Musings on a winter afternoon

 

The view from my front porch

When I was a little girl, my grandparents would travel down from Utah to Tucson, Arizona, where I grew up. I would gladly give up my bedroom for them. Grandpa would set up his easel in my room. The aroma of turpentine and oils filled the air, and to this day, every time I smell those, I am taken right back to that time in my life. I loved it when my grandparents came to visit. I felt loved and cherish, like I was their most important grandchild (there were over 50 of us). 

Grandpa Boswell's Painting-1972

I wonder if Grandpa ever got discouraged while he was creating. When he first laid in the colors, was it a mess? Did he know what colors to put where? Did they blend the way he wanted them to?

Flash forward a bunch of years. This painting he did hung in my parent's home forever! I love it with a passion! My mother promised it to me before she died. Well, she passed before my father. I kept reminding him I wanted that painting. He would always answer, "We'll see." (He was kind of a stinker that way).

When my father passed a few years ago, my siblings and I met together in the family home and they all agreed that since Mom had made that promise to me, that I should have it.

It now hangs in my writing office where I can see it every day. Whenever I think about my grandparents, I feel them close and know they are watching over me. I truly look forward to the day when I get to see them again. I can only imagine what exquisite works of art Grandpa is creating.

In the meantime, I am busy creating my own art through words. I'm trying not to get discouraged because the colors aren't just right (or in my case, the words). I keep plugging along, even if no one buys my books because I love writing that much.

What are some ways that your ancestors have left their legacy with you? Do you try to emulate them?