I bought the painting, “Full Bloom,” of the old wood framed house 10 years ago because it reminded me so much of the house I grew up in out on the farm east of a typical west Texas town. Yet, when my mom came to visit, she didn’t see any resemblance at all, and she would have been the one most likely to see it. Her dad built the house after she started college at 16 and they lived in a tent nearby for a year while it was under construction.
But then, my mom never has had the creative turn of mind I do. And, actually, the only resemblance I see is of the right side of the house with the attached single car garage at the back right turned at a 90% angle, facing the front. Even that resemblance is slight because our house was white stucco and our double garage stood alone a bit beyond the small bedroom that was in the 90% angular turn.
We had an old windmill like the painting, although by the time we moved there in 1954 when I was nine, there had long been indoor plumbing and heating in the house. My grandparents were among the first of their neighbors to put in electricity after beginning the South Plains Electric Coop in Lubbock that ran power lines out to the Abernathy house in the fall of 1937.
We did not have endless meadows filled with wildflowers sprawled beyond our yard full of day lilies and crepe myrtles like the painting either. Or hazy blue mountains in the distance. Our yard had tall Chinese elms standing guard around the perimeter – windbreaks they call them out there where the wind always blows. Two massive cedars reigned outside the windows on the left side – the west side – of the house. The bigger one scratched against my bedroom window at night, scaring me. But, I left the high window open, anyway, to listen to the sounds of the night. The deep green cedars did look like the ones in my painting. They are just placed on the wrong side of the house. But, that is of minor detail to me. I think what my painting most brings to my thoughts are memories; not precise recollection – memories.
My earliest memories of my grandparents’ house, before it was ours, are of early morning smells and sounds. Coffee percolating. Bacon frying. My grandma’s soft voice and my uncle Oliver’s, mingled with the deep voice of my granddad talking with my mom and dad. I cannot even recall where we all slept – and there were six in our family alone. But, I do remember watching them all through the glass paned French doors that were closed between the living room and dining room beyond, with the small kitchen behind that, even.
An old upright piano stood in the living room to the left of the doors where I would later spend many hours practicing, hating every moment of it until it was too late to turn any latent talent into playing much more than simple arrangements for pleasure. I deferred becoming accomplished to my sister, with her pianist’s hands and discipline.
When I look at my painting – and I do many times a day, as it hangs on the sea glass colored wall next to our bed – I see Texas in its glory. I see times past when I was raised so naively innocent that I did not learn of some of the fundamental elements for really living until I was well into my thirties. Innocence lost can be a sad state to live in, but then again it can be cherished for allowing diversity and depth to increase. I am a better woman for having lived both lives.
My painting most reminds me of home. It reminds me that I grew up in a good home, a solid home, a place where all that was evil lay somewhere else. I keep those memories close to my heart, for I want my home now to be a safe haven and harbor to all shattered souls who would seek shelter herein. I have been one of them, and am no more. I am, and I want all who come here to be, at home.
