junk Jitney," or "Lawn Rover" on its sides but these names don't scintillate with originality.

I could paint names such a "Violet," "Dandelion," "Henbit," of whose corpses I have hauled to the burning pyre, but these seem trite and old-fashioned. I want something for the Nineties.

It probably won't get painted again until the next century, so deep thought is called for. What will be a suitable name for the Nineties? Who knows what is yet to come in this decade? Right now it seems such names as "Recession caddy," "Election Carrier," Entrepreneuralism go-cart" would be appropriate. There now! I can do all three of these with my paint job without ever giving them these names. I told you deep thought was called for.

My little red wagon does a lot of front yard, street side duty. I could see advertising space on both sides and see that it is always at right angles to the street so that those coming and going can read whatever I choose to put on it. I could paint "Vote for Bush" on one side and "Vote for Clinton" (maybe Perot) on the other. I wouldn't be the first Mugwump. If the Parties or any other Gross National Producer wants to bid on my advertising space, feel free. My number is 1-800-SPACEY.

I could have "Use Ferti-lome" on one side and "Use Rapid-Gro" on the other, or "Use Ferti-lome" on both sides if the producers wanted to pay double rates and freeze out the competition.

I could guarantee hours of exposure and promise to wear my best sunbonnet and garden gloves as I sit nearby, tossing dandelions and wild garlic clumps into the wagon.

As I sit and paint, I will muse on the other things too. Entrepreneurs shouldn't have a one-track mind. "Spring," I will tell the blue jay or limited approach dog, "like the man in the moon, you came down too soon, but instead of burning yourself on cold peas-porridge, you froze the shoots of flowers and shrubs and made things look horrage." Horrage? Oh, its just a word I made up, subliminal descendant to horrendous, but it rhymes with porridge.

Horrage is not nearly as ruinous as Horrendous. I think most of the old hardy perennials didn't even take notice of the winter comeback. The phlox didn't. The tiger lilies and rudbeckia didn't. Sundrops, clematis, larkspur didn't. The hollyhocks just laid their big green leaves down on the ground as if in obeisance to the cold, cold earth, but it was only a gesture. Soon as the sun struck them again they were up and in green business.

The tip ends of the day lily and iris blades are all that look white with fright. Guess they'll stay that way. Maybe supplemental blades will come out to hide the horragable sight. Nature has such a fine way of covering mistakes and pleading for forgiveness.

REJOICE!