The unsung painting was hanging crooked on a wall too large for comfort. Like copious other treasure seekers, I walked past without hesitation. Before rounding the corner, something inside me tapped my curiosity. It said, “Go back to that lonely painting, she is vying for attention.
Not on the Agenda
I had spontaneously driven to this estate sale mid-morning. In typical fashion, this was not on today’s agenda. A quiet email notice in the corner of my screen caught my eye and stole my mind’s attention. I cannot tell you what I was working on, but within 30 minutes, I found myself seven miles down the road at an estate sale. The sale was located on a beautiful street that I often drive. The homes are tucked away from the road, teasing curiosity as one drives by. The lawns are deep and bathed in native hardwoods standing above bushy gardens, weeds, or intentional overgrowth. The only way to get a glimpse is to be in the know, receive an invitation, or happen upon an estate sale.
Treasure I found
Sorry, you may be hoping for a grand description of a house full of unreachable wealth. That is not what I found. The treasure I found was nostalgia. A modest brick home with contents that brought familiarity. I entered through the carport using self-control to walk past several bird feeders I would never fill. A screened porch full of overgrown houseplants carried me into the modest kitchen, where the mismatched coffee cup collection and plastic tumblers urged me to carry on.
Under This Roof
Moving through the house, I realized that whoever lived here most likely welcomed several generations. Chairs with worn armrests, stacks of well-loved blankets, and rugs that had seen their share of feet were in each room. I gathered that the elderly couple who shared life here was not self-indulgent or listless but had readily carried life’s burdens and found comfort under this roof.
The Work of an Artist
The dining room is where I found her. A simple still life painting of fruit. We have all seen them before. Walking past without notice was easy until my heart pulled me back. I noticed it was signed and framed in wood. Removing it from the wall caused the canvas to release from the masking tape that was frantically holding it in the frame. I wondered if this was the work of the artist or the family’s attempt to create appeal. I chose to believe it was the artist and carried it with care to the pay table. This lonely painting would leave with me.
A Real Treasure
I needed to return home, so the painting was placed on the truck seat for a later time. After the distraction of dishes and laundry released me, I remembered the still life. While repairing the brackets, I pulled my glasses off the top of my head so I could get a closer look at the signature. Neat, precise, and well-practiced. I read Elsie Owenby, ’78. A real treasure is what I held. I will never know if this was a one-time painting she completed in a class with friends or if she was naturally gifted and spent her free moments using her talents. Regardless, I am lucky to have found her.
As I do with most art I buy, I began a little research. I found that the familiar road that I travel was home to a lady whose company I know I would have enjoyed. Our stories are too similar to believe otherwise. Texas is where she began her life’s journey, and my town is where she seemed to complete her life’s work. Like myself, she was a teacher and, in my eyes, a brilliant painter.
Life Well-Lived
Our homes are the keepers of our heritage, and I’m thankful to have had the chance to walk in Elsie’s. I’ll never know why her beautiful painting was left behind by the family. It really does not matter. On this day, I was grateful I turned around instead of walking past. What started as a simple email alert on an ordinary day brought me to the home of a life well-lived, which is now part of my story.
Thank you, Elsie Owenby.
Stay Curious,
