With the recent sad news about Tim Russert’s death, I am reminded of a story that I thought I would share today though it is not exactly filled with yuks as is our modus operandi.
About ten or so years ago, when my family and I lived in Nashville, I had a wonderful studio in my Dad’s house. He lived in a big house all by himself, and though I had the run of the house I mostly painted in the garage. One day I was upstairs rearranging a couple of paintings on his walls to accommodate something I had painted for him earlier, and I had just taken a piece of generic artwork off the wall to move it to another location. I was holding this print in my hand trying to figure out where to place it when suddenly the phone rang. I put the little framed piece down on the counter and went to answer the phone. It was my husband.
He immediately asked me what the name of my painting teacher was. I told him Gwendolyn Kaye. He said, “Oh my God…she died “. He had been reading the paper, and there it was. She had been scouting a location to paint in here in California where she had come to take a workshop, wandered off to look at a creek and slipped and fell. They found her face down in about 4 inches of water having drown.
The shock of this news hit me so hard that I had to hang up. I was glad my Dad was not home because I had to just bawl my eyes out for as long and as loud as I wanted. Gwen was around 40 years old–died way too young. She was a wonderful teacher and friend and beloved by so so many people. It was such a tragedy.
When I finally gathered myself up sometime later, I thought about what I was doing before that awful phone. I walked to the counter to pick up the print that I was just about to place back on the wall from earlier, and for the first time I looked at it.
It was of an angel. True story.