I Was Selling My Paintings in the Park to Save My Daughter – Until One Encounter Changed My Life Drastically
I’m 70. Every morning I push an old cart five blocks to the same park bench, set up my easel, and paint with oils I’ve been nursing for months. I used to be an electrician; now this is how I keep my paralyzed daughter Emily alive.
Six years ago my wife Marlene died of lung cancer. Three years ago Emily, 33, was hit by a drunk driver. Shattered spine, no chance of walking again. The specialized rehab she needed cost more than an old man could ever save. So I taught myself to paint again—old barns, misty cornfields, places that feel like childhood. People sometimes bought one for $20 or $30. Most days, nothing.
Last fall a lost 5-year-old named Lila, pink coat and lopsided braids, started crying beside my easel. I wrapped her in my jacket, told her a story, called the police. Her father Jonathan arrived frantic. He thanked me, took my card, and left.
The next morning a pink limousine pulled up. Jonathan and Lila were inside. He handed me an envelope: a check that covered every cent of Emily’s full rehab program—plus enough to breathe again.
“This isn’t charity,” he said. “I’m buying all your paintings for the walls of my new community center. You paint home. People need that.”
Six months later Emily is walking with a walker. I have a real studio and a salary. On weekends I still paint at the same crooked bench, just to remember.
Some things are still hard. But miracles, it turns out, sometimes wear pink jackets and carry stuffed bunnies.
