No Del Monte cans allowed here!
Our house painter’s name is Curley. When our builder introduced him we were speechless. Six years ago Curley was pushing 80, worked alone, and had this mop of white hair that was (and still is) unlike anything we’d ever seen! Thus began our love affair with all things Curley.
Our house has
loads millions of painting flaws. Better Half “supervised” the building of our home. When I’d point out a painting problem, BH would sheepishly shrug his shoulders and say he would mention it to Curley. Nothing ever got fixed and BH finally fessed up. Curley was always proudly asking, “How’s my painting?” and BH couldn’t bear to disappoint someone who could be his grandfather. Ah. I got it. I still get it.
Curley lives in a teeny, tiny house near a railroad. There is a big sign above his carport painted Curley Loves Here. Yes, loves. His living room is a Nascar shrine. His kitchen is covered floor to ceiling (literally) with delicate teapots. He gardens like nobody’s business. The only spare spot in his home has been turned into a virtual food cellar filled with home-canned veggies and fruits. I never leave his home without jars. Good karma to Curley.
We like to stop by and visit with Curley every few months. His innocence puts things into perspective for us. His patriotic mailbox makes me proud all over again for Better Half, my oldest stepson, and Curley, the former Navy cook. Sometimes we take Curley berries from our garden, or we just stop by to trade smiles, recipes, and laughs. Haven’t you heard? Curley loves there.