Reminiscing the Small House

Susanne Small, 1921

This is the house of the Small Family where Susanne Small, the second oldest Small child lived in and came back to during the last of her days.

Just like all the old paintings I used to do.  Just like when I was growing up here in the Small house.  Strokes over the sketch for pulled back hair and the humblest of frills of the collar of her dress.  

      “It looks beautiful, dear,” she said in my ear.  I jumped in my seat, almost falling off.  My hand clumsily waved and the brush flew out of my hand.  

      “Oh!” we both said at the same time.  The window sent its light on the small golden tip between the wet brush and the wooden stick. 

      “Sorry,” I said. 

      “No, it was me,” she said, and backed away from me, her wrinkled and ringed hands folded behind her back.  I picked up the brush, trying to keep my smock from touching the floor.  At least the brush hadn’t hit the painting.  I looked back to my mother, whose smile feigned a bit of guilt and yet plenty of admiration.  I was happy to see her.  I was always happy to see Mother in our house.  The mother I cooked with in the nearby kitchen and from whom I learned everything I needed to know about navigating a household.  Those skills were not all put to use, considering the unique path I walked in life, but even in school, I found my cooking skills to be a blessing and a house of my own that was more often than not tidy. 

      But now I was finally home from my studies abroad.  There was a girl in my high school class who spoke of studying abroad once and I thought it was a fleeting dream of the rich.  But my parents sent me to Paris and Spain due to my talent just because they saw it in me and they believed I could succeed.  It may have been the middle of my life, but it changed drastically and I was ready for a change.  From rhubarbs to rushing student life, and community and chores to spending the day making something of my own to cherish.  But I’m not the only person I should be proud of, as Len was just made governor of Kankakee.  What a legacy of help our family has been for this community.  Of course I wish there was more that I accomplished in the way my family did besides teaching at Central School.  Still Mabel and I continue to work hard on the local chapter for Daughter of the American Revolution.  But I continue to remember that I did things my own way and I should never be ashamed of that.  It’s been a full, long life and it’s all because of my parents that the Small family continues to thrive.  They saw their children’s talent first.

      I looked over the rest of my paintings.  Most of them were just landscapes. Of course they were inspired by the great Monet but that was all they were.  Inspiration.  Inspiration that clung to me and made me look like an artist of the truest talent with my full body sketches, glittering rivers and spiked greens for grass and pine needles.  Sitting on the easel right now was a portrait of someone dear to my heart.  But who I couldn’t quite place.  

      I met the eyes of my spectator again.  A small smile and wrinkling hands of her own, almost resembling our mother in her own way.  My sister: Mabel.  That was who was staring at the painting.  Not my mother.  She was in the painting. Her eyeglasses and pinned up hair with a curl of bangs above her forehead.  Her rather large ears and her thin smile that only her family recognized as such. 

      “It really is lovely,” Mabel told me.  I nodded.  Of course it was. Who minds what I accomplish in life.  Painting is all I need. 

      Mabel left me to my work.  I almost thought she was mother but I was wrong again.  It’s nice to be wrong sometimes when you live in this lonely old house and you make an art studio out of a cherished sitting room.  I miss my parents and the whole of my family ever so dearly and I hope to see this house further represent their simple progress in an ever-changing world.  I continue to paint that world for them but I will not forget to paint my own memories of their humble lives.