In August of 1969, my grandparents took their younger children to New York City on vacation, where they saw the sights and met with their dazzling nephew Bob Cessna, an actor and playwright, and his equally dazzling friend Gerry Hopkins. My grandmother suffered horrible headaches on the trip, but painkillers and alcohol kept it under control and made the trip fun. It was the 1960s, after all, and no one believed in stoicism.

When they returned to Ohio, my grandfather finished off the film in the camera by taking a picture of my grandmother in front of the pine tree in their back yard.

It was the last picture taken of Dorothy Ann Wehrle.  Two weeks later, she was dead. She was 52.  I was four, the oldest of her grandchildren.

The portrait of my grandmother hangs in my office.  It was painted by Gerry, my mother’s cousin’s “friend,” as they put it back then, from that last photograph. It was a gift for my grandfather. I’m the only grandchild who remembers my grandmother, so I received it after my grandfather died.

The portrait of my grandmother is painted in an impressionistic manner best described as being in the style of Lucien Freud, but with brighter colors.  The background is green from the pine tree in the yard, her beaded earrings are gold, and her hair is a frothy blonde, undoubtedly dyed at home with Miss Clairol.

If you knew the person in the portrait, the painting will never look right to you. It will never be the person. If you didn’t know the person pictured, the image shapes your memory. My memories of my grandmother are fuzzy, but they’re there. To me, the portrait shows a kindly lady, who let me bake cookies and who taught me to write my name.  It shows a glamorous lady in a working-class town, who sold Avon and brought lipstick samples for her granddaughter’s playtime pleasure.  It shows a healthy lady, which is what we thought she was, until she died of a massive heart attack while doing laundry as her 12-year-old son stood by. (more…)