When I was a little girl I would sit in my grandma house and stare at a Maxfield Parrish illustration my uncle had given her years ago. It was of a lady, her knee resting on a whitlesandsone bench in a classic garden, her hands stretched out, to the heavens over a mountain lake. As if she was imploring the Gods for something- I was convinced she was pleading for her lover somehow, he off on a dangerous trek. My grandma knew I loved it, or got tired of me asking for it so one day she allowed me to write my name on the back of it, in green crayon. The acceptable way to distinguish who would get what from her was their name on a piece of masking tape, in a inconspicous spot. My cousin said she was going to put a piece of tape on the foundation of my grandma house.
Well it was twenty some years before the painting was mine- fine by me- to enjoy my grandma into my thirtys when she died at 96. Now the illustration is near my bed and as I jump into this world of writing and illustrating stories it is such a wonderful reminder of the spark that existed so long ago- before I thought much of my career in life- to know the pull "story" had on me as a young child, I still wonder what she is begging the Gods for and will one day have to just put down on paper her story.