What was I thinking? That Juli wouldn’t take a little friendly concern and completely misinterpret it?
Whoa now, buddy, beware! Better to just leave well enough alone. After all, the last thing I needed was for Juli Baker to think I missed her.
Juli: The Sycamore Tree
I love to watch my father paint. Or really, I love to hear him talk while he paints.
The words always come out soft and somehow heavy when he’s brushing on the layers of a landscape.
Not sad. Weary, maybe, but peaceful. My father doesn’t have a studio or anything,
and since the garage is stuffed with things that everyone thinks they need but no one ever uses, he paints outside.
Outside is where the best landscapes are, only they’re nowhere near our house.
So what he does is keep a camera in his truck. His job as a mason takes him to lots of different locations,
and he’s always on the lookout for a great sunrise or sunset, or even just a nice field with sheep or cows.
Then he picks out one of the snapshots, clips it to his easel, and paints.
The paintings come out fine, but I’ve always felt a little sorry for him,
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