Strawberry disasters.
Over the years, Brent was whom I’d call when we had a “strawberry disaster” after a party — and some unknown culprit had tracked tell-tale red marks up the staircase. (They looked so pretty on the cheese plate, who knew they’d cause such uproar?)
Brent understood. He didn’t judge about the Bordeaux wine spills either.
Or the gooey Gerber mess on the kitchen carpet made by visiting babies and tottery, Cheerio-throwing tots.
The black smudges on Jamie’s carpet, ultimately traced back to hideous black-soled flip flops.
He never made me feel embarrassed — and some stories were so painfully amusing, we’d laugh together.
“We had another melee,” I’d start out. “You won’t believe what happened.”
“Parties are good for business,” he’d answer. Nothing phased him. He told me once about parties & accidental disasters he’d had. I could do no wrong. It was always ‘We’ll get it fixed” and never any slap-down. I appreciated the leeway. I really just want everyone to have fun, and I never want to be that hostess who stops a party down when someone spills the wine. (We did finally wake up. We stopped serving strawberries, red wine, and cranberry juice, so as not to tempt fate.)
Brent came over today to thank me for being his first customer — and his last.
He’s transitioning to a company that does big business properties, but he wanted to say ‘thank you” and “goodbye”.
Here’s my letter to Brent.
Then I was inspired to tell his new boss what a find he has in Brent.
I’ll miss him, but I know he will carry his excellence into whatever else he does.
And I was grateful to have worked with a true professional for over a very pleasant decade.
I wrote to his new boss, too, just to let him know what a good egg he’s gotten.
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