Regarding Letty's "My View" posts, I am skipping a few as you will see by the numbering, mostly because they are too short to be of interest to a world-wide audience. She continues to reminisce about her childhood here.
I would be about six or seven years old when I first began to wield a paint brush. My Dad wanted some old green flowerpots painted dark red (I guess I couldn't go wrong with them,) so he gave me the pots to paint. I sat on a plank, in the back yard, and did as I was told: don't let the brush touch the dirt, and don't stand the brush on its bristles, lay the brush on the lid, handle on the plank. You learn early on the right way to do things, and I did a good job, as he said I did. That's praise. I think he said, "You want to pain everything, don't you?" So far I was a menace with two tools: scissors and a paint brush. So a new coat of paint finished there, for a while, until I was about sixteen years old, then I really helped paint the whole outside of the house, with my father. It is so satisfying to me, like a new lease on life, at least sixty odd years of painting I've don, and now I only admire someone else's work. Such is life.
There are other facets to painting, as greater artists show us, much more delicate, fantastic, and beautiful works, that come from the brain and hands of a born talent. As life goes on we all appreciate anoterh person's talent. Every person has a talent, some are hidden for years, some start to show at a very young age.
This yarn is only about painting and the effect it had on my life. It is like the feeling you get after washing your face with soapy warm water, drying off with a fluffy towel and seeing the healthy shine on your skin. So clean, fresh, and beautiful. That is how a new coat of paint affects me.
Don't worry, this is the last of my brash stories...
(Of course, it isn't the last. Stay tuned...)