I grew up in the city of Buffalo and its suburbs. Yet my childhood was deeply imprinted by memories of my parents and I leaving those urban highways for the dirt roads of nearby Wyoming County. There, we traveled to the town of Java, NY where, with a turn onto Curriers Road, we reached our ultimate destinationโ-the dairy farm where my mother was born and grew up, and her parents and one of her seven siblings remained.
The house defining the farm was a rambling country style set on a hilltop, close to the road. The front was highlighted by a porch that ran the entire width of the home, encompassing the formal entryway. It was an entrance that led directly into a gracious receiving room, adjacent to a formal parlor. I recall this area as the โfancy" part of the farmhouse. I also recall that the only time people came through that front door was when a family member had passed and was โlaid outโ or wakedโ in the parlor.
During my familyโs visits to the farm, that area of the house became my โspecial place.โ While the rest of the family gathered in the kitchenโ- around the wood burning stove where my grandmother actually cooked all the mealsโ-I would quietly make my way to the receiving room. There I would get lost in time playing on the upright piano, set off to the side in a nook created by an open staircase to the second floor.
The stairway was formed by beautifully turned oak spindles topped by a sturdy oak rail and anchored by an elegant newel post. The stair treds were oak as well, with a deep-red patterned runner serving as safe footing for all headed upstairs to bed or coming down to begin a new day. The stairs were divided into two sectionsโ-one of four risers with a landing wall that turned stair climbers to the leftโ- and the next eight risers leading straight up to the second floor.
Truth be told, it was the landing wall more than the piano that kept me in that part of the house for as long as my parents would allow. The way the piano was set gave me an unobstructed view of that wall and an oversized picture in a antique carved frame hanging there.
The image was of an angelic little girl trustingly asleep within the comfort of a majestic Newfoundland dog. And whenever I sat mesmerized by the innocent beauty of the image, I found myself dreaming about being that little girl.
Years later, after that my motherโs brother and her parents were waked in the parlor and the farm was sold, mom asked if I wanted anything from the house as a keepsake. Without hesitation I asked for the picture. And for the last 50 years, where ever I have lived, the little girl and her dog have resided with me on a wall in my bedroom.
Recently, through a series of coincidences, my daughter discovered that my cherished artwork is more than a childhood treasure. Itโs actually a work from the 1890โs created by a famed English painter. She went on to say that it has a significant value in the art/antiques world.
Yet I cannot imagine any value to match the sense of comfort and joy this print brought into the life of a little girl sitting at a piano and dreaming.
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