Chapter 3

Teen years are exciting no doubt about it My parents had hired a painter do work in our home the week I was to turn 13. He was tall kind man with long brown hair and eyes. He always answered all of the kids questions and never seamed to be bothered by them. If I had to guess I would say he was in his twenties and I believed he was the most handsome man I had ever seen!. Being that my birthday was coming up that was the topic of my conversations one day with the painter. I remember him telling me not to grow up in a hurry – being an adult wasn’t what it was all cracked up to be. I ate my lunch with him that day it was heavenly! He did faux painting and was talented and showed up for about a week to complete hi work. His last day was my thirteenth birthday. I awoke early as usual that day with the smell of turpentine and paint in the air. I came down stairs and sat down to watch the man in the white overalls completing his work. I sat on the drop cloth and he asked me to close my eyes. “Don’t peek!”. Open them! He had one single red rose for my birthday. I was thrilled embarrassed and giggling! My mother was smiling at his kind jester. This was the first time I had received flowers from a “boy”. I still have the rose in a long forgotten scrap book some place safe or at least I hope so. A kiss on the check too for my 13th birthday!!! It amazes me that I don’t know his name I can’t remember his facial features but I recall his kindness. He told me to remember that boys always give pretty girls flowers. I was amazed and still am by his thoughtfulness. This nameless man thought me to be kind. Simple and plain kindness is never forgotten.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s