In 2000, after my mother died of Alzheimers, I took over our old house in Squirrel Hill and was going through her stuff. Above and to the right of her bed was a rough pastel portrait of what looked like a salesman, hair slicked back, energized, looking forward to the future. I'd asked to take it long ago, just to get my mother's goat. Now I was wondering if I should keep it there.
After my tour in 'Nam as a field nurse, I'd moved back into our old house for a year before moving out again. Father had died while I was away. Even then the house was full of art, mother's art, relatives' art, students' art, friends' art, art gifted to her by the city of Pittsburgh. Mostly of bridges. And the odd steelwork sculptures from my father. Everything had a story, if you asked. At the time I was gathering a few knicknacks for my new place so I could point at where I came from.
"How about this one?" I had asked mom. "Who's this geezer anyhow?"
"Amy, that's your grandfather, William Lowry." she said. "He died four years before you were born."
"What, no! The founder?"
"Yes," she said, amused, considering her response. "He was that."
"He's the one responsible for Buffalo Suits?"
"Oh no. That's your uncle Paul, who took over the business. Paul had the mind for business. All your grandfather did was run a single shop in Buffalo. Paul's the one who expanded it into a national chain."
"Well you must have made a bundle off of that!"
"Not at all. I moved in with cousins when I was 11, and never had much to do with my father after that. He was nearly broke when he died. I grew up knowing Paul, of course, but we're just cousins."
"Perhaps I should take grandad's portrait, then! To remind me what I am capable of."
Mother looked even more amused. "What would you think of, when you looked at it?"
"Well, he's my grandfather! He looks ... inspiring! Like saying I should accomplish things!"
Mother laughed. "I think I should keep it, then," she said. "I get more out of it than you would."
"Well, what do you see? You knew him. Did he inspire you?"
"No. I never could relate to him much. He was inspired to sell you a suit. I always thought, what's the point?"
"Well, what then? Maybe he was mean to you? You left at age 11."
"Oh no. He had me draw signs advertising sales. That was useful calligraphy practice. Mother was the tailor. Father didn't care about suits, really. He only cared if he could sell you one. Mother hemmed them, tailored them, sculpted them. SHE cared about the suits themselves."
"Who drew this? Her? You?"
"No, this is one of your aunt Mina's."
"Mina! Is that it, then? You're remembering Mina?"
"No ... well ... a little. I worshipped Mina. She was the family artist. That's mostly why I moved in with her and the others when I was 11. That was after the Spanish Flu, you know, when Paul's parents died. Paul moved in and I moved out. I followed Mina later to New York City. You're named after her, you know."
"So, it's about Mina, not your father at all, then."
"Mina dedicated herself to art, but the world lost interest, and she died forgotten. That wouldn't have happened to Father. Father would have been watching what the world was interested in. He would have made sure he was selling something the world wanted. Father dedicated himself to selling suits, but even he just barely got by. It took Paul to look at it as a whole business and make it a national chain. Rather than just selling a suit to the person in front of him."
"OK. So. It's complicated. So why do you have this geezer's portrait over your bed?"
"When I look at it, it reminds me that it's a big world. There's more to it than just my angle. It reminds me to step back, and wonder, what more is going on here? What am I missing? For example: what would HE be paying attention to?"
"Very deep, mom." I looked at it, trying to feel deep. But who has time for that? "So, what am *I* missing? What do you see I should be doing?"
"Oh I wouldn't tell you what to do, Amy," she said. "You completely run yourself. You move so fast! What I want is for you to control your own life. You're doing that already! You just keep doing as you see fit, and I'm proud of you."
"Geez. How am I supposed to rebel against THAT?"
Now, years later, this all ran through my head in a short colorful splotch. No this portrait is not for me. I chucked it in the bin of things to try to pawn off on my sister.
This was in response to a prompt on reddit.com r/WritingPrompts, "On my mother's bedroom wall is a caricature of my grandad."