Uncle Bill Richey

As I spend the day painting our house inside I can't help but think of my Uncle Bill Richey whose house we would visit each summer for family reunions. He was a house painter. I don't think I ever saw him painting but I remember the brushes, paint cans, ladders, canvasses, the smell of paint and thinner around the garage. I remember how old he looked with knarelled hands from years of painting. Today I'm priming the upstairs hall and stairway. As I'm painting the smells and tools bring back the memories of opening that garage door, picking up some of his tools and holding them, and dreaming of someday being a heroic housepainter like him. Imagine being able to transform an old looking room into something new. Then later I had a career painting. Well, it was a couple of weeks painting Mrs. Yamashiro's Beritania Street apartments. "Heroic" sort of escaped me. But transformation was still a marvelous thing to behold. Now I wonder what Uncle Bill would think of us sissies who need easy clean up latex, Home Depot "experts", "I think I cut myself. No, not there, here. See, I think that is blood," airless sprayers, "ow my neck hurts from looking up," "where's my ice tea," "ow, I got something in my eye," "I think I'm almost done?" I become determined to do better. Maybe I'll start a second career . . . .