Taking a red handkerchief and wiping his forehead, drops of sweat from his face hit my white canvas paper.
Putting my paint brush down, I looked up to my Paw Paw with that stern look that every kid has etched on their young faces in such instances.
He let out a giggle and apologized for those wet beads that almost instantly dried up thanks to the summer heat.
Sitting under the carport, I had an assortment of white papers, water colors, chalk pieces and markers for my afternoon Picasso session.
Paw Paw had tried to get out and do a little yard work. It had only been about a year since the doctors told him he would never walk again.
The bulky wheelchair made it difficult for him to prune those flowering bushes in the front yard that he had nursed for years.
And the tomato patch in the backyard was almost gone. Unable to get between the narrow rows, most of his prized tomatoes were a mere memory.
I could tell that something was weighing heavy on his mind, but it never occurred to me that he was upset about his newly acquired disability.
“You want to get down here and paint with me,” I asked, shoving some paint brushes on a fresh, crisp sheet of white paper.
I caught myself, but it was too late.
“I can’t get down there with you,” Paw Paw said, trying to crack a smile. “I would never get back up on my own.”
I instantly jumped up.
“That’s OK,” I shouted. “I got some of those Paint by Numbers pads in the house. We can do them on the kitchen counter.”
Getting behind his wheelchair, I shoved Paw Paw through the screen door frame and into the kitchen.
Maw Maw was busy making supper and wasn’t too worried about us.
I rolled Paw Paw up to the counter and got out two brand new Paint by Number pads.
“Here, I will paint these flowers,” I said. “And you can paint this kitty cat.”
Sprawling my rainbow of paint bins out, we went to work.
Looking back now, Paw Paw was really a sight to see. Holding that skinny pink paintbrush, he slowly inched around the cat’s face frame with his own tongue sticking out, hoping not to go over the lines.
We sat at that counter for nearly an hour, painting. Taking a break to get something to drink, we talked about everything from Saturday morning cartoons to what Paw Paw played with as a child.
We left our paintings out to dry as we gathered around the supper table and feasted on hamburger patties with onions and gravy and a helping of snap beans. I even managed to sneak Paw Paw a red Faygo soda even thought he really wasn’t supposed to have one.
By the time it was bedtime, our paintings were dry and our day was over.
I watched Maw Maw move his wheelchair over to his bed. Placing a plastic board under him, Paw Paw scooted over into his bed. He raised the hospital bed up so that he could get comfortable before Maw Maw turned on his television set and left the room.
“Want to watch some TV Paw Paw,” I asked.
“Put it on channel seven,” he said, sneaking in a mouth full of dip. “Lawrence Welk reruns are on.”
As the glow of big bands and dance numbers entered the room, we sat and watched television together.
A hyper, freckle-faced kid and a tired, worn man spent the entire day together with paints, flowers, kitty cats, hot food and Lawrence Welk.
And it was a perfect day.
It was the coming together of the young and old. And it was the best thing that happened that day.
I had someone who slowed down to spend some time with me. He told me about the yesteryears. He showed me to never give up. Just raise yourself up and put on a little music.
And I like to think I taught him something too.
I showed him to never count yourself out. Grab that extra brightness. Color outside the lines. And sneak in a little fun.
And as the silhouettes of my pig tails and his thinning hair were highlighted against the television set...you couldn’t tell where the young met the old.
