The gravel would crunch under the wheels of our car as we pulled into grandmother’s driveway. Doors would fly open and we would be encircled by the scent of sea air and roses. Grandmother would stand regally at the front door to greet us. Coming from an apartment in New York City, her home in Little Compton appeared to be a wonder. The house was a large traditional New England clapboard home. Yet its interior was adorned tastefully with works of art, chandeliers, and figurines. Beauteous aromatic bouquets were placed in each room. Rose gardens, honeysuckle, an apple tree, and snapping lobsters on the back porch. All these images flash back to me.

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Next to the room I stayed in on the second floor, was her studio. The door was locked and we were forbidden to enter. In our home rules were tested, in grandmother’s home this line was never crossed. My cousins and I would push our eyes against the key hole whispering reports of observations. We would lie on the floor in the hallway trying to peak under the door. Once as an adult I finally was allowed in. A large studio spanned the width of the house. Light flooded in through the large paned windows. Easels, a model stand, shelves of paintings, jars, brushes, tubes of paint. My heart leapt at the sight. The vision of my grandmother, standing there, creating her beautiful paintings.

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