By Winnie Bolton
Ten-year-old Winifred had sandy-colored hair and hazel eyes.
She was a kind child who included everyone into her games who wanted to play with her.
Now on one particular warm summer’s evening she and her family went to visit her Auntie and Uncle who lived about 30 minutes away on the other side of the Triborough Bridge in Manhattan.
She especially looked forward to the ride back home inhaling the aroma from the huge Wonder Bread Factory which was baking the next day’s breads.
That night Winifred was deep in sleep when she arrived home as her Dad pulled into their driveway.
Waiting for the front door of their duplex to be opened seemed like an eternity and she began kicking the wall until she created a hole the size of a melon.
It happened so spontaneously that her parents stood flabbergasted because Winifred didn’t do destructive things like that.
In silence, she went to bed still wearing her shoes and dress.
The next morning upon wakening, she overheard her parents talking about the hole in the hall wall.
“Poor Winifred was simply exhausted,” her mother said, “we shouldn’t have stayed out so late last night.”
Her dad expressed concern about how he would explain what happened to Mr. Cullen, the owner of the house who lived upstairs.
The fact Mr. Cullen was a cantankerous old man didn’t make the task any easier.
All that man did was chase the neighborhood kids away whenever they would play ball around the house.
His face would turn bright red and Winifred thought it could burst at any moment.
She felt so ashamed of herself as she observed the gapping hole that she shed secret tears thinking how sad she had made her parents.
She wanted to run away, play with her friends and come back later.
But, her heart said, “No.”
She instinctively knew she would go upstairs, knock on Mr. Cullen’s door and tell him what she did last night.
She would save her Dad from Mr. Cullen’s terrible red face.
Up she went the 15 stairs and without having to knock, the door flew open.
“What are you doing here,” Mr. Cullen shouted at Winifred.
Jumping back from the terror she felt, she blurted out “I’m sorry for kicking that hole in your wall, please don’t make us move. Here is my turtle. You can keep him.”
Then running down the stairs she entered her room and started to read her favorite book again to keep from crying.
Her dad knocked on her door and asked her to come see how neatly he had repaired the hole.
“All it needs is a fresh coat of paint,” he said.
She couldn’t have loved him more than at that moment. He had forgiven her with his smile.
That afternoon coming out of the front steps she found Mr. Cullen sitting on a step holding the turtle she had named Mynce.
“I never had a pet to play with when I was a boy,” he said. “You are very kind to give him to me but I really think he misses you,” as he handed her Mynce.
“Are you angry with me about the hole,” Winifred asked Mr. Cullen.
“Accidents happen,” he answered. His face was a nice shade of pink and Winifred smiled as she hugged Mynce.
